Music for a Found Harmonium

The Journey

bakelife — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 03:13:36 +0000

We sat as still as we could

As the underground train ran

Smoothly

Pulling the night unsealed

Like a microwaveable bag.

Your hands thick

Like a peasant’s

(“They are the only thing about him”

I thought

“That looks grown up.”)

Wrapped around my wrist

Lovingly

As you exposed

The leathery ageing faces

The tenderly verminous bodies

Whispering them in my ear

As if for the first time.

01.20.

bakelife — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 01:33:23 +0000

LIVIA: Sometimes I wish I could play an instrument, so I could play with you guys.

KEVIN: Well, you play the pen.

18.44.

bakelife — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 17:44:50 +0000

You plucked my ribs

open. One by one

like leaves of an artichoke.

I let my lungs sneak out

For one

really long moment.

20.01.

bakelife — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 19:01:55 +0000

Exile is a hairy rope.

04.30.

bakelife — Sun, 11 Oct 2009 03:31:03 +0000

In faith, sir –

I don’t know what it is

Maybe it’s the numbers

On your fingers

Inked in black

On their tips

To place them

In the right place

(Which is everywhere

but my hips.)

In faith, sir –

If you don’t mind me asking

Did it hurt?

The pen’s sleek sting

Carving through your skin

Ripping and running

Through flesh and wrapping

Assigning each part

To a part

(Which is anywhere

but here.)

“It is our dream, to make the world taste like bacon.”

bakelife — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 22:59:49 +0000

http://www.jdfoods.net/ourstory.php

AWESOME.

05.52.

bakelife — Wed, 22 Jul 2009 04:53:04 +0000

When you are twenty-two and grew up in a sheltered environment (I.E. fairly spoilt) collecting your dry underwear from the drying rack actually still feels quite rewarding.

01.14.

bakelife — Tue, 07 Jul 2009 00:14:49 +0000

My room is Hiroshima, but my bed is Hawaii.

Polish debacle.

bakelife — Sun, 05 Jul 2009 22:06:48 +0000

Last night I have discovered that it is apparently physically feasible to be arse-fucked with an apple.

14.12.

bakelife — Thu, 25 Jun 2009 13:13:51 +0000

And sometimes with people it’s just like that, you can smell them through the plastic bag. Not dead people, I mean you can smell real alive people, what people think and feel and want, but you feel the plastic on your face and that’s it. Like some kind of aromatic herb. Far far away. And that’s it, that’s all you get isn’t it, really. Or you could open the bag, you could. Except it’s a bit more complicated than that, ripping the bag open and all that, you can’t really do that. I don’t think this is a fitting example. Sorry.