Thursday, August 5, 2010

Closure of Confessions of Someone Almost 18 / The Komarovian

     I feel like I’ve been gone so long, yet in reality it’s only been a few weeks. A bit has changed, not much and everything all at once, encompassing my all as I favor to say with high frequency. The tension mounted and nearly destroyed me—and yet, I lived—fleeting the precipice of the Lake of the Dead once more; dear Raziel, we are worthy.

     Confessed out & self-proclaimed as nothing and all of everything. Predictably the pilot light flickered out with a whisper lacking a proper recognition when probably due. Unapologetically, “I wanted to kill the most amazing person in the world, then I realized suicide was a crime.”

     One last thing remains before we pick up and move on: thank you.

The Succeeding Works of
Alexis Komarov Voltaire

Saturday, July 17, 2010

“Everything has been prepared for the distribution of bestowments. During our Savior’s fifth year of existence. . .”

     Phantom craters betrayed his identity; the younger man behind the room’s door mentally cringing.
     A throaty swallow following he queried, “Has there been notable progress?”
     Explanation wasn’t necessary. The cracked lips reassured, “Saint has entered Sino.”

     Anxiety washed over the man receiving the news, his youth denying perfect play for his visible team with sacrifice. By active tongue laced with jitters stumbled, “She has been born then? Born? Alive?”
     Peeled eyes concealing irritation accompanied a hand gesture in the visibly nervous man’s direction, “Without disrespect V, you have been allotted years of time specifically assigned for preparation of this day. Pull yourself together and cease  the self-mutilation unless you
’re prepared to wash canvas. Death, what torturous events you let plague. 

     If Saint’s supposed,” the lecturer paused before applying a slick coat of disgust to his next word, “guidance cannot even follow preconceived rules of living that we ourselves have written, how could we find it within our conscience minds to instill said values and expect Her to deliver them thoroughly, within the capital G. . .?” 

Friday, July 16, 2010


     Youre gorgeous, beautiful; I’m screaming “ET CETERA” at you with symbols crashing and clashing in desperate collision roaring for the end of repetition war.

     Divided from the aesthetic of the concept, I want someone I can send special lyrics, peculiar poems, and scientific excerpts to with received appreciation. A thoughtful response from the heart every now and then would be a dream ideal real, but mostly I enjoy the silence of wonder and magnified magnificence of the being.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

     When people respond to the conversation starting question with, I would want to read minds, I conceive it laughable. I’m close to saying that it’s immature. However, with thought more elaborate I decide it’s likely a characteristic of someone who would rather live free of reining wonder.
     My conclusion rests on their fear of the unknown until I recall the following: I am petrified of the unknown to the scar of madness, yet I would hardly thirst to contain author’s knowledge by forced draw.
      The eighth circle of Hell with my head turned round just isn’t where I belong.

     Leading me to the night’s wonder: why do people like me? We’re in sixth grade for a moment because I mean like me like me. Usually I don’t attract the children of ages lesser than my own, as a matter of fact they rarely even match me. By the looks of it, I’ve strolled into the ballpark of grown men. Pushing aside the idea of my clumsy stumble I’ve considered the two major league reasons for this. The first being, “They’re immature, that’s why they want me,” and the second, “Or maybe I am on the level they’re convinced I am.”

     Peering beyond a few that provided Pictionary purpose to the prior, I’ve learned enough to keep up the awareness guard for filtering the retention pond. I could easily spot a dorsal fin from miles away with a sharp eye… if it’s open.

     & In the end it’s all an exhausted sport and I’ve tried being a player. Heartbreaking might be fine under Valium-colored skies, but here I’m gazing with a mirrored blank stare at Tamarian Gardens. “You cannot see anything. I tried it too.” As for being blindsided—I’m capable too, Im capable of anything, after all.

30 Days to an Almost End - Day 21

Nicest thing someone has 
said to you this week

I want to be your Chicken McNugget,
chewing bubblegum along side you
as the world passes by.

Just always remember who you are and what you mean to me.

30 Days to an Almost End series list

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Saturday, July 10, 2010

30 Days to an Almost End - Day 17

An art piece
(painting, drawing, sculpture, etc.)

Marilyn Manson

Untitled (Dita)

Les fleurs du mal