I dreamt of a place
with my eyes wide open
in the dead of night
someplace far away
away from the bustle
of the average day
away from the traffic
and confusions
I lay on the grass
the dew on my clothes
the air in my lungs
the night in my gaze
I dreamt while awake
of a day of sorts
with a cool breeze
and a mild sun
the earth beneath my feet
the vast sea in front
I lay in the sand
dreaming of such
stars in my reach
planets in my cusp
smoke with no fire
haze with no dust
I sat on the chair
dreaming all night
till the sun shone
bright within its fury
my eyes grew heavy
my dreams dismantled
I went to a place
somewhere far away
I lay in my bed
I dosed off to a place
my dreams had led me
far far far away.
Im not looking for sweet talk
Im looking for time
To write something you have to risk making a fool of yourself.
Anne Rice
(Source: pavorst)
6 days ago - 
92
92
- I could seen the road ahead of me. I was poor and I was going to stay poor. But I didnt particularly want money. I didnt know what I wanted. Yes, I did. I wanted someplace to hide out, someplace where one didnt have to do anything, The thought being something didnt only appall me, it sickened me. The thought of being a lawyer or a councilman or an engineer, anything like that, seemed impossible to me. To get married, to have children, to get trapped in the family structure. To go someplace to work every day and to return. It was impossible. To do things, simple things, to be part of family picnics, Christmas, the 4th of July, Labor Day, Mother’s Day… was a man born to endure those things and then die? I would rather be a dishwasher, return alone to my tiny room and drink myself to sleep. -
Charles Bukowski - Ham On Rye
1 week ago - 3
3 the aftermath
Sitting up on the pavement in a daze he took a swig of his own blood. Sweating heavily and breathing uncontrollably he took a moment to access the damage that had been inflicted on him. A jarring pain sprang up from his stomach and caused his lungs to miss processing some very crucial gushes of air. He pulled up his shirt and saw the deep gash vividly painted on the side of his belly. The skin tore only slightly and displayed a cocaine like thin line of blood but the pain was immense. Tingly cruel pain. Testing his limits he poked at the wound. He carved his finger inward clenching his jaw, growling like a mad dog as tears rolled down his cheeks. Collecting the saline drops with his tongue, he continued to poke even harder. The pain seemed to have no limit and he soon let go, realizing his threshold of suffering wasn’t quite as distant as he once believed. He tried focusing on other things to trick his mind out of the pain, though appreciating the weather can be quite difficult when your bones are broken and you feel close to dead. He knew he was far from dead but it sure didn’t feel so. The kids that had left him in this state were long gone. They only took the few dollar notes from his back pocket but didn’t care much for the bike he was riding. He could tell by looking at the mangled piece of frantic art that lay near him. Their purpose, he knew, was nothing more than releasing a few ounces of pent up testosterone. Petty fools he smirked. Couldn’t find half an ass and even if they did, probably couldn’t do much with it. He sat there a while even feeling bad for them but only for the briefest instance. Streams of images and plans of revenge pounced half buoyantly through his mind even though he knew no revenge or plans of supreme dominance would ever come to fruit. Imagine however, in all the gory and grandiose fashion, he could. After roughly sitting there for a few minutes, in high hopes some good Samaritan would come and ask what happened and possibly help him get up, he gave up such aspirations and slowly managed to stand. Cautiously wobbling he collected his book bag and checked the contents within. No wonder those illiterate savage fucks didn’t even bother opening it. What would they know to do with a book or even a pen? He wasn’t much angry, yet felt a sense of eerie calm every time he cursed the savages that beat him. Dick-less punks. Shameless bastards. The imagery in his mind and dictionary on his lips would’ve made his parents disown him immediately. He chuckled at the thought and slowly started stumbling towards his disfigured bike.
Charles Bukowski, “People as Flowers”
such singing’s going on in the
streets
the people look like flowers
at last
the police have turned in their
badges
the army has shredded its uniforms and
weapons. there isn’t any need for
jails or newspapers or madhouses or
locks on the doors.
a woman rushes through my door.
TAKE ME! LOVE ME!
she screams.
she’s as beautiful as a cigar
after a steak dinner. I
take her.
but after she leaves
I feel odd
I lock the door
go to the desk and take the pistol
from the drawer. it has its own sense of
love.
LOVE! LOVE! LOVE! the crowd sings in the
streets.
I fire through the window
glass cutting my face and
arms. I get a 12-year-old boy
an old man with a beard
and a lovely young girl something like a
lilac.
the crowd stops singing to
look at me.
I stand in the broken window
the blood on my
face.
“this,” I yell at them, “is in defense of the
poverty of self and in defense of the freedom
not to love!”
“leave him alone,” somebody says,
“he is insane, he has lived the bad life for
too long.”
I walk into the kitchen
sit down and pour a
glass of whiskey.
I decide that the only definition of
Truth (which changes)
is that it is that thing or act or
belief which the crowd
rejects.
there is a pounding at my
door. it is the same woman again.
she is as beautiful as finding a
fat green frog in the
garden.
I have 2 bullets left and
use them
both.
nothing in the air but
clouds. nothing in the air but
rain. each man’s life too short to
find meaning and
all the books almost a
waste.
I sit and listen to them
singing
I sit and listen to
them.
wired
For some Pakistanis, suicide the only way to escape poverty
In the ten months to October of 2011, about 1,600 people decided that suicide was the only option, according to the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan. The previous year 2,399 people killed themselves and poverty was a significant factor, but a precise breakup was not available, the commission said.
Growing economic pressures could push the suicide figure even higher in the South Asian nation where over one in five people live below the international poverty line of $1 a day.
Critics say alleviating poverty has never been a priority. In the 2011-12 budget, Pakistan’s government allocated 0.04 percent of spending for social protection schemes. By comparison, just over 17.8 percent went to defense, though some experts put the figure at 26 percent.
Read more of this report filed by Rebecca Conway and Imtiaz Shah
(via psychedelicmandala)
peace in place
Like a wave crushing the beach
Or a star burning at night
A purpose is the point
To unearth and discover
Upon this endeavor
A path goes beyond yonder
A light guides you further
From the company of others
To a place
filled with wonder
Where u stand asunder
From your guts
From your grandeur
From your bruises
And your blunders
We are taught to think of our success in terms of numbers. If touching one persons life is a good thing, then touching one thousands people lives must be a great thing. Its easy to see where we learned to think this way. Our whole society revolves around mass production. The more units we can move, the more customers we can serve, the more boats we can get, the more money and the more stuff we have, the better, right? Maybe it’s not possible to touch one thousand peoples thinking, or as powerfully as one person. Maybe its not really so revolutionary after all, to have one person out of a group of twenty, tell everybody else whats right. Wouldn’t it be better if we tried a decentralized approach where everyone works closely with those around them, instead of a few people waiting in anonymous mass? Do you have to save the world all by yourself, why don’t you trust someone else to do it with you?
The Sound of Animals Fighting (The Ocean The Sun)
(Source: psychedelicmandala, via psychedelicmandala)
