Saturday, December 24, 2011

The Calendar to Be, to Be the Calendar

I wouldn't mind a little cheap Monday for you and I. im saving a sunny Tuesday so you can do something bold.. you should really try it out because the time isn't now, the leaves are falling and baby snow is coming so it'll be cold, you wont want to do it then, but a typical, Tuesday, well throw in some sun, do the things I know you want to do, but are always buckling out of. Wednesdays involve drinks and my fingers slip and touch and usually tell im so far gone within the bottom of glass and the tidbits of revealing information within my mind I go off and tell you things. Thursday, lets just be. Naps are wanted like vacations. Friday are fit for frenzies, and often we are comfortable, the same smile and eyes, and hair, and I cant help but just want to be there, is it Friday? Saturday is a hit and miss for us. Like a hit and run more like it, we say things and go away, we do things we shouldn’t and go away and Sunday morning we sometimes lay there awake, and silent and slowly, say things to one another and hope the sun doesn’t move anymore to keep all the others sleeping still. And Sunday daytime, is a typical life, we do things and say things and eat meals. But this is the calendar baby, the days are marked, im waiting for you to take the plunge and do the things your surely don’t want too, physically, the things your dying to do within in your mind. The calendar to be, to be the calendar.

Forgive Me, New Year

Lace me up and lace me down. I want to dye, the contours of your mind, with the vibrant bow ties that strangle mine. Dance with me under the moon and let the goblins disappear into the horizon of our nightmares which soon enough will make our dreams and then nothing but sugar will we eat on top of everything, no mistake. Interacting and exchanging glances, this is the time to fight the battle, the longest yard is coming up, and we can make it if we try. Twist and shout, this is not a dance move but what we are good at. Take steps by two, rushing something that cannot be rushed on the lonesome platform of want, want is taking over the steps and suddenly everything and everyone are falling behind each other and themselves. Exhausted from talking about the wanting and wanting the want and what the want is wanting with all of this want for? Let me lace you up in pretty little things and share with you all of the things I don’t want you to have, a temporary moment of good gestures to sympathize with all of the intolerable things and adjectives I have in my pockets, like weapons, to use on you when I am feeling lower then low. How low are you willing to get before disguise everything into a party and making everything beyond righteousness. Forgive me New Year, for I have sinned and will continue to sin... Let me leave the good behind and work on the bad as I move forward into the sun and burn like to a crisp.

I Might Vodka Something

A rip in the seam and everything is coming together so nicely. The boys in the washroom are talking about the girls at the bar and they’ve become so feisty. Sipping on drinks the colour of mermaids, looking at the high heels on all of these getaways. Driving really fast, well that is what it feels like, not in a car, but taking something with a little more fuel, rocket launching missile seeking sabotage. Lighting up seven cigarettes, want to feel the rush right to my head, the bone marrow inside of me is vibrating at the velocity of all of the sex appeal that is now bombarding me. Choking on sequins, your are a beautiful mess. Snorting up sequins so I can be beautiful like the rest. I think I might vodka something because this coffee is weighing me down, somebody pass me a pen and a notebook and a little more sound. Cant hear my thoughts, for they have left the building, trying to find my thoughts now but they have up and left the building, where is this building, disco fleeing bar, where my thoughts all go and party and harbor sabotage. Paint my lips with something wicked and target your eyes to all that is heaven, for this is a little darker then actuality and the result twister in this haven has got me loosing batteries. Saunter into my bedroom and well make a fort or something, stay awake until we can’t shut up and sleep until we have something to say. Lightening bolts and there is no storm. Purple haze, completely dazed, wind blown and there is not even a stitch of soul in the atmosphere. Weathered down and weathering out, loosing my mind, gaining the touch. Haunted happiness within the rip in the seam, nothing to gain but a rip in the seam.

Just. Kids.

we're just stupid kids, with our paws up, covered in mud, without regrets. we're just stupid kids, waking up in the evening, coming home with the sun, we're just stupid kids, who can't hang up. we're just stupid kids, believing in the sound, forgetting the lullaby, making it darker for them and you and me. we're just stupid kids, leaving, coming and going, kissing and kissing and kissing and kiss me now. we're just stupid kids, we're just stupid kids. we're just stupid kids, with a lot of passion, with a lot of disaster, and a lot of time. we're just kids, we're just kids, we're just kids, trying to play grownup, always breaking up, giving up, fucking and do all this stupid stuff. we're just stupid kids, on the verge of a moment, on the verge of time, holding on for dear life, we're just kids who cannot forget, we're just kids who want to forget, we're just kids who want to stay in bed. we're just stupid kids, in a pit of love, falling in and out, and falling hard. we're just stupid kids, ripping each other apart, putting each other back together and walking off. we're just stupid kids, facing all of this, facing nothing, and backing down and fighting hard and fighting loud always fighting, we're just stupid kids. we've got stupid troubles. we're just stupid kids in a whole lot of love, with a whole lot of light and a lot of eye. we're just stupid kids, making decisions with our hearts, making up our minds with our eyes, and playing everything by ear. we're stupid kids hiding in places, escaping nothing and entering everything. we're stupid kids, stupid for each other and stupidly we're just kids being kids, stupid and hungry and bloody. we're stupid kids, on an adventure, for something a lot like love or something invisible like that and we won't stop.. we're just stupid kids, just. kids.

