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Thread: Headful of ghosts.

  1. #21
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    4:11 AM-- it was beginning to develop into clockwork, and Kate Pierce knew how to handle these episodes. Every night, punctually, Solomon would stir and sleepwalk-- completely barren of emotion, stolid, and in some faraway, detached place. She thought that maybe it was the anti-depressants, the prescription medication, perhaps the load of drugs finally caught up with him.. but this had been going on for two weeks now and she failed to mention it in the morning. So she lived with a lunatic--so what? He was still so very sweet.

    "Mnn.. Solomon..." she murmured as he rose from the bed, completely naked, silent. He couldn't hear her.

    Like a responsible adult, she slid into her robe, and tailgated him, somnolent, and lazily sketching a girlish rub across her lids. The Brit meandered into the living room, feeling the walls as though he were reading braille, he paused for a moment, fondled his stomach, his hips, his thighs--no cigarettes, there. Then he noted that his pack of orange-butted Marlboros were reposing on the coffee table, so he thieved them and their lighter and stretched a bicep to hike open the sliding glass door.

    From there, he stood on the balcony. It was about ...sixteen degrees outside, and he didn't seem to feel a chill. Kate grimaced and wandered close behind him, and watched curiously from her side viewpoint as he smoked, and stared at the star-lamped, inky heavens.

    "Soloooomooonnnn." She lilted almost whimsically, and noticed the water vapor collecting like misty residue because of the plunged temperatures.

    He didn't respond.

    His jaw was set into a cinched rein, his eyes were narrowed and squinted, and his heart rate was at peace when he sucked on the cigarette. The fact that there wasn't one goosebump haunting the adobe of his body made it obvious that he wasn't feeling any of this.

    When he ditched the cigarette--tumbling headfirst to kiss asphalt on the city street beneath, he pivoted on heel, and she gently took his wrist, and began to coax him back inside.

    "Godamn Russians," came the Brit, fogged out and husky.

    "I know, Baby."

    Time to get him back to bed.

  2. #22
    HB Forum Owner greedy fly's Avatar
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    an entangled mess of limbs; caramel-tapered skin filmed in summer ceramics. in their lavish hotel suite they exchanged oxygen with somnolent rockets of their chest, engulfed in sweet---in the abstract (tragic) kingdom of morpheus. the worst thing about sleep to the piece of adonis eurotrash, solomon stills, was missing judas inside of it. sometimes, he didn't dream of him--he dreamt of warped moments of suicide and black-plagued hatred. he dreamt of burning his throat by drinking lava, and the moment where he almost lost the second love of his life to a needle on a clammy tile floor. he'd never forget the vivid imagery: the beads of perspiration sullying his forehead, his extinguishing gasps for carbon dioxide, the plead channeling through his pupils because his dead voicebox refused to cooperate. he dreamt of being widowed again, and judas suddenly acknowledging that his overdose really was a mistake and solomon really did care. there was this groggy-lidded bulge straining in bruise-blazen eyes. solomon would never forget how he almost died. and every night they slept together, he'd dawn lilac lidding to sweep a liquor-bloodshot gaze over him --just to make sure he was still breathing with animated peace. "..even if you do go, i'll go with you. you and me, baby."

  3. #23
    HB Forum Owner greedy fly's Avatar
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    Years ago.

    Wading together in soap-amorphous tapwater, the pair were swimming in lucid water rivulets; ringlets matted, jagged-astray hair drenched, and the flourescent bulbs drained to a dim minimum. Judas was Solomon's stability, physically, and emotionally. The youth's wing-bladed shoulderblades were sacrificing mild juts to the other's chest plateau. Jude was upright, evading the silver-polishe faucet, and Solomon's legs elongated, with kneecaps praying towards the ornate hotel ceiling. Poised in his sandpaper-callused grip with wary precision was this thick book. Sometimes, the elder would refresh the bathtub with sporadic spouts of hotter water to keep their body temperatures complacent as they read together. It was just one of those things. Sometimes, they dwelled in the bathtub longer than they should have like children: games, raisin-shriveled fingertips, and eventually a euphoric film of relaxation. Afterall, Mr. Eden had quite a hectic week.

