ghxsts bio picture


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
En Vogue Photography

"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."

she winks rainbows. . .

. . .he drinks draino.

I’m not a writer because I apologise for what I write.

I’m not a writer because I hate the craft and the thorns it pricks into wounds – sticky and healing.

I’m not a writer because I don’t give a fuck about your apostrophes and periods, full stops or half stops or broken wo  rds or legs.

I’m a writer because I can look at any fucking poem I’ve ever pressed onto paper and tell you exactly what I felt, exactly what its about, exactly what colour my face was turning like the earth – whether it be blue or green or red or white.

And you know what, you’re going to like this and you won’t know why or if you do I hope you know it’s because I mean it. I’m not writing words for the sake of writing words – I mean every word I write and you just love the trainwrecks they make.

I am not a writer because I don’t give a damn about what you think.

I am a writer because I don’t give a damn about what I think either.

Run rabbit, because when they catch you they’ll kill you.

My heart is too loud in my chest, it’s stairways and brick walls falling to ruin, thumping rabbits and jigsaw puzzles. You make me a noiseless footstep reckless winter static neutral smoke colored writhing pencil finger wallowing stomach sickness.

I am beneath the stairs, please don’t try to find me.

living like ghxsts in this globe we can’t run from

Picture this:

Each moment fades like days fade to nights fade to dreams fade to mornings fade to something fade to nothing and in the end it becomes exhausting. It becomes desolate. You’re isolated and you’re just stranded. You’re trapped on a raft with no direction to sail, because each route is blocked by the violentviolentviolent ocean waves that crash and clash and clatter tumultuously, scarcely evading you and your little rigid raft. Sometimes you fall overboard and you find yourself grasping onto what you have left. Just clinging and clasping and clutching, not caring if your knuckles are going to break. You just. Don’t. Care anymore.

But listen:

I know how it feels to watch life fade away. I know how it feels to grow older without growing wiser. I know how it feels to be lonely and to let the seconds fly. One year later, it feels as though a decade has been lost. Tomorrow is never worth waiting for. Life will never wait for you. Minutes become hours become days become months become years and in that time, you won’t find a pause button. You need to take each passing second as it arrives on your doorstep without having the courtesy to ring the bell. You need to scream and cry and laugh until you lose your breath. You need to jump off your raft and swim to the shore. Don’t hold back.


We all consist of tiny pieces of everything. It brings us together in the viscid web that is our world, our community. Together we stand and fall with great trepidation yet great strength; hand in hand, heart in heart as we maunder together. Our short stay on this earth is both futile and substantial.

Life takes many forms, shapes, silhouettes. It’s full of variety; both good and bad. We all connect somewhere in the middle. Dried banks can retain beauty just like a flowing river. We keep flowing too, until we reach a dead end, a brick wall. Despite this, we live on and continue stumbling and falling and getting back up together.

Everything moves so fast and the fuel usually found in the air we breathe will occasionally run out as you contemplate the spiral that sums up your existence. But let me tell you this: You are your own oyster. No matter what happens or doesn’t happen or never will, we all breathe the same oxygen. Our shell is flesh and bone.

The energy of life has been picking up steadily. On the climb of the beginning of the Chinese New Year the year of the luck bearing Rabbit. The end of our longest days of the year and sight of the warmer ones not too far ahead on the path.

Like a tonne of bricks.

No matter what happens, no matter what stones or hills or mountains stand in your way, never forget: Open your heart, open your mind.

Zara - This post is great!March 12, 2011 - 10:01 am

hold your breath

When you are so internal people can miss out on details about you and through deciphering what they can of the evidence you offer they can completely misinterpret who you are.

“Most days of the year are unremarkable. They begin and they end with no lasting memory made in between. Most days have no impact on the course of a life.”

It’s the end of the day, I sit here looking back at what was described as going to be “a special day.” While not out of the ordinary, the energy was nice. Like lying, back on water, in the middle of a lake, mid-summer, sun beating upon you. No extremity to great to cause waves of any mass proportion. A rarity.

As I walk to tomorrow I debate, will it all be just as hard as before? Is this repetition or is it anew?

If you want to do better then do better.