Our Ship Just Wrecked

You are a fire, and our ship just wrecked.
I can’t get enough of all of this chaoticness.
I want to get burned, that’s why I stand so close.
I have a strange addiction to the glow or perhaps to you the most.
I like the way it singes my fingertips.
I pull away quick only to get closer for a better glimpse.
Always thinking way too much into the flame.
This use to be a pretty solid game.
Every once in a while, the guard begins to falter.
We don’t seem to mind the things that suddenly become altered.
Searching for vodka to put out the flames,Only to heighten the degree of the heat, Mad messages leaving the hour glass,
Typing away like this might be our last.
You are a fire, our ship just wrecked.
Scream a little louder, I cant hear you yet.
And the things you choose to whisper, I am making a bigger deal.
Your iceberg ego has got you melting.
You are a fire, and our ship just wrecked.

New Numerical Change

A new numerical change and then suddenly people become really nice people. Is there something in the air that comes with the flip of the calendar change, a slight little one up on the clock of whatever and things begin to sparkle or something… the nonsense of the peculiar things, people walking under ladders but a swift change of calendar makes everything better. Clean slate? Not sure where this notion of devotion to the stars or the hallmark or whomever makes the organizers so organized, but a new year comes and people are smiling, people are excited for their start over… The idealistic attribute to this is that nothing major actually changes drastically, and if we could recall the new years giddiness in the heat of the summer then maybe break ups wouldn’t prick so much in the sun, or if the sudden optimism came in the not so glorified scene of anger and leaving and walking with the anger and the late night anger in the fit of darkness, if this lukewarm sense of being, slowly melted over the situation, and we could throw a new year bumper sticker over it would it really change everything. The weight on a new year, buckling at the knees and wavering on the mental instability of everything that is that much more harder in the state of rationality, but there is a light at the end of your tunnel, and apparently it is only for the one night, the couple of teetering hours of a new year. The glistening twist of that notion that keeps the ball rolling and don’t be a nice person if you aren’t a nice person, your wish of happiness on a new year, what is it to you, you never cared but there is a solid yellow monster on your back and he is hoping that with each wish to another, your new year will be the best or perhaps your last year. And sometimes, someone somewhere is hoping it might just be your last. No death, no peace, nothing lasting, and nothing disappearing. A simple state of New Year. The time is changing, and it’s going to change to you, drastically, tonight.

Extra Strength Gum - I Am Stuck

Tell me exactly what you want to say. Better yet, tell them? I think I know more then I should and they know nothing of the sorts and it’s not really a bother anymore, but I would love to see the repercussions of you being honest with someone who is probably being honest with you. We’re lying in a false state of compromise, and you and I are so use to it. We’re so natural in the tangled web of sleeping disasters. Drop the marbles; I want to hear them spill. Is this killing you as much as it is surely killing me, because out sad moments are to be expected, the yelling and the anger, I don’t see it coming but when it goes off I am no further from “I told you so..” then I was before, but it’s the happiness that really gets me. Be honest. I know you get tripped no the extended version of the good times, they seem to be lasting longer lately, extra strength gum – I am stuck on you. I use to believe I needed saving from you, that you were totally the bad seed in whatever delicious fruit I was divulging my information too… lately I’ve realized how much saving I might need from myself. All the over thinking and underestimated and the anger, the anger you’ve probably noticed, well there is a lot more to this then you probably realize. Tell me exactly what you want to say, not to me, but what you want to say to them, and how it would make everything hard just kind of melt away and it would be sticky for awhile. The heavy weight, the awkward bedazzled release of tension that could slowly happen between the moments were we aren’t trying to swear each other, I sometimes try to swear you off but it’s so much easier to just sleep.

Fast, Hiatus

The words uttered too late, in a state of misshapen affection. Affection slowly staining the skin, causing a mild vision of devastation. Possessive reinforcements on a real bad cut. Trust, slowly disintegrating, no signs or fuss. A joyful rant of boastful apology, an endless falling of leaves off an invisible tree, uncanny imagery for something that has always been free. The delivering traits of pointy swords, hidden in case of uncertain wars. Prepared to dash into a powerhouse of hiatus, slipping in and out of hiatus, no prohibition but I sure can't find a drop. Leaving a glossy mess on the floor, slight rip in the brain - someone get a mop. Documenting documents that cannot sum of all of the flaws. Erasing the lights right off the wires, using those wires to reprogram all of the desire, dropping everything in the fire and watching everything sizzle under fast pace decisions... Fast. Pace. Decisions. Powerhouse. Hiatus. Hiatus.

