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| Sunday, February 5th, 2006 | | 5:16 pm |
he carries it around in vials the egg white center of my soul this is what i hate about your boyfriend: he's hilarious - pitiful forced laughterhe's a genius - and i want to here him go on and on and onhe's political - he's saving the world by ranting at it one innocent bystander at a timehe's sooo sad - sucking you up like a spongehe knows best - he read it in a book and everything you're doing is wrong.“When you finally break my legs, and i can never leave the house again, then I will finally love you and we can have some kids.” | | Thursday, September 22nd, 2005 | | 6:53 pm |
(consider it futile)
moments appear -- nearly looking back -- sometimes you would speak of them as drowned down bone crushing instruments between heaven and earth clipped sections of ideology unknown places that never existed and a summary of everything yet there was an ocean of familiarity personalities that registered with a motto a manifesto a slogan wandering thru the walls between nothing and someone else's birthright but really this is different look at the way i write this on your t-shirt never let yourself be imagined with those that fit on genetic information checks nature and frequency would worry about the voices -- some historical moments chiselled from past conflicts, the color of returned items that were never re-returned -- marching to that hale-bopp! event that never became concrete in this world and still this token has ceased to be: don't kill the messenger, love. | | Saturday, July 23rd, 2005 | | 11:13 am |
I wake up the water bowl head I have noticed how the chain around her neck fits perfectly, as if after all these years it has sunk beneath her skin becoming another organ old body. She’s shedding more than usual, parts of her coat are missing exposing dry scaled skin. It looks like the skin on elbow. | | Wednesday, July 6th, 2005 | | 1:50 am |
I miss civilization a miniscule mess creative but unfocused place to crash evidence to the fact my inability to build and maintain significant relationships mentally catalogue some of the most obscure pop hit up the South Street Seaport make yourself the victim! a patient person one of those situations where my book does the interview the scene was this: I saw you caught between all the people working with her giving the ''womb child'' a voice everyone in my tent woke up which subsequently prompted relentless popping, the silence-shattering booms, the rhythmic crackle confirmation that this process will last you were carried as a child is carried consisting of tampons, laundry detergent, burnable CDs, a new pair of jeans those spinny flower fireworks thrown into Inconsistency -- his middle name, Blood vessels in his lungs made of porcelain with anticipation to fuck in public | | Thursday, October 30th, 2003 | | 10:30 pm |
for dylan
i lost my ground i found it tucked in between sheets satin, silk what was it kept beneath? maybe we'll save the world and live in peace. but not too soon. | | Friday, August 22nd, 2003 | | 2:32 pm |
The sun is creeping over the tall building, butterfly. Fly away. Beats in the back of me, love next to me. Cars go by, butterfly -- flown from patterns in the milk, blown out the window into the streets. Cars speed by, butterfly, and who am I to ask why the people pass unknowing, or perhaps, uncaring? Butterfly, in the foreground flowers (or fairies?) out the door, it's Friday and I'm in love plays with the butterfly in the background. The sun is melting over the street, butterfly. Flown away blown past the patterns the stars formed last week. Red star, bright sky, butterfly. Blown away into the street, past the car parked next to the window. I am weak, butterfly, can you see me from outside in the street? Delicate wing beats up and down bringing you gently to the love next to me. Butterfly, lie next to me. Butterfly, lie to me. And though you've known me for months, butterfly, winter will come and you will be gone from my mind. | | Tuesday, June 24th, 2003 | | 2:03 pm |
Give me a place, give me a time that I can live by; when things were meant to work themselves out There must be action, there must be a reason that all the things I think I can live without seem to be surrounding me in space. Except for you, I left you long ago in my mind, took flight in a train two hundred miles in any direction. It carried me away faster than that moment I knew I could never talk to you again. Past mountains as stunning as hurricanes Through cities with people busy in streets, over rivers and streams with fishes and frogs to a blue lake with a dock and some boats. I watched the sun rise over the lake this morning and I thought I felt your body next to me; we were completely naked, we were unnamed and completely naked on some dock with lots of water around us. I could hear you whispering into my ear: "Come home, sweet love of mine, come home." and for a spilt second I thought that I might be able to understand you again. but that can never happen. | | Wednesday, April 30th, 2003 | | 10:20 pm |