    Solomon Stills reiterated words aloud in this earth-plummeted arias, always sonorous, always ticktocking on a cherrybomb of passion. Confessional poetry was already one of his favorites... and Judas always seemed to listen to so intently, brushstroking pores, keeping him cradled. The romanticist generation really wasn't antique and outdated.

    "Somehow to find a still spot in the noise
    Was the frayed inner want, the winding, the frayed hope
    Whose tatters he kept hunting through the din.
    A velvet peace somewhere.
    A room of wily hush somewhere within.

    So tipping down the scrambled halls he set
    Vague hands on throbbing knobs. There were behind
    Only spiraling, high human voices,
    The scream of nervous affairs,
    Wee griefs,
    Grand griefs. And choices.

    He feared most of all the choices, that cried to be taken.

    There were no bourns.
    There were no quiet rooms."

    solomon4

    <font color="#000000" size="1">[ October 30, 2004 02:20 AM: Message edited by: so pass? ]</font>

  4. #24
    HB Forum Owner greedy fly's Avatar
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    <center>Untitled 5copy</center>

    Hovering over a morass of diner beef stew, he shifted through the warmth via wafting silver-polished spoon, words barreling from his notorious tongue in a long, locquacious discourse. Waitresses passed in blurs, other table-tenants minded their own business, and Syme Caldwell was slung parallel to him --swathed in in the rapture of a glazen strawberry vinyl seat. He kept plucking at the fabric, with dandelion jagged hair scraping troubled brows (sewn in tender contemplation--inanely decomposing in the mist of Solomon's banter.)

    "Well, I think that all we really need to is to add some more ah, ah---yew know. I don't know how to phrase it. I think we need more power behind those words. More backup, more backup. Do yew think we should do that?"

    It seemed our gutter-slum Brit even paced in his ragged speech.

    Syme absently nodded at the creature with the woven beanie and the boquet of gilt (jilt) corkscrews skimming his chainlinked throat beneath the discreet, black stretch of hem.

    "I just need to get Jill over ..that's wot I need to do. But, she's---"

    "Wot is that?!" All of a sudden, the skeletal portrait of a truly emaciated boy stirred menacingly in his seat and arrowed a finger accusingly at a spoon clouded with a piece of you guessed it--- beef.

    "Wot?" Solomon skeptically glanced back down to his spoon and almost expected a roach or something of that sort dancing across it--- but instead it was merely inert meat, and this had him grooving a brow into the woolen alignment of his forehead.

    "You're going to sit here and eat that shit in front of me?!" A maniacal eruption from the youth triggered a few irate stares, and piqued gossip-swollen mumbles.

    Solomon became rigid and blank, pupils drowning something chaotically dead and shut-down on that very spoonful of broth and beef.

    "First yew eat turkey in front of me on Thanksgiving! Now, this!? Do yew have ANY fucking respect for a vegan, man?! Wot is with yew? You're all FUCKING carnivores! I swear to God! That shit is bloody nasty! Tasteless! Say it! Tasteless!"

    Warily, Mr. Stills let the spoon collapse unto the lip of his bowl, and he skidded as nonchalantly as possible from his seat, near tip-toeing like a robber's silhouette at the vesper and moonlight-sweetened veil of midnight.

    "Where are yew going? Yew never want to listen to my opinion, Solomon! Yew sit back down yew little bugger!"

    Solomon was already out the door, wild-eyed and actually tripping into a lopsided grin at his bandmate's angsty antics.

    Crazy fucking vegans. Communists.

    <font color="#EE0000" size="1">[ March 25, 2005 01:31 AM: Message edited by: softcore jukebox ]</font>

  5. #25
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    ".. I'm Solomon Stills: a man punctured to the very marrow with the deviate disease. My heart is this tangled urban slum, with gutter tales and memories stashed in sacrilegious alleyways and street corners. I've never been one to claim I've had a troubled childhood. I enjoyed it for the most part. I didn't need a father figure because he might've stunted the growth of understanding I have for the opposite sex. My mother brought to life a higher understanding of what it was like to be a sexual martyr; to starve and to only be nourished by cheap sex from dirty men to feed her son. She was a scorched soul, and as a result, I was born with a singed smolder (igneous eyes and a magma-induced tongue.) She was a devout Catholic, yet betrayed their every moral. I distinctly remember crawling on hands-and-knees (I belong that way) under the pews in search for what was under the girl's Sunday School dresses.

