HOME | DD | Gallery | Favourites | RSS
| manyfaced
manyfaced
♀️
[497045]
[2003-09-05 22:09:22 +0000 UTC]
"life is a lesson given by flesh"
(Unknown)
# Statistics
Favourites: 164; Deviations: 107; Watchers: 12
Watching: 25; Pageviews: 4905; Comments Made: 46; Friends: 25
# Interests
Favorite visual artist: Aubrey Vincent Beardsley, Pieter Bruegel /Elder/, Hieronymus Bosch, Pablo Picasso, Hans Rudolf GigerFavorite movies: Last Tango in Paris, 2046, In the Mood for Love, Intimacy, Don's Plum, Winter Guest, Platoon et
Favorite bands / musical artists: Dropkick Murphys, Flogging Molly, Leonard Cohen, Tom Waits, Doors, My Dying Bride, NIN, Tristitia...
Favorite writers: Arthur Rimbaud, Henry Miller, William S. Burroughs, J. D. Salinger, Stewart Home, Hans Fallada etc.
Other Interests: writing, reading, photography, human nature
# About me
emasculating. accumulating megreen apples of eyes wormholed with pupils
vaseline brain. pain writhed fingerbeads fall
untold but hurried.
blaze no longer, but fuse neatly
running on schedule
ever tipsy and dolled-up tiny skydot.
sooting palate in hoarfrost.
gulping down full beakers of sputum.
help like hell!
half-chocked with no blood –
someone’s scarf cross my wordage
warms me blackthorned and wooly –
almost hanged man, i admire the cuteness of sky,
reaching the deadlock.
caged in mire of life – your backstroke.
yet unseen, stars claw at the eyelids.
humans no more, but gods
don’t know to SO look
at each other .
smutting hands with blue ink, sheets – with hands
i still fail at lines’ crucifixion
expiry date left behind.
you’re as tight as ever. fresh.
but how would i know? how would i sense it,
off-tearing the skin-gowns to rescue the living
with a triumphant howl?
this body’s no longer my land.
i will hardly again be able to
suffer simply, on midnights, in moderation,
not writing to you.
i read. white horse tavern –
first chapter lately –
did not sink home, but worm-like
sank its teeth into brain-pear,
as somebody else's line is an ulcer
itchy and nagging.
a cig-butt is my handrail –
fight for keeping the balance.
i’m both - bread and circus. but never cold feet.
let toothless mouths bite off their share,
gorge themselves... just not
you, not my father or mother,
i’m no judge to the rest,
not to brilliantine temples.
thirty three hundred and three
days of your shadow catching air with my mute mouth,
gawking banshees by their bare heels,
in an idle search of your eye’s
swift reflection. stubborn attempt of confusion
and thus belief...
i'm again on my meek own
unable to sleep in darkness.
sipping mercury of weak heart-beats:
three-two-one
if i die now – means you love me
if i don’t – means you love me more...
and i wonder if this is the matter.
and if the war does not happen
will your letters still save me?
will their absence still break me?
will i still grow decrepit while waiting for them?
and you, de-robed and barefoot,
will i still dream you silent?
and if the war happens – will
i really happen to war?
won’t the prospect of slaughter
put my fighting spirit to shame?
i am nestling-chested, heart-swollen
you are slim-boned.
i wish i had stoked you for these days of rain,
full-faced and hot-thighed
against my skin,
spicy nights that would cure
the gingerbread noons.
yesterday i sank death
fish and full moon in my bucket.
now i'm timeless, de-starred and de-faced
as nonchalant as babies before birth –
no goo-goo, no screaming. lofty, unwhining and dry-assed
having killed two birds in the bushes.
too tired to swim ‘m floating face-down
you-cramped in loin and my fake limbs.
awkward tango of farewell to body
pass the Capuchin Nuns,
Paris trapped and commune shared –
fused by you into coins
clanked by you in cheap necklace
thrown handful into gapers – let them pass by!
your skin smells me
musk-strong
you cast me in spit and pearl before s...!
wine tastes sour but better than tea.
sing me! off-tune but loud!
a spado myself, can’t be sung in falsetto.
otherwise, make me small boy again –
first time filthy, way-home forgotten.
first time leaking his body in blind street.
the transparent copper of air
frost squeezes the tear drops,
doles out the breathing in-out mouth-to-mouth
spasmodic, obtrusive and sticky
second skin-like grows into lungs.
i forget to breathe –
breathes for me
quiet as mouse in its burrow.
in decembers you vanish from sight
into the lights of new Christmas
threaded upon my hair.
having pigeon-embroidered the chimneys
we fall up.
i won’t recognize your voice
in the raucous phone-booth receiver.
i bet you live warmly,
tea-y, bread-and-strawberry-jammy,
and your smell became modest
and you pay your house- and your love-bills.
well done for now. have i ever
been dreaming of this you?
the red eyelid of moon,
holy night – cyclop looser
looks at me dry face to dry face.
i shiver no more.
life’s a lesson given by flesh.
cramming or not i'll still fail the final exam.
i remembered – you smelled of chestnuts
breech-block – snap.
