| Wanderings |
[Dec. 24th, 2006|10:33 pm] |
It is dealing with the mundane that hushes fever'd eyes.
Two mechanical birds hover over furrowed brows,
To bemoan such torpid longings.
They whisper a gentle cure to ease the malaise,
and there song
Sings sweetly through airwaves and satellites
and back down through something as simple
as a music box.
The needles slow rotation,
Stretching syllables,
Elongating phrases.
Sweetness, however, is offered
In fragmented melodies.
We've all heard this before.
Through a howling wind,
Through the roar of the sea,
Or through your sweet voice.
We've all heard this before. |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 25th, 2006|07:59 pm] |
Yearning swirls a starving sense of urgency,
clanging through the cold corridors of a body's dark spaces.
Twisting stomachs into unabating tremors.
Reason seems adrift in the little ripples sent forth
by delusions of, what seems right, and what really is.
But oh how it sings and cries, and whispers tiny lullabies.
Sending dreams of wistful flares, alluding to the hearts desires.
The anesthetic to peacful slumbers carries with it an aroma,
lingering in coat pockets and once meaningless articles of clothing,
which at one time nuzzled next to the dreamy eyes of ambigeous love.
Call it lust, call it fantasy, call it a hightened sense of dramatics.
There is a remberance of things past, my madeline, my tea, my apparition that will never be.
It will never be a sweet as the first time we leaned back and watched smoke spin spirals
out of our loosely clutched fingers, while watching nights disappear out of backseat windows.
I thought of crimes, and you thought of stars,
but those nights I slept tight, and I slept sound,
I just slept through the images that were really spinin' round. |
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| continuation |
[Jan. 26th, 2006|02:02 am] |
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...eyes follow the gentle sway of lifeless limbs, suspended in eternity, synonymous with the disappearance of hope. Squishing through the puddles of blood that seeps slowly into the carpets once creamy shade of vanilla, searching for clues or at least a simple sign of life. One that eases a still beating heart. Soupy entrails send shivers bouncing over the notches of her spin. Blood, swimming at her ankles tells more than harrowing suicide, it shapes the thoughts we dream of, late at night between asleep and awake where slimy fingers cover our eyes, proving death is but only around the corner. Clammy skin shimmering in the frame of post midnight moonlight, startled from idealistic visions of the future, being replaced with haunting scenes of the ending of time. Death, effects not the ones perishing, but the ones who don't. Short of breath and short of remorse are the ones we cry for. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 23rd, 2006|12:38 am] |
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Old stale light, yellow and dingy, flooding in from tattered drapes, jutting out through the window, sending odd shapes across the stained hardwood floor. Raised just above the bleak light sits the battered record player spinning continuously over a notch on the record, playing one five second clip over and over again. Those notes sing repetitively, devouring the soft air of the once cute cottage, replacing it with a sharp painful noise. Piling itself into ones ear, pinging back and forth through the head, resonating, unable to relocate the entrance or find an exit, spreading the tension further into the body with each sharp ping against soft tissue. Winding through the maze of toppled over furniture and cris-crossed stains, luring eyes with cherry hues saturated into the cracks of faded wood. A sea of spilled blood lays strewn across hard wood, its both stain and sealer, nothing ever penetrates and nothing ever escapes. Hands shake to visions of non coagulated blood spilling from mutilated bodies, mutilated loves of someone else. Approaching the doorway, soles squish and eyes hesitate, shoulders and neck quickly follow suit. Breathing deeply shoulders askew, head cocked and eyes being pulled to the right. It is then the gentle sqeak wafts into unsuspecting ears, rope rubbing dangerously against wood. It is the sound of swaying, she never leaves, she couldn't get out. Pulling oneself into the room, the first step...splash. A pudgy woman of pre-middle age sways with no wind, sheer weight rocking her by the neck, Back and forth, back and forth. The lull of invisible waves tossing her into eternity, sea spilling onto wooden shores, where razors blades rid her of the fecundity of familiar impossibilities. Eyes sunken, and life thinned out of them, this isn't the first time they have been this way. Watching her rock back and forth, snagged by the neck in her attempt to raise herself to heaven. |
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| it's my liver i believe |
[Dec. 21st, 2005|02:36 am] |
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I have been drunk for 8 days straight. I am going ice skating tomorrow with some dude/broads, Which will probably make it nine because who can ice skate sober? I need a reason to stop. |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 18th, 2005|10:45 pm] |
Can we spin, shake, shiver, and dance under the dull light of thirty year old light bulbs?