    I like cocaine, because someone once told me it was classy ..and I, my roots are classy, but the scene I am holding tyranny over is not. I love Mary Jane because she was my first lover, and she is my solace in white paper. I'm twenty-four and I've already been exploited to an emotional breakdown that triggered a long-term visit to the livid looney bin. If it weren't for natural charm (do you think I'm boasting?) and sweet lies I wouldn't have been "let out" as quickly as I had. I'm a waiter at a restaurant on the South Avenue strip. I get extra tips with phone numbers attached and sometimes I phone them when I'm restless with a headcase of insomnia. I have Marlboro-black lungs and I censor nothing. My opinions bullet from my mouth ninety-miles-per-hour in mellifluous prose and that seems to candy-coat (or rather liquor-coat) it. I keep memories of my lovers in an iron-wrought cell beside my bed. I don't have to turn on the light to see them. They constantly float on the back of my lids like images piqued from (the agony and the) ecstasy.

    Sometimes, I have dreams about this man--this mirage--I've never met, in a room full of photographs and potent with this surreal soulmate haze. He blindfolds my vision with his innocence, with a devil's goatee and angel's eyes. I wake up and I still smell his sweat. He probably isn't even real or alive. I will never meet this man. He reminded me of Marie. I won't tell you about Marie. She's none of your bloody business- she's my keepsake.

    Then, there's Kate, my girl, my favorite flavor. She's the most beautiful thing you'd ever see, and yes, I like to brush her hair, and yes, I beg to shave her legs. Through our many bathtub escapades I've learnt that shit is pure in mind and soul (her body is corroded with me now... everytime I lift my hand it draws forward.) I am a thorn in her side, and I keep spreading infection. But, I don't care. I'll never leave, or let her leave again for that matter.

    My friends are a truly eccentric, varied bunch. My best friend is an older, patern ex-heroin addict that has a penchant for breaking promises. I've learnt my every bad habit from him--- he obliterated my youth and innocence. Heavy drugs, promiscuity, violence... all themes from Judas incarnate. He is a man who I don't talk to as chronically as I used to, because he is on the brink of marriage. There is no more deep conversations or vitrolic lullabyes (arguments) because everytime we talk alone we end up kissing and falling in love again. Bisexual tendencies? No. I took care of him, he took care of me. I didn't fall in love with a sex, I fell in love with his sex. Ther was a mutual threading of love in our love/hate relationship. His breath, his suffering, the sheer, nineteen-year-old excitement of being acquainted with such a volatile man. I'll always love him. Then there's his fiance: a pink-haired goddess pregnant with his twin babies, and tastes like sugar. There's Quinn, a dreadlocked lesbian who has saved me from myself many times, there's Syme, an angsty vegan who in reality starves himself, an alcoholic, misery-hammered drummer named John, and finally an insecure red-head that wears vinyl as her armor from the real world: Jillian Monroe.

    I don't wash my bedsheets because I love their scent. I believe in God, because my lovers make me see him during climax. I get wild-eyed over bondage and would rather bleed on my pillow than salivate on it. I'm Solomon Stills. Never an enigma.. but just a time line of quirks, highs and lows. I'm the rust that sits on the nails that rip through Christ's palms. But, I'm vain."

  6. #26
    HB Forum Owner greedy fly's Avatar
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    Solomon Stills.

    Journal.

    April 29th.


    Now that the reincarnation at dawn is over, I'm lost amongst a less exciting, more mundane life. I've become a good boy. It's a weird thing, but I have. I think Kate made me this way. She made me a good boy. I don't flirt with people I don't know. I keep my fake ADD under check and come home directly after work. I don't forget orders because I'm so stoned and get a lot more tips. I keep us pretty supported. Pretty stable.