Tied Right to my Vertebrae

Match Maker, Match Maker I have fallen into a ditch. I have lost all my desire and will to live. Match Maker, Match Maker how did you pair us up like this. The timing isn't working and everything is glitched. I am falling into the holes within everything that slowly comes together and is quickly ripped apart. Match Maker, Match Maker I am wavering with my senses. My heart is in my head and my head is in my thoart. I keep swallowing all of the thoughts and all of the integrity that I have. Match Maker, Match Maker I cannot deny my ambition and deny my strive to such situation because I surely do love all that is good and even the bad has started to sprout little pieces of sparkle. Do not let me be blind, by all of this greatness and do not let me be jaded by all of the hatred. Match Maker, Match Maker what have you done. Linking one without the other and others with the one. Letting it all ravel and unravel all in the same dance move of cohesive passion. Counting the days that are linked and slowly shuffling the things that don't protain to me away, out of sight out of mind but never far, tied right to my vertebrae I can feel you in my bones and this isn't about a song.

Monday, December 12, 2011

Comforters Seeking Comfort

Forget about the plans because we have much more under the pubescent lock and key. Waking up, the morning after nothings happened, and you can't tell if it was in your brain or through electronic communication that elaborated such lucid dreams of things taking place in and around your company. Why when I sleep are there suddenly projections of all the things I've thought of, done, wanted to do... And I'm measuring the angles and degrees and who cares when your that close to me. Sleeping beauty, let's just sleep, what a real thing to do. Awakening beside something you were just dreamin' about is this called dejavu? I never understood the mushy undertone until now and I am a stone. Linking. Sinking. Thinking. Waiting. Its happening, yeah, its happening without the movies and the songs and cards and pop songs alright, words weren't written down, no script, no timing - we've been working out the kinks. To sink or swim in the dream pool that fills up quick behind closed eyelids has got me ushering for pool noodles and clinging to comforters seeking comfort in hand holding.

Green Stop Sign

the syrup in this chocolate milk has got me thinking of you. the fact that this establishment is not a pit nor filled with ready made pitas has got me thinking of you. the little thunder that is touching down tonight has got me thinking of you. the thought of you alone has got me thinking about you. this song, that you've probably never even heard of, has got me thinking of you. the left over ketchup, in this packet, has got me thinking of you. for some reason, and i dont know why, but the cardboard cut out of that child star, at the drugstore, yup, it's got me thinking of you. the covers on my bed have got me thinking of you. the ink in my pen and paper in my books have got me thinking of you. the movie character, actually, the extra, in this movie, the far right of the screen, he's wearing a t-shirt and wristband, he's got me thinking of you. the random coconut in the fruit bowl, you got it, it's got me thinking, thinking of you. the video game ping, the cellphone notification sound, and the stretch of the bike tires, all got me thinking of you. the singers voice in this song have got me thinking of you too. that licence plate, that girls booger, and that cat's sneeze, got me thinking of you. the comparable story of you and i in this book i picked up to get my mind off you, has got me thinking of you. this pillow, that outfit, these flashing lights, and this highway exit, all got me thinking of you. this beach, that beach, that place, with the sand and the trees, the freezing water, and the hot showers, the bed, that one, awkwardly placed within a house of friends, late nights, all got me thinking of you. that day, on the calendar, next to your birthday, actually that whole month, and it's not even close to that month, why am i looking at the calendar and thinking of you. it's got me thinking of you. the toothpaste lid and fast food place napkins have me thinking of you. funny that the stop sign has got me thinking of you, and thinking thats exactly what we should do, but our stop sign is green, and we're going for it, sometimes anyways, and sometimes always i am thinking of you, stop go stop go, going to stop go go going to go think of you.

Chapped Lips, Let Me Be Your Chap Stick

In the harmony of open doors or in wide open spaces, there is an elastic band theory that can be applied to the actions and counteractions of you and I. Within these actions there are a series of thoughts that are all triggered by the irrelevant link I make to everything and to you, everything and to you. In the silent music, the faint silent music, that nobody ever knows where it is coming from, in the closed off places, that make you want to escape to them as often as they make you fear the thought of them, while thinking in the harmony of open doors or in wide open spaces these places, these little small silent spaces, that only fit maybe two or two and a half people in them suddenly seem wrong. But in the madness of the badness you cant help but want to hear them explode under the passionate patch work of two and perhaps two and a half people making things warm, but Amelia Gray said it herself, "Just because you make it warm, doesn't make it yours." that is exactly where on the spectrum of these spaces, no matter how comforting or not, they have become, I have become something that makes them but doesn’t keep them, doesn’t tend to them often, and cant have a say in them, yet I attend to them like a boy scout for every house meeting, wanting to collect all the things they have to offer. You've got chapped lips, let me your chap stick. Slick Speech.

