WEBSITE: lastchatwithphontai...
LOCATION: —
RECORDS: 59
LATEST RECORD: over 1 year ago
JOINED: August 15, 2010
LOCATION: —
RECORDS: 59
LATEST RECORD: over 1 year ago
JOINED: August 15, 2010
Louise C. Fair's Featured RECords
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Sunrays filtered through my lashes have the tendency of attaining a certain implausible structural integrity…. Which reminds me of someone who sips her coffee for six hours in the morning, while whining for the sake of the donuts unsympathetically eaten And you know it, Foxglove… There’s no reason to deny it… you’re guilty as charged and those dimples won’t change the genuineness of my words For the simplest reason that I have no motive to lie. We’re tucked together like two peas in a pod. We woo each other while simultaneously abstaining ourselves from any caresses or deifications. We are intoxicated and we hate our guts but we are at the same time entangled in this maze of phonemes, pheromones and enamored lamentations.” |
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Audio
- The Milk Went Stale but Hey We've Still Got Curacao
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{The audio version slightly differs... Will be edited later on}
The blackout lasted for 63 hours.
We smoked till our throats were hoarse
And drank till we could feel no anger,
Not anymore or at least not for that night.
We started with hopes in our patched pockets
And diminished expectations.
She was never punctual and her heels echoed deeply on the tinted tiles.
Always in a hurry, scarf in the wind, she had but one quality
She could forget you existed for days.
There was no light on that tepid night,
No moon, no freakin stars and the candles went out…
Dark and moist. You could feel perspiration running down your back
Soaking you wet. Like you’d’ve been visited by night terrors
Only with no chills to shudder you by.
It should’ve been easy. Life that is
You only had to be ignorant about stuff
And it would’ve swished before your eyes just like that.
But you had a plane to catch, people to see, places to be,
You had stories to tell and chambers that waited for you to sulk in contemptuous spite.
You had eyes to rip off and skin to scratch, to mare and kiss the pain away.
People to impress and assholes to keep waiting
Nail polish to stack away just in case of emergency and packs of smokes to stash in that horrible purse of yours.
Could you still remember what made you tick back then? What pissed you off? Or why, even in the first place.
Too smart for your own good sake and oh so limited in what to do.
It’s all a matter of perception. That’s what you’d hum at five in the morning while waiting for the alarm watch to go off.
Remember when you told me about Thelon?
You said that’s where God’s from, which was pretty amusing coming from you
Since you’re an agnostic and at the moment, still not in touch with any sort of personal deity.
Geez. We were the talented kids and fun to be around.
Disliked all the others and had preconceived assumptions
We had to deal with paperwork and screwdrivers, had to fix engines and change light bulbs
We had to deal with things of little importance and pay respect to the dearly departed.
By the time the sun rose, we were covered in a fine layer of commiseration.
So tragic and cliché and so many things left to be done and be endured.
She lighted another smoke, inhaled deeply and rubbed her eyes.
Sometimes you need a white night and other times, you should really crash into someone
Snap him out of his stupor.
And buy him a drink.
The blackout lasted for 63 hours.
We smoked till our throats were hoarse
And drank till we could feel no anger,
Not anymore or at least not for that night.
We started with hopes in our patched pockets
And diminished expectations.
She was never punctual and her heels echoed deeply on the tinted tiles.
Always in a hurry, scarf in the wind, she had but one quality
She could forget you existed for days.
There was no light on that tepid night,
No moon, no freakin stars and the candles went out…
Dark and moist. You could feel perspiration running down your back
Soaking you wet. Like you’d’ve been visited by night terrors
Only with no chills to shudder you by.
It should’ve been easy. Life that is
You only had to be ignorant about stuff
And it would’ve swished before your eyes just like that.
But you had a plane to catch, people to see, places to be,
You had stories to tell and chambers that waited for you to sulk in contemptuous spite.
You had eyes to rip off and skin to scratch, to mare and kiss the pain away.
People to impress and assholes to keep waiting
Nail polish to stack away just in case of emergency and packs of smokes to stash in that horrible purse of yours.
Could you still remember what made you tick back then? What pissed you off? Or why, even in the first place.
Too smart for your own good sake and oh so limited in what to do.
It’s all a matter of perception. That’s what you’d hum at five in the morning while waiting for the alarm watch to go off.
Remember when you told me about Thelon?
You said that’s where God’s from, which was pretty amusing coming from you
Since you’re an agnostic and at the moment, still not in touch with any sort of personal deity.
Geez. We were the talented kids and fun to be around.
Disliked all the others and had preconceived assumptions
We had to deal with paperwork and screwdrivers, had to fix engines and change light bulbs
We had to deal with things of little importance and pay respect to the dearly departed.
By the time the sun rose, we were covered in a fine layer of commiseration.
So tragic and cliché and so many things left to be done and be endured.
She lighted another smoke, inhaled deeply and rubbed her eyes.