Doors opening
Endlessly growing
Never knowing – always learning, feeling, trusting, going, doing, trying, pushing.

Do not think too much th(r)ough, you will miss your flight.

color my world with the chaos of trouble

Your future is here, your end has begun. You’re a dead man, red man running. The fishermen hunt you for fun. And so, said the chief, the settlers are settling in. Oh, here it goes – this is how a legend will end.

It is something about our parents generation, they were taught/trained by the gov’t/school/lame corporations, to deny the damage we, as a human race, have caused to the world. This denial of global issues also reflects upon their family life, deny the problem, “Keep Calm & Carry On” as the WWII posters said in Great Britain. Bright Red background, All white lettering, and a Crown at the very centre and top of the page. “Keep Calm & Carry On?” More like “Stress Out & Die Young.”

As time has passed, the energy levels being emitted by our technologies has grown exponentially. These energy levels, or frequencies, are easier perceived by younger minds. The generations from our birthing year until now and onward, are more aware of the world around us and the cause of our actions because there was so much more energy to be perceived at a younger age thanks to the advancements in our technologies globally and the expansion of all commercialism and creation of product for human use. For instance, the noise levels we as humans emit has shrunk the distance sound travels through oceans by a whopping 90%! The sound levels are energy, or frequencies. More boats, more construction, more production, more, more, more, more! All this expansion and energy easily perceived by our young minds back as toddlers, has helped us now as adults to still be able to have a sense of the energies around us. Yes, our parents can too, but with nowhere near the energy levels we perceived and such intensive influence of denial, they are now conflicted and do not understand. The body and heart say one thing, but the brain, due to training, says a complete opposite.


It’s not until I leave a room that I read a person best.

I want so much out of life. Some people say too much, I hope not. I genuinely believe that if you have an open enough mind and heart the world is your true oyster. We have the ability to do whatever we want in life through the powers of our own manifestation. Granted, I may not have physical evidence of this, I do know, as time has passed, and I have conciously changed my mind, acknowledging the steps of change has proven they are there. Declare my vision wrong, untrue, a facade, is to simply deny yourself of the beauty of life. Enjoy the mundane reality we live in for all she is worth. Find the beauty, truth and love in all you do, for she is there, gleaming under the surface, waiting for your position to her being ever so that the sun catches her and the radiance hits, and perhaps, like a light bulb moment, the world will not be such a bad place after all.

“I open myself fully to receiving massive financial sums and in turn, concede donations of fortitude & strength.”

note to self

You’re going to make a lot of mistakes, most of them worth only a slight blush and a mumbled apology, but a few of them will seem earth-shatteringly huge. Always remember that though your world may be in pieces, the planet beneath your feet continues to twirl.

Not everyone is going to like you. Accept that and realize that greatness is not achieved without some argument. Make waves – rock the sailboats of all the people that said you couldn’t do it, but don’t leave them to drown. You’re better than that.

Face your fears. Smile more. Try new things. Get your heart broken once or twice, or maybe three times. Hate someone, because then you’ll appreciate love all that much more when you find it – and you will find it, I promise. If nothing else, take the circumstances you’ve been given, and make marvelous things happen. Be normal, but with flair; once you master that, you’ll find you don’t need stereotypes anymore. You’re ordinary now, but you have all the potential to be something really, very, extraordinary.

Make us proud.


(Fuck everythin’, man) that’s what my conscience said. Then it bunny hopped off my shoulder, now my conscience dead. Now the only guidance that I had is splattered on cement – Actions speak louder than words, let me try this shit, dead.