Cherry Blossom Sound Effects

Cherry blossom sound effects and there is no doubt that I am getting drunk again. Anything from a cowboy hat to a varsity sweater is starting to look a lot like mistletoe. I'm starting to pitch a fever and it's not from the lights in this place even though they got me feeling hot in all the right places. I wish it would snow, just a little, maybe, a little icing sugar type frosting on the highway, the big highway, the one with all the lanes, clear out the traffic when this happens, I want to make snow angels all over these lanes and race them in my brain to see if I really do win. I don’t think that highly of myself, I actually think higher. Want to go and pick some clouds, I don’t know why but I have this sudden illusion that baskets full of fluffy clouds, hand picked by you and I, would look extra right just in my room, in the corner, in the freezer, I've got this bizarre craving to actually do something a little on the wild side with you. Be wild with me would you, please I want to be wild with you.. A current of inspiration suddenly falls on me like rain and there is much more to the cherry blossom sound effects that are affecting me now. Heat lamp, heat stroke, this is nothing but the best tokes, and we can't help but want to soar a little on the wild side, don't be afraid, stand up, no time to hide. Fever pitch, I've got an itch, I think you could scratch.

Your Moves Make Moves

Sleeping heads and smiling faces. Upset hearts and displaced mouths. Wobbly legs and an unforgettable grip. Patronizing eyes and amusing knees. Tantalizing hair, the sturdy sweep of the curl. Doe eyes and juicy lips. Lipstick shades to match your cheeks. The hard bits and smooth lines. The invisible cloak of charm and the washed out presentation of relief. Interesting poise, no poise at all, still interesting. Crooked teeth and crooked mind, crooked hour, crook. Peaceful slumber, daunting eyebrows. The grip; hands, mouth, teeth, fingers... The strength you've got and the strength you want. The moves you make and the moves you don't make. Your moves make moves, you're not moving and motions are being made.

Seventy or Just Seventeen

Drying flowers proving no blue skies. Quarters and dollars but no cream pie. Jolly Rancher ideas and everythings on time. Sugar coated isolation and all I've got is what's mine. Terrorized company from things I've might've said.. Too much soda pop going straight to my head. Spring cleaning in the dead of winter, locking up all the shiny things in the far back of someone else's shed. Clowning around on the heavier things. Breathing a little louder. Thinking a little fast. Privileged cures for harsh realities and harsher realities on the prettiest things I've ever seen. Eyes beginning to lie to me like I am seventy or just seventeen. Hardwood finish on my jello mind and empty suitcases causing me to watch the time. Jarred stars and you're wishing well. Lightweight months seem to be getting drunk and I need some sunshine, can I get some sunshine, quick.. Someone give me some sunshine.

Whip Lash On The Mistletoe

The sunrises and suddenly everyone is feeling a little more holiday. Holiday? Which way? That what? I am so astray. Feeling a little more legitimate, even though this all doesn't really fit, I keep trying to stay out of it and every body's way. The stifling cheer of the people so near, and they keep getting closer. Why does this new change of attitude pressure for exposure? Feeling a little legitimate in this boastful scenery, somebody please strangle me.. I am about to deck myself while you deck the halls, and I cannot go any longer with all these cheer and every once in a while I actually begin to submit, but like thoughts of you, bullets to the head, I snap back to reality and continue to hate the insanity. Tis the season to get naked, let’s get naked, no mistaken, tis the season to get naked. Whip lash on the mistletoe and suddenly we're all kissing everybody, and the feeling is legitimate so why not participate. I want to participate. Tis the season to get naked.

We've Become The Trouble Between The Cookies

The timing of your honesty has left me a little shaken up. The timing of your realness always starts a fight for us. The reality of the things we want, are sold out like a concert we had tickets to months ago. The pardon of actions never stops them from happening. The realism, that there is actually some soul behind the heart, that your eyes aren’t just full of shit and that your teeth do more then leave marks, has got me touching you a little more often. The sudden realization of all the things I should be saying and are withdrawing at the exact moments I am about to say them, adds a little weight to the situation. The situation we create from nothing. The nothing that has become something. The something that is much more then just something. The audience, that notices. The feelings, that continue to explode. The pretending not to notice, but noticing everything a little too well. The caution that is thrown out whatever imaginary window in whatever real scenario we happen to be in, I love the height of this imaginary building, the view sometimes, like I am only on the elevator, I’m hitting rock bottom all the while settling on the clouds. How I love how this does not define, whomever we are, and the people we think we might be. This just works itself out, we are such addicts, going to the meetings and talking to the help, but we’re better than addicts, this is the vice. We are not addictions. We are vices. We have become the vanilla frosting in the middle of troubled Oreo cookies, and I cannot help but indulge, bag after bag, glass of milk after glass of milk. This happens to be the most refreshing trouble I have ever taken apart of. Intermissions come and go and it all starts off all very similar yet different and lately it’s all a bite of the tongue, sugar rush straight to the bones I’ve bitten off too big of a chunk to chew but I am loving this laffy taffy mixed up equation and Wonka math and system lags in the murky ways of swaying trouble conflicting the conflict of confliction.