Sometimes you need a white night and other times, you should really crash into someone
Snap him out of his stupor.
And buy him a drink.
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"If we believe absurdities, we shall commit atrocities" Said once a friend of yours. But what if my tragic flaw is to have lingered a bit too much on this fogged up day in the middle of an intersection and not have seen the truck heading my way? What if my coffin is too narrow for all the Acarians inhabiting my body? What if my skeleton will get to be claustrophobic, six feet under my unfinished Requiem? |
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Let’s piece together the careless touch and the perfunctory thrusts and then, let’s wait for the embroidery to take our breath away. Maybe it will bring redemption to the forgetful ones and misery to the clairvoyants. Or maybe nothing will happen… we’ll just live with the impression that it did. Who thought things will end up like this? That they’d take our choices from us, in such a gruesome fashion. Or maybe the right question is why? Why didn’t we feel anything? That we’re slipping away from ourselves, that the claws of the ego and the hinges of our silliest contemplations are forcefully pried apart and blown to smithereens. Is it too late or is it still too soon? Is it an exception or is it blatant chance? It does not matter. Ultimately, it never did but the place the psyche wanders is a wicked one. Needs of Reassurance to be melted, bolted and tinkered straight into it, to its deepest nick, in order for the thirst of serenity, to be quenched. Let’s take a stroll to the golden days of syndication and mechanization. The seasons of musts and have to-s and do-s and never and always and solemnly promise. When the taste was dull and the words misspelled, when tears wouldn’t become us but compulsiveness, would. ‘Cause we were on the clock, ticked and tocked no matter what. Could we even fathom such a creative exercise? In order to ponder or to pray, to catch the last micros of a laugh, the neverending hours of a quarrel or the quickness of a musical note wavering on the wings of a butterfly. Yes, in order to project those naïve processes of organic entities. Let’s not, then. Though it would seem that something ought to be in order. Write a post-it, hum a dirge, walk backwards while counting forwards… anything, the more preposterous, the better. It is now or sayonara. Meh, preaching to the deaf and blind, living obscenely unabashed. Envious – that we are. On them, the amorph concept of mass which takes it without blinking, while wailing to that god, lost in his fluid contempt for us. We should pull the trigger. Let’s pull the trigger. Faster like this, wholesomely neater, here in the rubbish of our History, the rubbish to be our grave. We ain’t the cowards, we’re the proactive visionaries of tomorrow. They thought it to be blissful salvation and it ended up in ironic corollaries. Humans, us humans – capable of nothing, not even…. Doesn’t matter. We can’t think straight anymore so we’re debating whether the sky is Bordeaux, bloody or beige. Let’s laugh out loud, once more, just to hear those high pitches and those low intensities of the beating hearts, the hurried pulse and the harsh breath while we can still detach the adrenaline rush from our spasming vertebras and transplant it, to our shy hands and fragile fingers. Time is almost up; the rays will spark once more and then a quick series of bangs and tada. Our duty is done, in the name of the understanding strangers all over the globe that have joined us in this stunt. We are… grateful. To you, the could have been lover, we say: “too bad”. Let this symphony be not a prelude to despair but a proof that End and No more Tomorrow aren’t enemies and never were. A fact which deep down, in the melting pot of the craving and childish das Es, we knew. ‘Cause instincts predetermined everything in the measly lives of Segments, who longed to be Unrestricted Lines, like radio waves and on repeat answer machine messages. How like us, we know. Huh… So the paintbrush of serendipity drops like this. Well, that doesn’t seem so bad if anything it feels appropriate, in tune and by strings of flawlessness and perdition, in a hyperbolic paradox and amidst an oxymoronic standstill. No shame in quitting, love… Go, and make yourself a Mojito while blinking through the dawn of a new day. And then another and another, until you blink no more, the ice has melted and silence is crowned Ruler of Nothingness. To you, we wish Namaste. [AD 2007] |
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Tangerines are sweet and cheap and we should buy loads of boxes be it doomsday or holiday, Our first kiss might just be a ghost nowadays but hallowed be the lords of Kobol, cuz we're sure still made of flesh and icky stuff And for as long as parts of our bodies, segments of our singularities, vibe through an unlikely synapse, that first electric buzz will be replayed over and over like a dysfunctional turntable stylus stuck in the runout groove of a record. We've got more buttons and flaws that even if we caught a ride on an eon swirling around a comet about to commit a mind-blowing suicide in front of the sun, we wouldn't know what to do with them... And as a matter a fact, some of your buttons are really ugly... |