Henry Miller. cancer in tropics
is twice as contagious. but diva you are
i cannot possibly ask you to take part
in this mob scene
of my soft, suppurating existence.
i crush snowflakes like chinches,
discreet in my lovings, under the reason
of wine. no fingerprints left –
no evidence, witness, no children or moms,
as each remains pure in my bedroom.
i plead guilty for this. frank confession.
hands are cold – cracked skin gloves
warm no longer, no longer revived by your fingers.
blood runs feckless and pressing
dusting memory down. i don’t
manage to pick up the debris.
sooner or later there will be a Milena
for me, Pamela, Lola, Maria
let her be idle and empty –
i respect the by-products of time.
albatross-like stumbling over my
own wings i obedient-mince
gone by instincts and slow call of
the tea in a tin mug – steam
tickles hair-thin, but seems like a steel rope
sneer of hope – divine jeer – blind
belief i could hobble myself
with such a horse lock
by the edge of tenderness, content with small mercies,
and follow the pack
(flock, shoal – whichever they bunch up into)
drink the puddles, pasture in deserts
or gnaw the carrion feeling it gnaw me back
from within...
i had no idea
people can break into pieces like china
until i split the whole cupboard.
and cut my feet. even now
a splinter stuck in my left heel burns –
must be you – a freckle, a thought
a spike from your white back.
each step stings more and bleeds steaming hot.
you know, sometimes sword
is a better gift than a red rose.
you will unlove me not soon,
against the collar, not unassisted
but much sooner than wished to.
not to accept is stupid, to accept ’s foul
twice as foul ‘s to become stupid
rage makes me dry, humbleness – humid.
the dead flesh of spirit sucks
in the pit of the stomach... feels
sweet with time. i will not become younger
not even more ardent, and it will even feel sweeter
to think you are distant. i will even believe
it was meant so, that there was a reason,
a providential plan. and
it will sound faintly – copper
against the tin mug.
will be easier to beg for
body-to-body, harder for soul-to-soul
connection.
and from the unspoken dialogs
ears seem useless,
i start understanding Vincent
and shave no more – to resist temptation.
mute cacophony of
choir boys faces i damp in pillows –
alas! they remain hard i thaw out
i smoulder to ashes – sorry
won’t be reborn into white and pure
waiting for you, biting my lip in shyness
sponging you in
to make you sound longer
in me. sorry you sound no longer,
you just live, breathe, chalk-cross me out
a year – two – three, the fourth one
bends into spiral.
i pray to you not
pray not to you. won’t rise
my eyes to see your reflection
in the crow-crowned cloudless sky.
i drink, smoke, cut my hair, giggle, forgetting
you in the evenings.
used to the chalk in my lungs
reminded once in a while by
slight burning somewhere between the
groin and soul.
otherwise wish i could
at one stroke – Won’t be back! –
and not to be back. even when you do.
twice ashes – won’t burn anymore.
will be gun powder, white powder –
cloud of dust into the eyes of gossips
feeding on cornea, woodpeckering sculls.
have we been?
don't hide under eyelids
you cannot love backwards. write to
me. once in a life. on fridays. between the paper and breakfast.
throat-wide lump of the news
and white tablecloth hiding the winespots –
i could never really fit in but
getting used is getting to love.
moreover will pass in a blink. love!
banging against ice feels milder
in candle light. no candles – put beds on fire.
or, having accumulated, me.
burn. having lived to store up some love –
go on the spree –
load the gun, i'll pull the trigger.
~ by Luda Anestiadi, 2002 & 2008
Favourite genre of music: celtic punk, gothic metal, blues, jazz, symphonic metal, black metal, doom metal...
Favourite photographer: Helmut Newton, Gerard Rancinan, Vadim Stein, etc.
Favourite style of art: Literature - fiction; photography - city, portrait, fetish; Graphics
Personal Quote: Life is a lesson given by flesh
# Comments
Comments: 21
Many thanks for adding 'the long walk home' to your 
👍: 0 ⏩: 0
thank YOU for sharing the art.
you are incredibly gifted!
👍: 0 ⏩: 0
Hail dear, thank you so much for ur words... I am glad! Your work isn't different! Amazing images!
👍: 0 ⏩: 0
You are an extremely talented photographer and poet... very nice gallery!!!!!
👍: 0 ⏩: 1
thank you very much.
well, I am more of a writer, and as to photogrphy - these are just silly amteur attempts. I wish I could be better
👍: 0 ⏩: 1
LOL... I bought a thousand dollar DSLR thinking it would turn me into the Dali of photograpy... It turned me into a frustrated broke photographer... I sold it and bought a point and shoot LOL... Keep up the great work
👍: 0 ⏩: 1
good I never intended to become the Dali of anything...
just the Aubrey Beardsley of words - pens and notebooks cost much cheaper... and there are always napkins in pubs when you run out of paper
although here where I am now there are no pubs 
👍: 0 ⏩: 1
Where are you in the world? Alot of the posh cafes and restaurants here in the states... My favorite vacation was to England. My best friend is English and we "Toured" more than a few good pubs!!! Best of luck with your writing, and do not give up on the photography, as I see greatness in your work!!! Ciao
👍: 0 ⏩: 1
I lived in England for quite a while.
Now am stuck in the wild lands of Moldova (please, don't ask 
thank you for nice words!
👍: 0 ⏩: 0