Sleeping With Pop Culture

When did the necessary act of something so authentic to the body become something of a high, a severe case of comfortability, on a whole other realm of things, and I almost get use to not being comfortable each time. The surreal embellishment that any passerby would claim was a lie if overhearing of this experience. A mixed match pair, like odd socks, that seem to slow down in the easiest of ways. Speed it up and we are nothing but a lost cause, but when things are slowed, and then out – out of office, out of the sun, out of energy and things to say, it becomes so easy. People usually craving the exact opposite of actions, they want vibrant and tactiful, they want attentive and conversation for miles and miles of space and time. I’m getting closeness, just like they would want. I’m getting affection and serenity, just like so many are trying for. I am getting muffled words in nice places and I think we need to do this more often. The innocence in the action, I will not deny, is no longer innocent. It use to be, sometime ago, but I guess I am lying, it’s never been innocent for me. The misguided notion that something like this would turn out to be the meancing recall of a nudity playground has got me feeling rather truiumphant of the scene and I encourage you all to give it a go, just try it out. Without all the hassle and payments of this and that, without the promises and without the energy. Lose the energy and simply be, in the calmness of the hour, sleeping stars in a save haven and the haven isn’t save and you really shouldn’t be there but the innocence in the time is perfect and your not actually awake, does it even count? I think it might, or the feeling would be nothing, it would be light like eyeing a penny on the sidewalk and deciding not to pick it up. I’ve decided to pick this up and it’s safe, it’s easy and it’s the easiest things we’ve got considering who we are, and who we are together.

Electronic Wisdom

The go go go of the decisions in this place have got me looking at you in a new light. A temporary guide of electronic wisdom, heart attack, don't fight back, this won't last. Look how beautifully you move. Weather dependent. We've become so condescending. And the condensation on these windows are the extracting qualities of our stop and go, go and stop, going going... We can't stop. A sad song soundtrack on a different type of emotion, masked in something easily recognizable but we aren't going to recognize. Strange times in the bed head rendition of what's mine is mine and what's not mine is still mine in the way of greed and filth, greed and filth, different and the same, we're so different yet on the same page. Strumming information into a system that wants to shut down and go. Did you hear? Are you coming. Shutting down and leaving. We're going. Going. Gone. Are we gone yet?

You're Fire, I'm the Bomb

Almost immediately, the satire of your shock settles into the cushion of your brains. You don’t want to inhibit these traits where you body is constantly pushing and pulling itself towards and then no longer towards the same direction that keeps dragging you in and spitting you back out. I have become the emotional spit up on your bib of life. Your behavior repels me as much as it attracts me. I am just as messed up as you are, in different ways, but we’re one and the same, just as messed up as one another. Be kind, don’t rewind, and move forward with me. I’m hoping to adapt this sort of discomfort, uncanny is slightly frightful, but I don’t want to totally walk away from a situation I’ve decided to keep myself saturated in. ignoring the ignorance, only makes me just as ignorant and allows me to receive the ignoring nomination of a silent game we decide to play, falling in and out of the game, in and out of teams, in and out of your heads where things seem okay only to be detonated by things that aren’t okay. You’re fire, I’m the bomb. I have about half a dozen; times three, stretched over summertime’s; of information I want to share with you. Things I need to point out but I don’t. you think I would be a vampire, the amount of emotional blood I keep hording, sucking in and keeping within the valleys of my body to save a sinking ship. A vampire sailor. We’re so messed up. You feel the expansion of the pressure of all the absorbed movement within the entire core of your body and there is no amount of anguish I can conceal much longer, I can feel it overflowing my senses, and you are probably expecting me to pop the cork like a champagne at the worst of celebrations any moment, but I’ve been trying to really water down the actuality of my passion. The desire wearing thin. The motion sensor on this news flash is flashing like a suicide mission. I’m getting closer to going in and losing myself to the harsh wrath my words and feelings are about to present themselves. “Like” to be honest, I can’t help it much longer anyways.

Monday, December 5, 2011

Mass Our Encounter

The way the steam is coming up from the sewers in the middle of this night reminds me of the rise and fall of not only breaths but chaoticness within me. The same sewer drain fog would be a beautiful mask for such things, but tonight the stars shine like a spotlight on the car crash within my vascular muscle. I can't breath, but the sewer acts like this entire other organism, breathing from the ground up and I want to hear what it has to say, does it have things to tell me, things I already know, will my skin absorb the fog and hit me with a realization... I'm putting to much into the fog and all of my attention has swayed away to the very sewer that might house all of my broken ideas and thoughts and creations. This sewer seems like another part of me, a tunnel to the pieces that people are looking for but I never give. Hide me in the fog, follow me down the drain, let me give you the little things, follow me up, let the fog mass our encounter. Scared? Don't be. Me? Totally. But its okay.. This will be okay, that's what they tell me. And the boys and girls, fixing the sewer, they know about me. They know, they know. Produce me some fog and hide me in the stars with the moon as my target, and let the fog mask the things I'm already masking.

