|
| notes from a cell phone:
I made myself this way to defend myself. Of course, I didn't realize that by making myself this way there would be nothing left to defend.
Could it be, that all in life is a shared dream?
memes, memes, the magical fruit. The more you eat, the more you follow suit.
My poetic self and my "normal" self have fused, and are now one person. I see the world through calloused eyes,
yet behold the inner beauty that is both beyond and before all comprehension. What used to be inspiration is now the mode of daily operation. Perhaps that is what happens when one actually reaches their artistic pursuits. Or, perhaps the ego develops to such an extreme that it convinces itself of such things, in order to put a narcissistic spin on what might otherwise be seen as a considerable deficit. Is it then that the ego becomes its own pursuit, even at the expense of all others? Would this be for any reason other than preservation of self-image, whatever that image may be in relation to reality? Is this a deflection from a previous line [ran out of room to type]
People make me want to cry, how calloused they are, but I myself am calloused and can no longer cry.
[i'm perfectly aware of how emo that sounds. fuck off]
This is a monopoly, not a democracy, and in this system we are commodities, not human beings.
Whereas I am just hopping on the train, these other people have been on it from the first station.
I don't need your LUV. [dunno what that's about. must have been listening to DEVO]
Shadows dance, over my dead body.
There is a purpose behind all the things I do, I am just afraid to tell people about it.
I sometimes like to take in the moment, at the expense of the moment.
Now arriving: Mystery, the city of eternal dreams, or endless, dreamless sleep.
| | |
| "I'm sure I'm not Gertrude," she said, "for her hair goes in such long ringlets, and mine doesn't go in ringlets at all--and I'm sure I ca'n't be Florence, for I know all sorts of things, and she, oh! she knows such a very little! Besides, she's she, and I'm I, and--oh dear! how puzzling it all is! I'll try if I know all the things I used to know. Let me see: four times five is twelve, and four times six is thirteen, and four times seven is fourteen--oh dear! I shall never get to twenty at this rate! But the Multiplication Table don't signify--let's try Geography. London is the capital of France, and Rome is the capital of Yorkshire, and Paris--oh dear! dear! that's all wrong, I'm certain! I must have been changed for Florence! I'll try and say "How doth the little,"" and she crossed her hands on her lap, and began, but her voice sounded hoarse and strange, and the words did not sound the same as they used to do: "How doth the little crocodile
Improve its shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale! "How cheerfully it seems to grin!
How neatly spreads its claws!
And welcomes little fishes in
With gently-smiling jaws!" "I'm sure those are not the right words," said poor Alice, and her eyes filled with tears as she thought "I must be Florence after all, and I shall have to go and live in that poky little house, and have next to no toys to play with, and oh! ever so many lessons to learn! No! I've made up my mind about it: if I'm Florence, I'll stay down here! It'll be no use their putting their heads down and saying 'come up, dear!' I shall only look up and say 'who am I then? answer me that first, and then, if I like being that person, I'll come up: if not, I'll stay down here till I'm somebody else--but, oh dear!" cried Alice with a sudden burst of tears, "I do wish they would put their heads down! I am so tired of being all alone here!" | | |
| atrophy annie bends, to stoop,
to pick up a flower. for her hair the trees wave and
the stars, they should sparkle, but atrophy
reaches her every half-hour. the trees shook, their denizens free.
she faded into luxury. curls of ribbons will part her delight,
and she pulls and she steals through
the dawn. Fingering the wall at night, she
stumbles on her secrets. Thinking she
might feel too far, she wakes
through the window and sleeps on the lawn. atrophy annie, remembers her name, and
summons a fig leaf to cover her shame,
and she bends, and she stoops, and she
supports our troops. | | |
| Strange brew -- kill whats inside of you.
Shes a witch of trouble in electric blue,
In her own mad mind shes in love with you.
With you.
Now what you gonna do?
Strange brew -- kill whats inside of you.
Shes some kind of demon messing in the glue.
If you don't watch out it'll stick to you.
To you.
What kind of fool are you?
Strange brew -- kill whats inside of you.
On a boat in the middle of a raging sea,
She would make a scene for it all to be
Ignored.
And wouldnt you be bored?
Strange brew -- kill whats inside of you.
Strange brew, strange brew, strange brew, strange brew.
Strange brew -- kill whats inside of you. | | |
| your empty salad sandshake touched me.
with teary eyes and whispers of unhearable longings
{I stretch}
I tried to trample, tried to sample
three shades of regret.
salt shaker, moon breaker, I keep all my seams
intact and slightly stitchy, cold fingers growing itchy
with black reminders, fervor for failure, touched atrophy
tasted delight with lemon cream
boring out what lay between,
those sheets of paper plastic. Fat, and happy figures of
the cardboard cutout universe. Shadows on the wall
dance and flicker, ever-bicker, never touch the
morning liquor, never touch to see the fall, maybe they
should have it all, if only they could form the taste,
salivate in their disgrace, and walkabout with dusty
face. Empty-headed headaches, feeling like a pulse of
arbitrary and flavorless brain solutions. Saline dreams, tie
me up with rubber tubing. Stick a feather
into my arm, drain me of my sticky ichor. Two
to breathe and I'll take that lost chance. Touch absurd
and your fingers will stick, for a week or three.
(and) Tell me, would you bleed for me?
{I retch}
It's taken, soft lime taste-ing, mind
arrange and thought-erasing paint-y, please-y,
never-tease-me torturings of stitches
I have long outgrown. And long I played,
sticky-fingered, into your hands. Into your heart. Into your
arms. Push me away, please! I cannot take the luxury, your
company. The sidelong sighs and lost goodbyes.
Stretch marks whisper to my eyes, and I squint to my
past. I bite lips, my own this time, and savor
reason. Turtle doublets echo laughter, screaming that
the rhyme come after.
| | |
|
Lifetime