Can it ever be better than the nights resting between stars and sun?
Who thinks of such tiresome dramas, and placing the good things in such a hard to reach place?
Treacherous words fill the void, and I know the melodrama clouds.
Where is it we shall go from here. Up?
Sense. Since that fateful day all direction has become some imaginative word,
inside out and backwards. too dull to call it home, and too bitter to the taste to
consider it love. When we live for that look, what do we do when we faces blend into nothing? |
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| something may be missed |
[Jul. 2nd, 2005|01:00 am] |
Isolation, as it appears to me now, may be a means to an abrupt end. Not one of romanticism, the way we so often read of it, but rather one stained with jealousy. A jealousy of a passing wind through silhouettes of evergreens on it's way to another destination. Or of a soft rain, viewed only from slight angles which show rain passing by the amber face of tall lamp posts. So quickly it drys with mornings first light to pursue another life.
Isolation, personified by such trite prose and un insightful dribble. How am I to believe that this is the only pain the world will ever come to know, my own self-involved dramatic display of hysterics.
This self loathing comes with insatiable thoughts of oneself as the only being with an issue that calls for tears and a lowered head, set to rest in open palms. What if i were seated in front of the eyes i desire to have placed upon me, would I have the words to set things in my favor? chances are my words would be misinterpreted and left for something less than face value. I have settled for something much less. Throwing my thoughts, with the opposite hand it appears, into this modern forum of post adolescent misanthropes who know nothing much of the world, however we all know EVERYTHING about the universe and the way someones else's script should be written. Professional critics we are, isolated we will remain for all of time. We live in a formulaic carefully guided track, which may have separate scenery, but all the same stops. Sip some more, just to get through the day. It helps more than it hurts (with the liver as an exception). |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 17th, 2005|01:37 am] |
...through the soft gusts of silver stained winter wind, her petite lips struggle to part, soon though they slack and split. Yet her tongue flutters, and she spits out a stutter that falls like a bee who seems to have lost his stinger. Hurdling towards a cold earth her thoughts fatally catch the ground, like another suicide. Misplaced lyrics to her song, ears inattentive catch a separate melody that in their minds keep her course in a straight line. However, HER song sings like that of a tempestuous sea which has long since split her ties with mercy. Dragging sea weary sailors from their respected cabins to a watery grave. Thoughts that represent a generation which has a slightly, compared to the last, distorted definition of happiness. The crash of an angry sea brings solace to a tortured heart. Words fall from her mouth with a stern tone, and the tide backs that up with a hungry, desperately awaiting jaw.
Now a mouse squeaks and calls out to the cat in a quiet confidence. Maybe it is the truth we fear, and the soft words we wish for. Or maybe it is the pain we welcome during warm rain squalls, the understanding we share with the devil's wife. Whatever her reason her mouth popped open and out fell phrases with poisoned tips. They kissed the cheeks of unsuspecting sons of generations and generations of deaf ears. AWAKE those darts screamed, and numb their faces became. It spread, freezing neck, torso, legs, and toes. Legs gave out, and down like that warm rain their lifeless bodies collided with the concrete. For the first time a smile spread across her hollowed out face, black eyes lighten and we see a sunset for the first time in this dreary town. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 29th, 2005|02:15 am] |
excite exciter–
empty tatters of what is left of what never was, lay clumsily strewn across window screens.
Speak softly to those spectral bodies whose weary sea legs step heavily on clanky gang planks towards lonesome pubs to remind themselves, death is only something we dream about. Lay still with the air, and the faint smell of rum and lime. Its their lives we seek, their air we wish to breathe. Lonely silhouettes pass through amber circles, each identical to the last, and frozen petticoat tails remain lit in the oceanic night. faceless vapors telling a story merely with the ends of their time worn coats. |
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| circles are said to never end |
[Dec. 23rd, 2004|01:17 am] |
| [ | music |
| | Love is no big Truth- Kings of Convenience | ] |
I fell harder then I had first imagined,
over miscellanous knick-knacks onto warm hardwood floors.
Being cut into four pieces by sunlight seeping through loosely draped windows
asking for something more than the golden scraps they have been given.
More of a Marigold hue, portraying the better sides of me, shadows swallowing
all that never need be said. Yet caught in the tempestuous cross currents of the
lonely, sweeping, undertows of sideways oceanic sunsets.