pt10 we’ve lived for seventeen years on nothing but snapple and cigarettes. promises were made to one another and we both lied. no more lying to ourselves, maybe things can work out? i’ve climbed this mountain a hundred times and there’s nothing better than reaching the top and looking down. i can see you there. are you smiling? sometimes things just can’t be taken back, we’re going to live with this forever. please don’t forget that exactly when you are standing on top of that mountain looking down at me. it’s been seventeen years and not much has changed: we’re still those kids playing in the dirt. I’ve been wandering around looking for some sort of meaning in the things we did when we were still kids but the only poignancy i found was hidden in memories of secret smiles and knowing looks. and sometimes i can’t fucking stand you, but today hasn’t been that bad. but if you’re looking for me, climb that mountain by the apartment complex and i’ll be there looking down at you. pt 11 If you were born tomorrow by the ragged rocks where the cliffs combined to form some pointing sign there is still no advice i can give you you never know just who turns out to give you what you need and bring you where you are going to like your mother’s best friend or your neighbour’s daughter or that stupid flower next-door i bet you they’re all the same. there is no advice i can give you, there is nothing left for us to say to one another, it’s all been said. we can just fade away. there is no advice i can give to you -- happiness comes from moments like this when you’ve been born again. the roads been fixed and the mountain is high it points at a peak towards the northern sky near that northern star they’re both signs. | | 10:05 pm |
pt5. There are lots of things to think about, the world that doesn't seem to connect with you, there are lots of things to bring with you when you come home. I remember the looks of their faces, broken mirror with memory traces the look of you leaving me alone. I could run for miles... I'm always trying to understand you, but that means nothing to you when it comes down wanting to be on your own. And I can't do anything but run for miles. And I can't help but feel as if you've ignored every single thing I've said to you. This is the last call, boy, it’s all on the line. And I'm going to run for miles, you'll never see me again. You could follow the fucking north star round the globe fifteen times and you'll never have the satisfaction of goodbye. pt6. Whenever I am forced into a corner, to make a decision of right and wrong, I find myself unable to move -- skin has pulled itself tight enough that if i were to move a muscle the bones would rip through -- and no one could say a word that makes me feel secure. and the story beneath the sheets has mocked me for weeks with its constant and brutal memories. things just never seem to make sense to me and I let the creek over-flow and swallow my dreams. I wish that I could turn myself inside-out so that my heart would beat without significance or thought for the boy next-door. and i'd let anyone touch it to see if I loved them because I'm so sick of trying to figure out what love really is. BUT THE BEST TIMES OF MY LIFE WERE SPENT BY YOUR SIDE, TRYING TO MAKE SENSE OF YOUR MUMBLED BREATH AS YOU SLEPT BUT I WOULD GIVE IT ALL AWAY WITHOUT A SECOND GUESS -- THIS IS TRUE REGRET -- AND NOTHING WOULD BE THE SAME BUT IT WOULD STILL BE FUCKING BEAUTIFUL. AND I COULD THINK WHATEVER I WANTED, I COULD LIVE FOR THE MOMENT, I COULD DANCE IN THE PARK LIKE I USED TO. I COULD BRING BACK THE INNOCENT AND LIVE JUST BECAUSE -- NOT IN HOPE OF SOME MAYBE -- I'D BE MODEST AND SINCERE, I'D HOLD EVERYONE DEAR AND I WOULDN'T BE SO BITTER WHEN I SAW YOUR FACE. I WOULDN'T HAVE TO BREAK DOWN IN THE CORNER WHEN I SAW A PICTURE THAT REMINDS ME OF ONE YOU'D TAKE. THERE WOULD BE ANSWERS TO MY QUESTIONS AND LAWS TO MY ACTIONS AND EVERYTHING WOULD FIT INTO PLACE. Things would make sense, if I could go back and do it again I wouldn't make the same mistakes. pt7. Give some thought to the things you've left behind. Send a postcard from whatever exotic city you're in now. Give some thought to the things you've left behind. and come home. Break a heart when you're abroad and send me a postcard. Forget all the thoughts that sent you out west and send me a postcard. Break a couple of hearts when you know what’s around you and come home. pt8 There was a dream in an apartment complex where everything was supposed to be perfect. I was going to be an actress and you would write for a living. But now i understand that reality isn't so fucking lovely, it’s bitter like the taste of your skin after playing in the dirt. But I had another dream and we fucked all night long like some crazy teenagers. It was in the middle of a field and we didn't care if anyone saw us, nobody was looking anyway. But now I understand that nothing can ever come from the things that you said, that your words have no fucking weight and... When things get better and the roads are patched up and you find the way to my house the door will be locked. IT FEELS SO GOOD TO SEE YOU THERE, AND IT FEELS SO GOOD WHEN YOU'RE LIVING NEXT DOOR, AND IT FEELS SO GOOD WHEN THINGS ARE RIGHT, AND IT FEELS GOOD TO LIVE IN A DREAM. But now I understand that nothing was supposed to make sense and that things will never be balanced and I'm just a mess that will never be fixed but how I wish you could see me climb to the top of that mountain and see over everything you said to me. | | 9:50 pm |