Manhattan silver

She raises the laurel, the gift of the earth, which is covered in crystals of a soft powdered snow. They gleam in the light; like ice; like mirrors. This covers the green leaves whose twisted path grows. They’re sticky with magic and lovely in smell – it’s the fragrance of flowers and fruits the earth grows. She examines and awes them, their beauty so fragile; They’re covered in crystals of a soft powdered snow. Soft in her fingers, she pulls at the leaves, awing the way that they peel like the rind off an orange or the skin off a grape. She loads them and chokes them, an ode to the green. She thanks it and thinks then “Things aren’t what they seem”. She laughs then and eats then, she lives in a dream, she looks for and yearns for shadows unseen. She raises the laurel, the gift of her gods. She lives for a dream she forgot. She laughs at the heavens and frowns at the earth, she thinks, “this is all that I got”. Not for a reason and not for a rhyme but the dream she can hardly recall, the laurel, a victory, she never won – The dream must be the start of it all. She raises the laurel and radiates light. A dream she can start to remember – The summer has faded into the autumn, soon comes the winter December. But always comes spring and the fragrance of flower, wafting in wind and in voices forgotten, forgiven, forever’s too long – today is the time of rejoices. Days are brimming with magic and lovely in smell -it’s the fragrance of flowers and fruits the earth grows.

Live in the daytime, carpe the day
Sieze the diem and hold on tight
Spring fades to winter, and to quote Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night.


I’m a fucking walking paradox.


When all is gone to ruin and dust, all that remains is hope and trust. When a little lad can only soldier on, then we know truly has our soul gone. When all about is refuse and rubble, when all the world is rife with trouble – When the world is left ashen and burnt then we’ll know what we never learnt. When a brother is, by a brother slain, when it is the worms alone who gain. When it is war that is ever on the brink, then we’ll know into darkness we did sink. When all the oil is gone, burnt to smoke, when children breathe air fit to choke, when pestilence and famine ride again – then will our folly seem obviously plain. When burning flames leap,  roof to roof, when the last of four, takes again to hoof. When he comes to reap what we have sown then shall we say that we hadn’t known.

“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may”

child-like in nature

Whispering sins into open ears, spreading rumors to evade fears. Saying this and doing that, ain’t nothing wrong with fact. Careless antics about your day, shrug your shoulders, walk away.  Keeping cool ’cause you are, too, think nothing more of what you do. Close your eyes to enter a new world, subconscious revealing the fate you twirled. Tearing the band-aids from your sins, screaming at yourself from within. Wake up in the morn, it was just a dream, nothin’ torn. Daily routine dragging onward – something gnawing, keeping you from moving toward. Seek out what’s gagging you weak but you know exactly the little tweak, running from yourself – more and more lies clutter the shelf. Can’t break free from such agony, evil taking grip forcefully – from one lie to another, remember, the lie commands the others.

This is life—it’s what you make it, take it now, but please don’t break it. Life doesn’t come with a life time guarantee, it’s yours to take without knowing what it will be.

Zara - I'm hooked! I completely adore you and your writing. :)February 9, 2011 - 1:35 pm

Dylan - Thanks!! I'm glad somebody reads this, hahah =).February 9, 2011 - 11:06 pm

inhale deep

A love child with shattered veins and dandelions in its hair sings songs that make me glad – you cannot see me. I have three rings, three pulses straight to the chest, three circles in my body – calling secrets and speaking poetry. My spine is doing wonderful things; fluid between disks warm and bubbling, like blood but my blood is fire minus the sting –  it is stories and butterfly gasps and almost silence.

but if you listen, you will hear me.

imitation of fiction

Stories are imitations of life, an art of illusions and wishes and fate and comedic timing. Coincidental and neatly trimmed. Perfect in its disasters, kind of how the writer dreams of it; you know – authorial fantasies. Being able to create something. Mould it & shape it. Make it beautiful and make it how it can never be realistically, but make it so with words. Fuck with readers’ minds. Make them feel what can’t be felt. Become sculptors, shape their minds & hearts & every waking breath. Writers are fucking control freaks.

We’re led to believe that life imitates art. We imitate art, art imitates life, art imitates us, art imitates art: there is no life imitating art. We have no plot, title, characters, or soap opera music resounding when our hearts break. The world doesn’t stop & let us off when we have had enough. We are not characters in books, we are wracked by nerves & nightmares & fumble & daze through lulls in our lives.

A story is words sewn together with rough stitches and modifying adverbial clauses. Characters who do not exist because they do not live. It is made of the patches life spat out at us & neatly arranged to make sense of the disorder.  We are loose ends and poorly-timed poetry. We are alive with our blood and lack of metaphors. We will never stop existing, only stop living.