Stars appear, and we depend on their placement for direction–
Dependent on the only certainty which in time spells misconception–
Stars have long since disappeared, along with the afternoon sun, and we have been given the lulling moon
and presented with sleeping hours which are consistently taken for granted in where daydreams of french countrysides and fire flies fill our plates. Starving on nights without lights to guide, I will devour ideals, for food is merely food to a hungry man. And air never tasted sweeter then when had at a tea party.
In time the sun will rise, and it will sweep across the opposite side of my motionless body.
Bringing light upon the parts neglected by sunsets.
Light will bring that in which i will not show.
I suppose i shouldn't move the duration of the evening–
to see what the dawn defines as secrets. |
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| From here I feel alive |
[Oct. 20th, 2004|01:05 am] |
You are a rainy day lullaby
of alcoholic dreams.
feeling trite.
Playback that song so I can recall faint memories.
i will cherish this for evermore, and thoughts
oh incessant screams, cry to me no more.
I hear you cry, disregard it all.
Flow through your viens, that disease that will kill you
and still i think not of you, but not of her.
Rather it, that incredible IT.
That intanglible thing,
that appears ever so tanglible.
So close that i can reach out and feel it run through my fingers.
Machines twist, and sqeek through the night
so sleep seems incomprehensible.
Remember these words,
remember these thoughts.
I can never love one i never knew,
but i can always love one i created in my imagination.
You that rainy day lullaby. |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 9th, 2004|02:09 am] |
its only breathing–
never a task so rough
its only walking–
never a task so rough,
however my feet must have found some cracks along the way,
because my mother is dying.
but how do the dead find a way to die twice?
it was a serendipitous meeting, you and i.
oh, how the womb is a lonely place,
and oh how the world is even lonelier.
look up at me now from your bed of flowers
black and blue.
look at me trying to find the tears to give you.
and how this is a metaphor for this relationship.
never having a word to say, and now never having a word to write.
random thoughts cloud the love i am supposed to have for you.
now this is for you, the only thing i ever gave you.
i am always a bridesmaid never a bride,
i am heavy eyes when you are trying to drive home at night
i am all the things you never wish you would become.
and you, you are everything i wish i knew. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 24th, 2004|12:19 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | shampoo suicide-Broken Social Scene | ] |
you make up most of that hollowed out section between me and love.
eyes crossing paths, meaning two different things, and silence
creating two different feelings.
To feel something else, oh if only! To feel something else.
Miles and miles separate utopian fantasy's–
To breathe no more would be to finally live.
Yes it hurts to feel those hands, and yes it hurts to not feel them–
I comprehend lovers lament in the brightest of colors,
with its beautiful brush-strokes illuminating golden dreams
I was happy then, when nothing was everything
and you were not the picture painted across my cornea. |
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| our inferno |
[Aug. 15th, 2004|10:39 pm] |
ivory leaves fall from hallucinating trees–
taunt me no more i say, and i shall insist this.
Despite my coarse and much abrasive demands the night wishes me quiet nightmares.
So between those hallucinating trees comes, much like the ivory leaves,
an ivory robe. Stitched in lace and with elegant grace it blows in some elegant breeze meant only for the hollow.
Without a face she feels more at home, with no space for eyes she knows nothing of my horror.
FRIGHT! this is a clouded endeavor of haste and fate.
Lights blend into one solid guide–
which i follow to unidentifiable faces, which in my defense never really existed.
It's a night song crying out to those lesser characters hidden in dark corners of smokey rooms
praying to a god they have never known to rid them of their sins.
