ghxsts bio picture

FOOD FOR THOUGHT.

Welcome to my blog!

Hello my name is: Icicle Audacity. All I see are ghxsts. I'm the misguided stride for self improvement - a sadistic, futuristic machine. A hollow cold emitted through vibrant lights, it’s a warm as wool winter but I’ve got a chill I can’t shake. This is what I am & I think I’m fine in my own misguidance. My bones are frozen, my marrow has turned to ice - my body is just a body, a corpse without a head. I'm just a vessel & my brain has long been dead.

Dylan McAmmond
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"That's really the only thing that matters to me, is that I make art for a living. And if I make art for a living... I win."

it was written

Countdown to twenty twelve, in a time machine all by myself. The past moves so fast and the present’s not quite the gift I’d thought I’d wrapped. Stuck pages flipped with finger tip spit. I’m just looking for a sleeping pill that puts me down like a fist, and keeps me up under eye lids, without the nauseous sedative. You remind me of piano notes, fretted string strums, light key strokes and stick needle pokes. Bird nests, hair dye, bath tubs and spelling tests. I’m too tired to be sick, but there’s a beauty to illness. Dying wishes, lost innocence, raspy breaths. That hopeful cling that sets in between cold coughs and colder sweats. I want to feel you like cancer. Perfect in a lot of the ways that it makes you think. Get into my blood stream, get under my skin. Rack my brain, make me scared, make me tear up, blink hard while I hold back the knot in my throat to save face. I just want to feel you. Be my friend. I want to tear into your chest and break your ribs while we kiss. We could speak in crossed tongues, chipped teeth and shared spit. You remind me of swimming pools of sweat, cool nights in the grass lost in thought… only, fucked up. So long as I’ve got two feet on the ground I’m grounded. It makes sense, I guess. Step back to reality, I felt that pinch, I feel that pinch. I can see my breath. Sometimes I pretend it’s a cigarette. I want to stay up all night to see your raccoon eyes, and have you hate me the best. Be my friend, take my hand… I feed on your thoughts. You shouldn’t have expected anything less. You know that played out shot on the rooftop? Where it’s quiet and still, and suddenly the pigeons take off? I want you to feel that. I’ll take your name, spell it out, say it out loud, and break it in two under stress. Drive one half to my head, and one to my chest.

I don’t even know you – but hate me best.

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