Thaw Hope

An empty state of happiness, nestled closely to the equation. Filling up life, like a grocery bag, what are you after today? The shoplifting idea of promises and Hope is nothing just frozen food. Eat. Savory wisdom and all we've got is plastic, that okay? Cups, all foam, but we probably won't make it either, please eat this dessert and talk to me of change, change that won't happen, but thaw the Hope I'm coming for you. Donating to the food bank of emotions, like the land of lost toys, 'tis the season to believe? Wish lists and electronic shopping carts, I cannot fill them enough with what I want - out of stock, armor up, the struggle of a whole new game put into play. Expired. Is this thing out dated? It continues to feel so brand new, but perhaps I'm used to the new me - used, hypothetically speaking we are brand new to each other, two people, ever changing, a constant change towards one another and they never seem to be able to bottle this flavor just right, put us in the stores just right, satisfy the fix, you could be illegal? Am I looking for something told to go away, the thing that gets you high and knocks you down, am I on one helluva bender, are you exposing me to the white lines of a bathroom which seems to run through your veins so naturally. I am a starving bulimic, devouring and throwing up all the ideas I have of you.

Roll Me In The Dark

Light me up a cigarette.
I just cannot take my life tonight.
I really wish you wouldn't regret.
Time after time, that song you know.
It's always playing on the radio, at the worst times.
Light me up a cigarette.
I just cannot take my life tonight.
Tin foil my head, keep my brains in.
I don’t think it's working, I'm leaking from the eyes.
This doesn’t seem to be tears, but lighter fluid.
Set my clothes on fire, burn me right to a crisp.
I don’t want to be here any longer, so light me up a cigarette.
Set my hair on fire, for I am not my hair.
Cut off the vision, I don’t want to see this anymore.
I can feel the flames and that’s enough for me.
I don’t want to be here anymore.
Poison me, oh pretty please.
I want to see the darkness.
I want to go far from here.
Light me up a cigarette and push me off the cliff.
I want to die.
I want to go.
I cant make it anymore.
Roll me in the dark of night.
I cannot wait to see what's next.
Light me up a cigarette.
I cannot wait to see whats next.
I cannot wait.
Whats next...

Back Off My Scribbles

it's all scribble, everything i've got to say and i'm not sure you want to know or if you care for it at all but it's true, it's all true and my truths might just be scribbles. gradually making sense to me, the writer, making so much sense to me, i scribble and scribble and i feel the emotion, the emotion within me, spilling out, i feel the scribble. you want to read it, dont you? you beg you eyes to stay away from it because just like your lips want to kiss me, your eyes want to see my truths, my scribble but i beg you just the same, turn away and don't look at this.. cope another way and turn away from my scribble. vacation to a far away place, please. a place far from me would prevent your eyes to see my scribble and prevent your mind off the truth, my truth. you aren't sober nor drunk enough to handle the impact of these scribbles and there is no crayola hue to make you feel better about the stunning impact they are effecting you, so simple solution to make this lighter on you, to make this feel better for you and i dont care, i cant. i cant help but not want help - and the truth is here, in this scribble so turn off your ears and stop studying my attempt to make sense of things for myself, i cannot take care of you because i cannot take care of me and the time well spent on these scribbles mean the entire world for me and nothing to you and maybe something to you, a tad chunk of something but i wont admit the truths to you in any other form except these scribbles. these things, they exhaust you? if you really wanted to know i would scribble something for you to breathe in, and i would take a second to make you feel better about it but i cant and i wont, and you wont stop and i have to stop... to suggest my scribbles would make you feel better is a lie, and i wont lie to you, stop here. go no further. my scribbles will not comfort or accompany you - they are the dark side of everything, am i killing your joy and i putting a plastic bag on your hope because these scribbles will continue and they wont quit, and you've been warned, back off my scribbles.

Domino Effecting the Decibels

Pigments. Different shades, representing the different pieces of the different people you confide in. Sound. Different volumes, representing all the things those different people, want to say, some they scream and some they whisper, some talking so quietly we don’t even realize and we continue you on with guilty stories, domino effecting the decibels around you. Weight. The different weight of different things, people lifting conversations with the lightest touch no even noticing the ten pound sliver of reason sitting atop, we all are some sort of weight life champions, going about conversations and stepping right on top of the words that mean so much and were such a strain to the ones whom mouths they fell out of. Telephones. Calling me, calling you, texting this and texting that, click flash, evidence. Hair. Messed up, guilty. All fresh, untouchable, bellow the collar bone touching and anything that happens now will fade away in the shower. Water. Drinking it and using it to our advantage. Pretending. Pretending boys, acting like they know what they want and that they are strong, strong pretending boy crying now, was it to be expected? The vault is open and the emotions were flooding and the alcohol induced playground definitely didn’t work for you, but wonders for me, honestly, I am wondering. Still. Wondering. Pretending girls, pretending to hate and pretending to love, pretending all these things to actually end up loving and caring and they really must go back to pretending already, please pretend some more wont you, Peter Pan. Stop talking, all you ever say is pointless. You’re pointless. Schemes. Plots for parties and plots for hearts. You’re a hunter, your weapon… charm. You’re location, the intimate places, bed and dark rooms and moments and eyes are casted toward strangers or out of the light, and you are curiously lame. Stare. Stare with your own eyes, you keep acting like your someone else, left the old you in the closet, you are a closeted body that’s for sure. Upside to this is no side, good bye.