    There are things in my life however, right now, that I'm fascinated with. It's Alice's stomach. Seven months now and this girl is ready to explode. Twins. How the fuck did Jude manage that one? He never seemed like a twin kind of guy to me.

    Judas has become a man. He's almost thirty but he's now a man. All of those times when we battled for testosterone - who could get more women, who could fuck eachother harder, who had more power in the sack are irrelevant now. I always thought he was such a powerful man. He was always the one that could hold me down when I was nineteen and he was twenty-four. The last time we had eachother I was the one holding him down - but maybe he was suppressing himself because he was choking on regret each and every grind. But, I was mistaken. He's a man now that he has Alice. He's a man now that he has children on the way. Judas and I could've never predicted it would turn out this way. Us apart. Him getting married, him having two little girls (probably blonde.) Four years ago I would've shook my head and called you crazy. That wasn't the Judas I knew. I'm not sure if I love the new version of him. But at least I know I love them all. And he's a man.

    Alice is one of my best friends, and so she can read my curiosity well. Kate, my lover, Judas, my ex-lover cannot. She'll come over especially so I can fret over her and ask just how it feels. Sometimes, she reads my silence like literature, and puts my hand against it, and I can feel life throbbing beneath. This was how Marie must've felt.

    I told Alice this once, a long time ago, before Judas ever came back that the autopsy showed that not only was it an overdose, but there was a child, and obviously, it was mine. There were a number of times when I could have been a father---there's endless possibilities, but that was the one time that really felt tangible.

    And so, I wonder what he/she would've looked like. Curly hair is in our genes, and with our skin color the baby would've been truly something exotic. Sweet like his/her mother or completely bold like their father? Who knows. It'll never happen now.

    I know someday Kate and I will get married, and we'll have children---but let me tell you, my friends, that day is way off cos there is no way I'm going to let her have twins! But sometimes, when I'm around Alice I think of the potential little girl or boy I could've had with someone I sent away so long ago. She knows it. So she puts my hand to her stomach.

    <font color="#666666" size="1">[ May 02, 2003 07:04 AM: Message edited by: greedy fly ]</font>

  7. #27
    HB Forum Owner greedy fly's Avatar
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    Sucker love is heaven sent.
    You pucker up, our passion's spent.
    My heart's a tart, your body's rent.
    My body's broken, yours is spent.

    Carve your name into my arm.
    Instead of stressed, I lie here charmed.
    Cos there's nothing else to do,
    Every me and every you.

    Sucker love, a box I choose.
    No other box I choose to use.
    Another love I would abuse,
    No circumstances could excuse.

    In the shape of things to come.
    Too much poison come undone.
    Cos there's nothing else to do,
    Every me and every you.

    Sucker love is known to swing.
    Prone to cling and waste these things.
    Pucker up for heavens sake.
    There's never been so much at stake.

    I serve my head up on a plate.
    It's only comfort, calling late.
    Cos there's nothing else to do,
    Every me and every you.

    Like the naked leads the blind,
    I know I'm selfish, I'm unkind.
    Sucker love I always find,
    Someone to bruise and leave behind.

    All alone in space and time.
    There's nothing here but what here's mine.
    Something borrowed, something blue.
    Every me and every you.


    -- placebo.

    <font color="#666666" size="1">[ May 25, 2003 11:40 AM: Message edited by: cigarillo ]</font>

  8. #28
    HB Forum Owner greedy fly's Avatar
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    he smells like rose oil and tastes like a shot of liquor.

    his saliva is made up a thousand abstract chemicals;
    sex, love, magic (bewitching)

    his lips like wire;
    thin, but oh-so efficient.

    his eyes are concocted from the pits of hell;
    and dark dirt from angel's wings.

    his hands are shaky but calm;
    suspended on a cliff of frayed nervosa.

    his body hurts them sometimes;
    he is a plasma sculpture,
    crafted by the hands of hephaestus' vehemence.

    his soul is a bruised, rattling ribcage;
    it kisses me black and angst-blue.

    and his love is heroin;
    it injects straight into your veins,
    devours you whole.
    you need detox to spit it out.


    sexsick and your path-thicket to heartbreak
    solomon's bones keep me in a cage.

    a cage that smells like rose oil and tastes like a shot of liquor.