pt 1 Maybe things could be different if you were just the boy next door, but you're so far away and it doesn't even make sense for me to even think about this. It’s just some stupid dream, I don't want to believe in dreams anymore. I don't want to live in maybes anymore. I remember when we were just little kids, you said that we could move into an apartment together and that after awhile, maybe, we could buy some pets and some cool shit like that. A big TV, yea, something cool like that. But I just don't want to believe in anything anymore, I just want to know that it’s all the truth. I don't want to question your motives or my actions and the instincts that are driving all of this. If you don't tell me what you really feel, I'm gone. pt2 Feeling like a nothing, and things just aren't working out again. But now, when I look across the street at the rest of America all I want to know is where are you? Are you coming home? Tonight, this road leads to so many different streets and houses. One of them has to be yours. One of them has to be yours running past the creek; I won't forget the story hidden beneath the sheets of your bed. There are so many houses in this town but none of them have those walls with our fist marks from all the times we've thrown things back and forth at one another: it was just for fun. Another chapter and verse to our story beneath the sheets. pt3 Oh God, I take it all back; give me dreams over reality today. It’s something that is soft and warm for the mind. If I close my eyes you are next door and I don't have to think about all the missed victories -- our fucking history -- and the humiliation. It brings red to my face, I can feel it forming right now just thinking about what you must be thinking about. We've had this conversation a million times before. Oh, God, please I take it all back; I will live in dreams instead of this harshness. I'll give you anything that you want to put it back in my mind. Take back all the words, and all the thoughts, I don't need to think. Lock me in a room with everything -- I'll deal with it. | | Friday, April 18th, 2003 | | 2:31 am |
Mandatory stories
boring me to death
Walking is under rated
It is raining on my eyelids
where my pupil is a star
and my iris is the sky
and the sky is cloudy --
getting ominous | | Thursday, April 17th, 2003 | | 5:31 pm |
We've created Frankenstein. It sweeps the city striking fear for truth a trade back and forth amongst souls the city rises anger at our creature we, the mad doctors, looking for a hiding place music is created! spreading over story a soundtrack for moments for eternity. i am writing this in my sleep half of me is fighting with Jonathan. proving him right proving him wrong. just for a laugh! | | Wednesday, April 16th, 2003 | | 3:13 am |
i love emo boys so lovely and bright! they look so good at night. little emo boys dressed up like girls. they are the best (worst! they are the worst thing I encounter when i have to walk into the mall. they make me want to hurt. hate. i hate.) kill the emo boys. little emo boys kill the emo boys little cocksuckingdresseduplikegilrlsemoboys. | | Saturday, April 12th, 2003 | | 4:42 pm |
Michael's looking black back to school again Going for a walk Walking far away from here. He wants to remember what it was like to run and play in fields of golden hay. Holding rock-concerts in his bedroom, the lights were shining on you Michael! YOU! Then all the concerts stopped and he went for another walk towards the school. He threw a finger up in the air and let it hang there Because he's going on vacation again A race for the appellations under the Appalachians. He's going to live and run and never forget what it was like to play in fields of golden hay. Holding rock concerts on the sides of highways playing chords for any passer-by. | | Thursday, April 10th, 2003 | | 3:40 pm |