Friday, December 2, 2011

Flick of Lash

Indirect let down.
The atmosphere has everything to do with it. Truth not acceptable here. Only visa and actions not up to par. Park bench isolation. Words working wonders. Wonders enhanced by words. Nothing is working. Catch your breath before you go. Asthma attack, can't relax. Sunshine blazing and I can't see you. Bragging and reacting.  Reacting to the actions of a reaction. Hats covering eats to disclose information previously heard. Jackets covering body, the same body you could crumple against. Passing by without a flick of lash. Lashing out at the idea somewhere else. No stop commotion. Come on, where's the motion. Stop and Go. This is not the city bus. We are constantly getting on and off each other. Whore. We such sluts with one another. Bold smart. Not smart. Dumb. I'm with stupid.  Not really, actually, stupid checked out. Library book expired, but still in my pockets. Stupid is contagious. Over thinking. Perhaps if I never see you again. Good thing? Drop the line. Ill try and walk it. Noticing the curve in the vocabulary. Sentence structure lacking connectivity. Oxygen cut, reaching for constants to rearrange for a lifeline, I should throw in the gummy heart, melt the sugar right down to a cube, place that cube under my tongue and keep this idea apart of me and not a rotten egg in a carton of flowers..

Monday, November 28, 2011

Hot Potato, I'm Into Mashed

I'm tired of your attitude, your witch's nose and your Charlie Brown's parent voice that you keep bringing around me. Knock it off before I knock you out - LL Cool J cool. You don’t even want to go there, hot potato, I'm into mashed and I'm not affairs to get you back. Don’t tell me to relax, it's done - we're going there, let's dance alien, I am the cowboy and you are the target, water gun power - super soak that hoe… Soulja Boy can't pay his rent but he'll Superman you - whoa. Cartoon fighting, you're seeing stars. Itchy and Scratchy, a little more dynamite. Put your dukes up right away I want to see you try, squirm a little more - attack me with your verbalization of exactly how your feeling, or exactly how your perceive me, I want to hear all your stupid little whispers and your arrogant ways of life, your shoe, the one attached to the ugly soul, has got century gum stuck to it and it's keeping you in the past, but the past is there and it's long gone, and you're in the now, so buckle up - shut up - get a helmet because it's not always going to work in your favor, grow up would you, I dare you, go ahead and try. Take you to the Laundromat, set you on top of this soap box, then will you get it, I can chant and scream and yell at you all you want, your insignificant body taking up space, your opinions', that is fine everyone has them, need to stop being shot at me like bullets, they are rubber and you are plastic, you mean nothing to me. Yet still, I want to watch you crumble, watch you melt under this heat I'm bringing because you will no longer try and defeat me I don’t care if you know the system, how long you’ve been here, step aside and recognize I am not your daughter.

A Pounding of Irrationality

Slip of the tongue, a spill of vocabulary. A new decision in the fingers attached to the soul not just the brain, a pounding of irrationality and nothing to do with sexuality but the sex would be good. The swift motion of undressing everything showing from skin to ambition. Do you have the passion? What time is it in this mansion, that is housing the ugliest mass of prohibited things once locked in the vault now rolling in the flour. Cook me up an explanation and dismiss the fact that the bottles are empty while the tongue goes rubber, the mind expands, filling up with things that should be framed. Scare the living daylights out of me, I want the deathly darkness to invite me in and keep me there. Not all is lost and the things that remain, you want to hide away under cushions and forget them just the same. No basis. All bias. We cannot eat this meal in peace. I'm starving for pieces of you, not all of you.

This Is Not A Break Through

this is not a break through. be cruel to me. louder. louder, i cannot hear you over the sincerity. this is not a break through. harsh reality in the teapot. say something else, stop saying that. step across the room and tell me something nice. you might save my life. this is not a break through. are you lovely enough to stay. accidental happiness, with a burnt top coat of desire. whisper your more intimate secret on my skin, i will not listen, i will not tune in, this is not a break through. save my life, for a while longer, tell me something, something else, i need a piece of your pocket, so i can keep you with my always. this is not a break through. i am dying, can you feel it. i am cold and i am hot and i miss you. undo my buttons, listen slowly, listen a little closer, promise me this. this is not a break through. nicotine rushes and drug free souls, the spaces between us, fill them with noise, music between the beats of my heart. this is not a break through. knee high ambition. sorries that dont make sense. responsibilities slitting the wrists attached the hands that are connecting yours to mine, kiss my soul, the place no one sees, the places some believe don't even exist to me. this is not a break through. question me, so i can give you all my answers. silly smiles, in the dead of night, i am dead, just like this night. this is not a break through. visit me, in my head. disco ball afflictions on the bedroom walls, bite my soul, leave the mark, the ridges providing a trail to a place that was free and delicious, a place that was dressed downed and timely. this is not a break through. feelings. feelings. they are loud. can you feel them. am i found. cup of tea. i am lost, again. lost in a cup of tea. this is not a break through. leaving, love. love, leaving. this is not a break through. raw. raw feeling of sensitivity, i do not wish to be sensitive. candle light passion, urges spark and flicker and move into my shadow. i am lost. i am loved. i am not. i am not these things. a piece of these things slide into my nail beds and rinse at blinking lashes of a need, a need that no one has because it is a holiday? this is not a break through. uneasy middle man. a bad spot to be. a vulgar mesh of help. a help that isn't right. a help i cannot admit i need, i do not want your help. easier happiness. this is not a break through. this is not a break through. i am breaking through.