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[Hi, Cameron... Your comment prompted me to look for this old text of mine, a spin on someone on the verge of dying - , abstract, existential, erratic, all stream of consciousness . Give it a look while I check out "The Elegant Horizon" and who knows maybe we could collaborate on something.] I. There was a blaze, a swishing movement, a beep, an answering machine saying: “You’ve got no messages, ma petite”, a looming shadow looming loosely around my peripheral vision, a recipe for being broke and seldom asleep, an empty Vicodine bottle, decomposed Digitalis in a basket, rustled sheets of paper soon to be scattered, some dead flies forming a conspicuous circle, *knock, knock*, no joke, a plothole in my logic, is it 2012 yet, is it 2012 yet, t…tt..ttt…tell mmmm…mhhhmme, ghost shows at 2 AM never a good idea, emphatics should know better, as in they should know there’s no such thing as otherworldly experiences, yeah right, tell that to the Baskervilles hound, never played with dolls, where does it end, you can end it by a flick of fingers, finish a book, start a new one, never burn one, it brings bad luck, it would be a good idea, a great idea for someone to find out, to investigate and enlighten me on…how many books start with “I”, as in “I am a person who wastes time” or “I am a person fundamentally flawed, while at the same time aestethically perfect”; I used to dream snails all day long, till you came and stole them from my sleep, and all I was left with was the trail they’d made…, that’s technically an incongruence, I used to wear clothes inside out, just for you to catch the dead epithelia left on them…. when you’d finally decide to warily embrace me, You only used to make yourself invisible… tick, tick, tick, tap water in the sink, the curse of wearing one’s face is not to know how you’re being seen, is there lipstick on my teeth, tell yourself a thousand times a thing and you’ll actually start to believe it, repetition molds perception, need to make myself an axis mundi, correction: an agnostic axis mundi, how can you tell you committed a hybris, thought so, a scheme to eradicate the Moires, somehow I doubt stealing one’s scissor is gonna solve my problems, aaaaa….arrr..arrrrre yoooooou coming, anytime this eon, got an apocalypse after-party planed in my schedule so don’t come running to me and bitch to the whole wide world that you had objective motives that made you be late, you said it yourself you don’t believe in Hitsuzen; have you ever had that precise feeling while walking down the street and hearing people laugh or snicker and then connect the dots of the syllogism, and reach the logical conclusion that they’re staring at you; shattered schizoid mind sprinkled with a dash of narcissistic cocoa puffs, press pause, take a deep breath, count to 23, light a smoke, look for a bigger than you magnifying glass and sniff for the letter A in the Merriam-Webster, A for Ant precisely…. Silly, ssssilly insect, *squishes*… …. II. Sacrosanct locusts, undying flagellant, lili - twisted children of Lilith and Adam, four wendigos and two ghouls, my kingdom is ashen, vague notion of Absolution running ablaze through my veins, fool of the fools, crowned king of the Saracen ghast, inclined to believe there’s a succubus to blame for my ordeal, beep, beep, beep, no messages ma petite, Mother art thou smoking, my lips are bleeding, my breath is staggering, where are you, “Everybody’s got a secret, Sonny/ Something that they just can face”; highly doubt this, the state of misery stems from lucidity, call me Mezeker cuz I remember, remember what happened, the decimation of the Jolly Sprites, what’s the problem, where is this going, here, there, a barrier, a censorship, the Great Anonymous will burn our sins in a crucible, the mold has gotten to the core of my Sense and Sensibility, flick of fingers and you can stop it, Mother Gracious who has died for us, replenish our strengths and bathe us, let us drink serene amber and bow in front of Thy; clink, clink and a swing, a blaze and malaise, This summer burned to death, my roots, your roots…. were either dried or damp… and we liked dots a lot, they bore within a sense of fathomable closure, we complained and almost never did we manage to accomplish anything, some bells [or were they chains?] could be heard rattling somewhere there, vaguely in the distance, we simply ignored them; September’s Blues and October’s Delight, come share your qualms with me; mirror, mirror mirrors me, white shirt and pale complexion, awkward smile and a sense of inadequacy, scattered train of thoughts will come to a stop. “O in quantis animus amantis variatur vacillantis! Ut vaga ratis per equora, dum caret anchora, fluctuat inter spem metumque dubia, sic Veneris milicia.” III. Alas, under this hepatitis yellow welkin we shall entwine our longish, spidery limbs and weep, for the stork and crane which have abandoned Dooming Mundania and thus, left us with only the forlornness of their batting, sweeping wings. There was a blaze and thud and a distinct feeling of dying… |
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Released
almost 2 years
ago
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The wheels of his shopping cart were screeching in an arithmetical sequence. That's how you could find the Pub for the Terminally Lost. Using a remixed Morse Code that only worked backwards. The Boy didn't know what cicadas were but at his most favorite second of the day, on that precise singularity, he sure wanted them to lighten up the first symptoms of September Blues. Instead, he decided that upon entering the premise, he'd ask for a shot of Margarita like Kindness. ..... And it just so happened that on that Magenta Themed Day, the real bartender was currently being sequestrated by Saturnine Boredom and Undead Misery, who gave our thirsty Boy a glass filled to the brim with Everlasting Muse Malaise. [Hope you'll enjoy it] |
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