Jonathan and I went for a walk this afternoon. The park was still cold and gray. Everything around here has been cold and gray lately. They're the only two words I can use to accurately describe the feeling surrounding everything in this small town. My house, cold and gray, Jonathan’s house, cold and gray, the park and it’s lake, cold and gray, the birds, the trees, the chimneys, their sweeps, even the children next door... Cold and gray. "It’s so miserable out," we were walking towards the lake. I've never realized how huge the lake in the park is -- it seems to go on forever. "I don't know," said Jonathan letting go of my hand, "the weather has been exciting lately," he reached into his pocket and took a cigarette out. Lit it, took a long drag, and flicked it. The ashes moved in slow motion. "You're only saying that because you haven't slept in days. Everything is exciting to you at this point." "Yea? So?" A typical Jonathan-answer. I started to laugh. "Maybe I'll get nice and sick. Like poor sick Trevor," there was a hint of sarcasm in his tone, a sort of mocking jealousy that made me smile. "You sound jealous Jonathan," I said reaching into my purse for my own cigarettes. "I am," he said taking another long drag, then flicking it. Slow motion. "They're in the front pocket," he opened the magnetic snap and pulled out a pack of camel lights. "Thanks." We were at the edge of the lake now. Jonathan sat down Indian style and I sat next to him. The water’s cold wind blew up against us, blowing the tips of our cigarettes to a dull red color, chasing the smoke away. "Is that a duck?" I asked. "I think so, yea. Let’s go over to the pier and see if they'll come and play with us," this idea seemingly coming from nowhere sounded adventurous. Anything was better than sitting here, watching things go by in slow motion. We walked over to the pier. There were ten or twelve different ducks. "That one there," said Jonathan pointing "the duck with a menacing look in her eye, that’s you," I started laughing. "It is! It is! You're only laughing because you know exactly which one I'm talking about to." "Yea, well that lonely one over there is you." "Look at him -- sleeping in the front yard!" More laughing. After awhile we were bored and cold, so we went to get some coffee. We talked about religious figures and their effect on shopping malls, our dreams of visiting Madagascar, and the fact that you never find what you're looking for until you stop looking for anything. Then we went to visit poor sick Trevor. It was all in slow motion. | | Tuesday, April 8th, 2003 | | 7:40 pm |
::::::::::::::::WATCH OUT! his eyes look into the soul and i lo st in it all try to escape the feeling of let down )))))))))))))))))))) flowers of different colorsand I am one w ith all of it. the blue new of the morning.:::::::::::::::::::: | | Monday, April 7th, 2003 | | 12:04 am |
Electric light meters move up and down Magnetic stares send my soul pointing north. Where did you put the compass Oh noble leader? Like Adam in Eden You've led us astray. Fall back into my head for awhile? We all need something to think about Just to stop thinking about "it." "us." City grows larger. Streets are small still. People walk faster After what? Adam of Eden knows. Quick stares, less thought, More of "it" More of"us." Send "it" away! Larger city! Smaller streets: More people! Nine by nine, Seven by seven. Marching. Staring, quickly, faster, Not allowed to stretch. Safe. Calm. Five by five. Smaller yet. Two by two. Is "it" next to me? What about "us?" Hold my hand, lead the way. Bigger city. Smaller streets. | | Saturday, April 5th, 2003 | | 4:46 pm |
I haven't thought for days. Slipped into a coma brought on by shock. closing my eyes has become such a difficult task -- There's so much to see. Stares, blankly. publicly stoned to death social deviance is a matter of social definition. I am a matter of social definition. Legs wrapped around one another. Flat with head on ground. I am not a deviant.But if there is one reason for me to not close my eyes it's to see the look on your face. we see the dawn together. | | 4:42 am |
There is something to be thought of When I see you passing by the Coffee shop window. The feeling is gone. Absorbed or forgotten by the Universe I suppose; dripping Down the drainage-pipes for other Lucid artists, dreaming tonight. Please, boy, let me sleep. | | Thursday, April 3rd, 2003 | | 4:40 pm |
bring the house home forget what it was like falling on to the desk staring at your blue carpet, close friends making love in back rooms my cloths have fallen off skin skin skin skin it has to be a sin to feel this good with you of all people. who are you supposed to be anyway? what did you mean when you said you'd fallen for me? What do you expect from me? sweaty bodies pressed up against one another (not allowing light to split us apart) if you don't stay alive I can't continue stay alive stay alive. And who the hell are you anyway? What did you expect from me when you were reading those songs (whispers in my ear)? green chords draped over the chair reaching for the floor and I'd rather be there now too next to your ambiguous t-shirts that never make any sense. You've changed again You've changed into something else. Your burning family is driving you off the edge. |
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