its her no-face i see–
its my certain fear she ignores
and the sound of quiet jazz is the lesser hero in simple defeat. |
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| it all fades |
[Aug. 15th, 2004|06:22 pm] |
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oh it may be lovers lament that brings hate to greater heights. With coastal towns meaning more to me after the sun disappears, it's hard to see those auspicious eyes for what they are truly worth. Spend time with self-righteous justifications for sinister actions, they really do not mean much to me. Fornication eyes, devilish night, spare me for i wish to feel innocence again. Mirrors are always double sided, those justifications are never enough to such judging eyes. Amber, grey, and black we aren't anything more. hiding behind reassurance, and under sheets we settle for the lowest bidder. So it seems that with every love comes another heart broken. Sacrificing self, body, and soul to feel complete. Where to feel complete we must be two which would ultimately be the definition of "we." Subtle wounds gouged by harsh punctuation and bold case letters. I condemn you first and foremost, you punishment is blood. Oh, yes it's true...late at night when no one is watching. We will draw the bath, nice and silent we will, and open ourselves up. Finally let the "truth" hit the floor, flood the confinement and watch it all go black. Yes, that is your punishment..."But, mirror mirror upon my wall, love! love should be my punishment. To be in love is the greatest of all pains, shaky hands and anticipating lips are no way i could ever live. To love is worse than death..." However love to can be greater than heaven. "It is all the luck of the draw, a russian roulette of emotions." No your punishment has been brought upon, your misanthropic heart decided your fate long ago. "I beg you, let me live, this silence and greater love is more than i can bare, i can not perish with it being released. Let this be my punishment, to live for years with un-reciprocated love placed so delicately draped across my shoulders. To know love without it ever knowing me...oh mirror let me learn from your mistakes." MISGUIDED LOVE LED TO SECRET RENDEZVOUS OF MISGUIDED PASSION! YOU EXPECT TO BE FORGIVEN FOR YOUR SINS! This is the end and you will see one day from this perspective when love's have come and gone, and leaves have found their way from tree to earth, earth to tree, and bedroom window to earth. You will see the end is never has beautiful as we have hoped for, living lost among idealistic visions from clouded eyes, I have seen it...they never leave...those smells from more familiar times, those smells that remind you what HOME really is. " She was always my home." Starry-eyed to sullen-faced hipster with nothing left but empty vices. I have seen the way of the world...I know that it ends in love and lust. |
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| tell me about it |
[Jul. 28th, 2004|09:17 pm] |
so everyone not doing anything worth while (i.e. curing cancer, saving children from burning buildings, feeding the homeless turkey feasts, giving me gold bullion, etc.,etc.)
go to this show!
JULY 30TH
THE STEP -IN!
1735 Saratoga Ave, Saratoga Ca.
The Northeast, A Burning Water, Sloe, Division Day, and Maida
show starts at 6:30 and the cost is $6
all the cool kids will be there, so you know you HAVE to be there. and bring your best and biggest carabiner |
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| seeing further with closed eyes |
[Jul. 27th, 2004|01:34 am] |
desire dines on the metaphysics of lonsomeness–
hopeful? wishing always wishing,
that simple sounds like the ocean will stop reminding me of you–
love!
little do we know that we all circle around one emotion, huddled around the fire
wishing (dreaming) we could get a little more of its warmth.
love is lovely in its loveliest way,
i am without it most in quiet san francisco nights–
where flirtatious jests are less contagious
than the infectious truama of silent schitzophrenia.
Always a dreamer when I venture into its divine complexities,
playing the part of someone else, because that is always less chaotic,
cluttered with misunderstanding and the simple desire to have my heart pumping anothers blood,
where along the tissue and organ walls it would write, in cursive, all the things i should have said,
because rationality comes from the level headed–
and the level headed come from tired eyes and impatient hearts. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 14th, 2004|11:17 pm] |
Who knows what mishapen eyes mean–
inside my quant little cottage, being devoured by night,
shivering signals, and quivering shadows paint walls
when ephemeral insanity is the only action I recall.
wishing i was somewhere else, or someone else,
just something more than empty love...and silence.
Filled up with this raucous substance,
this smile disappears with a sideways tint,
you all have a way of making it so–
blah, blah, blah im a black sheep, or so it seems–
I wish so many things that one is bound to come true.
SONG
"The weight of the world
is love.
Under the burden of solitude,
under the burden of dissatisfaction
the weight ,
the weight we carry
is love.
Who can deny?
in dreams
it touches
the body,
in thought
constructs
a miralce.
in imagination
anguishes
till born
in human–
looks of the heart
burning with purity–
for the burden of life is love,
but we carry the weight
wearily,
and so must rest
in the arms of love
at last, must rest in the arms
of love.
No rest
without love,
no sleep
without dreams
of love–
be mad or chill
obsessed with angels
or machines,
this final wish
is love
–cannot be bitter,
cannot deny,
cannot withhold
if denied:..."
spoken from anothers mouth, saying what i have always struggled to say. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 12th, 2004|02:07 am] |
When I think about death–
I'm really thinking about life, because without life there is no death– |
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