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Damon Af Satarel

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9/9/11 11:54 pm - lured

whenever you call
I wish I had better to do
someone to play interference
milder, duller,
to dampen your intensity.
but you dangle your smile sharply
twisted pink on a silver hook
and if I'm slow to answer, this baited breath
we both know I'm coming over
this won't be over

9/9/11 11:53 pm - lured

whenever you call
I wish I had better to do
someone to play interference
milder, duller,
to dampen your intensity.
but you dangle your smile sharply
twisted pink on a silver hook
if I'm slow to answer, this baited breath
we both know I'm coming over
this won't be over

11/20/10 08:45 pm

The sky is a riot of midnight colour
       the city restless & blind beneath it's icy hues.
Selene hidden behind smoky greys,
thick and soft as cotton
Astra twinkles between soft plumes
       blink and it's vanished
The dark, dusty blue of the sky darkens imperceptibly
   before the shining, gleaming pearl glows free
       illuminating an ethereal haven
       of fog and blues and greys
           and whites-almost-gold
               as they mingle
               and breathe with Heaven's feathers
and the city blinks & beeps and rushed on unseeing.
The magic of the night is inhuman
 and shows no surprise
   as Man hustles on down below, intent on his toes.

10/25/10 11:42 am

"So give me something to believe
cause I am living just to breathe
And I need something more to keep on breathing for
So give me something to believe."
- The Bravery ~ Believe

"As if breaths were life; life upon life"
- Tennyson ~ Ulysses

"Make each breath more meaningful than the last."


An endorphin rush like plunging into icy water, cool upon the skin and sweet upon the lips. Heartbeat stutters, pauses, pounds. Sharp breaths carve sharper memories - whether it's the sting of the doctor's needle, the swing of the soldier's sword or the soft silence as the axe falls.

Breath upon breath, each more shallow than the last as your muscles burn and your legs tremble.
Flushed and feverish to lovers' touch.

In adrenalin, the body fights to breathe as though smoke has filled the worlds, choking, pushing on and through and further and faster.
And in moments of reflection, inhale, exhale, steady and sure and drawing out each moment as if it were the last - as if into eternity. Solace and beauty and the scent of night jasmine, soft on the tongue, gentle and full in the memory, flavour heightened by the aging - not fades in the passage of time.

Yet breathless anticipation can not be tossed aside. The shiver of unknown, trepidation warring with desire - impatient in want and in wait.

It is this fertility of promise, this potential that makes breaths as if they were life.

5/28/08 07:59 pm

All my distractions are becoming short-lived, faint feints barely lasting long enough to exhale. My healthiest habits have been poisoned dark intentions -- the few aspects of myself that I valued as Pure, now perverted. I'm more careless: I don't speak as softly as I should, I drop that which I'm determined to hide. I replace one addiction with another, another, another trying to get free of you. I can't seem to shake the habit of running from my problems, as though if I don't look them in the eye they do not exist.

Hiding under the covers always kept the nightmarish ones away. You can only teach an old dog new tricks when he's not staring into the fire, on his last few breaths.

2/27/08 09:00 pm

I remember when the air around you was thick with Promise. It filled my mouth like a decadent meal; rich and hot and heady. You were tequila warmed by the sun, robbing me of sense and leaving me high with blinders on. The only path I could see was your footprints on the beach. But I sank with each step I took in your wake, weighed down by heat and sand, exhausted by our revelry; intoxication.

Now your presence thins the air; where we are is High Altitude, and there's not enough necessity to sustain me. I've gone, backed down, and I can't understand why you haven't realized why.

2/18/08 03:50 pm

It's so much easier, isn't it: to want what you should-not and could-never have, to dance with the someone who'll be leaving the party with another girl, to fuck someone whom doesn't play a part in your future. You don't have to consider the worth of your bid when you know it will be rejected, the quality of your efforts if you know you're going to fail. You make peace with your lonesome head and cowardly heart, profess your ambivalence to all and sundry, and pull out your old country heartbreakers when they've all gone to bed.

I'd bet you'd sell your soul, if you could, just to have no witness.

3/25/07 08:26 pm

You asked if it was a regret I could live with; I ask you: which of your regrets could you die with? There is no result that is written in stone until your last breath has sighed out and your movements are stilled.

Choices made can still be changed. Words can be scratched out and poems rewritten. Chances missed may arise again, but the one thing that can prevent any and all of this is Time. Time runs out, and up, and away. You might see it as she sneaks up on you, but not as she rushes by.

So sometimes, most times: wouldn't it be better to write as if this were your final draft? A spectacular, adventurous fiction of ups and downs, and trials and triumphs -- and the occasional typo -- still makes for better reading than meticulously written prose that eases nowhere, safely.

8/25/06 09:05 pm

You rewrite the rules and recast the die; the odds never leaned in my favour.

You don't get to play the victim just because you brandish wounds most readily.

Consent if you will, cry is you must, but choose your own commitments -- or cease to shriek about foul play.

8/9/06 12:07 am

'Never change,' said I; you unfurled your wings and told me you'd always been thusly. 'Never leave,' I begged -- you tested the currents of the winds.

You try to break me with your 'heartbreak'. You stab, you slice and you rail at me in your rage, and as I lay bleeding at your feet, your expectation is one of comfort. I am to soothe that throat worn raw with your screams, I am to grieve for hands made dirty by my wounds for all the fault is mine; I am what's brought us here to the point where Love isn't even lost -- it's the poison that keeps our blood pouring, and the edge on the knife that cuts into us so deeply.

No, the Love isn't lost. But what was once our saving grace is now exactly that which keeps our war alive.

As your resolute silence spreads from hours to days, to weeks, I am left wondering what it is I fought to keep.
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