    <font color="#737371" size="1">[ February 18, 2005 06:48 AM: Message edited by: london's burning ]</font>

  9. #29
    HB Forum Owner greedy fly's Avatar
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    Esther and Edna -- the two E's as he called them, trickled up the strip wearing exuberantly-bannered smiles (mapped out in creased wrinkles and fragrant of moth balls) merging into the diner. A slight waitress named Kelly flounced over to them, cradling lamanated menus into her chest, retracting as they humidly exchanged soap opera gossip--ignoring her presence.

    "Hello, ladies, smoking or non-smoking?" Cool, casual, confident. This was her second job this month, and waitressing was a lot different than bartending, surprisingly.

    "No, honey," Edna tried to expound using a flail of her quaking hand. "Where's Solomon, dear? Only Solomon waits on us."

    "Oh, I'm sorry. Solomon went to Los Angeles to visit his friend. He'll be back next week."

    Kelly stared dejection as both ladies shot her a puncturing glare, mumbling to one another, incised in sneers. They promptly pivoted on heel, wondering about their favorite British bloke, and filtered back into the street.

    Only one thing passed Kelly's mind--she hadn't quite met him yet, she only heard about him:

    What the fuck?

    <font color="#EE0000" size="1">[ March 25, 2005 01:50 AM: Message edited by: softcore jukebox ]</font>

  10. #30
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    from the mouth of warren corgan, the most eloquent christian in the world

    Beep. "Hello? Solomon? Solo--Sol? Solomo--Are you there? It's Warren.
    I'm sorry to call so.. so late. I know it's three a.m. but I really fig--figured
    that you wouldn't be sleeping. You were always so restless that I jus--st
    kinda' guessed that you'd be laying there, staring at the ceiling--ya'know,
    with your feet still moving because even in sleep you couldn't stay sti--oh.
    Okay. Anyw--I guess your not there. I just wanted--I guess I nee--" Beep.

    Beep. "Sorry. It cut me off. Anyway. I guess I just needed to ask you, hm
    --a question. See.. I was jus--just wondering if maybe.. If you thought that
    it was okay for me to try and fall in love again. Beca--well, I met someone.
    But everytime I go to touch him, Sol--I swear I feel your hands tugging me
    back. So maybe.. I guess.. deep down I figured that some small piece of
    you might still be holding on. If it was, I'd lock myself in my room and wait
    for you. I would. ..but if you've truly given up on me.. let me know. Please?
    I just need to know if this is okay. Nothing feels okay without you--" Beep.

    Beep. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I -- just call me? I lov--Sweet drea--Bye. ..bye."

    Five thirteen AM -- the sun hadn't jogged to spill across their living room carpet yet, but the shadows were no longer dancing in trickery. Solomon had heard the beep-beep-beep of the answering machine; quirking his studded ears in his sleep, but it took a good two hours to lure him out of it. After loosening from the swathe of his lover's antique, adobe-bronzed arms, printing a kiss to the canyon of his cheek, he lethargically plotted a path into the living room, immediately congesting the air with a pre-rolled shard of Mary Jane, something he had left taking respite on the coffee table next to a complimentary, blank hitch of matches. Skidding one across a horizon of sandpaper, hissing arson, he lit up, reclining into the couch ----completely naked.

    Dripping a widow's peak-dipped forehead into the contour-woven stability of his hand, he sucked while listening to Warren's love-babble, contaminating everything around him with his saccharine toxins, nostrils flaring, body wracked with sighs. Indolent, and almost awake (dawned) he heard him tell him to have sweet dreams, and that was when he plucked the phone to hunch betwixt shoulder and ear, dialing upon the cradle with the vintage cord entangled.

    An earthy accent chimed through; raspy, omnipotent.

    "Love him, Warren."
    "---And twine his hair like rosary beads in your fists. So yew can show him there is a God if he doesn't already believe it by now."

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