People, Penned

Letters penned to people and people penning these letters to people. Eyes reading such letters and scanning the ink. Those very same eyes becoming almost blotchy from the penned letters. Lips, dry and craving, reading letters slowly yet quickly under a hushed tone to hear each syllable kiss the ink within the letter, penned to the people. Everything, never said and said before, in a letter addressed to the door and signed in the most precious of ways, never will be understood when the flick of the wrist lifts the ink away from the page and creases adapt to the letters body and sealed and subtracted from sender to reader and read for an eternity, even if only soaked in once by greedy pupils. Penpals. Lovers. Enemies. Family. Friends. Needs and wants. All slightly sealed and pressed, a momento of what was, what wasn't and what couldve been.


I don't want to be your friend.
The feeling is mutual, this is why we're in this predicament.
Don't make a joke out of the word, sure it mentions private parts..
We are through with private.
Insomnia often leads to you.
Thoughts and messages and telephone calls, not so much anymore.
Makes me think we're really moving on.
But we're not.
We kiss and and touch and still play eye tag.
We've got to stop playing.
We aren't pretending, we aren't in a position where we can be honest.
I'm on the fence.
I really don't like you, just as much as I actually do like you.
It’s an awful thing.
We’re so awful..
I don’t want to be your friend.
We’re good at this make believe friendship.
Every once in a while I even start to believe it myself.
You aren't in a position to say things.
You aren't in a position to do things.
We keep saying and doing an awful lot.
This is awful.
When it happens I don’t even realize how awful it is.
Not until later, but when it sinks in, it really sinks in.
I don’t want to be your friend.
I often have no care for you, but when the care gets a hold of you..
I can't help but sometimes, sort of care.
I don’t think I'd ever let you know.
No honesty.
All games.
You'd think I was an athlete.
I don’t want to be your friend.
I still try though, sometimes.
I still pretend, always.
It doesn't bother me..
I'm pretending again.
I'm your friend, and I don’t want to be.
I'm seriously not being serious.
We're not being serious.
That's probably why this is that much more harder.
I don’t want to be your friend.
I'm not being serious.
We're not being serious.
I don’t want to be your friend.
We're friends.
I'm serious.

Scratching For Correction

Combustible mind, churning the easiest things into the hardest obstacles. You are your own worst enemy and I can't handle either of you any longer. Over the top reactions to the subtle things. A slingshot of emotions falling out of your eyes and mouth and your teeth have no grip because you don't know what you want, but your decisions on the things that may or may not want you have you scratching for correction. Do you feel? I wasn't so sure and I'm still on the iron fence when it comes to your morals, you have no faith. You have no ethics and you have momentary cares that feel shiny in the moment but that is all. You live for moments, your charm is a leach sucking the life and feelings out of all the people you encounter. Encounter me no longer and time delay your mind so I don't walk into the cloud of smoke that all the little devils in your mind are drowning themselves in and tripping me with your entangled web of silent truths and blistering lies and high volume disgust when it comes to your choices on clothing, words, and obstacles. You start the battles but you don't fight them, not all of them, you never choose what is important to you. Your a dirty sponge, soaking up the fever, you have no mind and no clue, just a pit called life, that you've unscripted and renamed - useless drama.

May I Buy a Vowel

Syncing the current of change that is happening within the people you surround yourself with. Feeling their pull on your hair for the words you thought you wanted to tell them. Their eyes, pleading you to remain indifferent to their cause, to their situation, their situation an entirely different situation to you, ultimately - we're all effected. A build up of emoticons, transgression of electronic sympathy.. a walk way for dexterity and useless casualties, the billowing heap of everything once fluid, suddenly becomes chunky with aspirations of actions that we didn't know happened until long after the fact. Begging for the truth, but scolded for the information, wanting to want what you want and getting exactly what it is but not the way you wanted it. Disclosures for the broken heart, the weeping mind, worrying about people and time and places and cuts, the cuts that do not bleed, the ones not visible to the eyes but the current which has synced to your company is resulting in potent results of descriptive pain, you keep answers short, and conversations shorter, disguising and hiding from the worries on your heart, the beating tidbits of information that are feeding your soul with saucy feeling you're unsure of the correct response. May I spin again, forget my last quotation, may I buy a vowel or two, can I pick another case, this game show host looks a lot like you but you're eyes are hoping I win, while the TV knows I'm bound to lose and whatever I do win will be raped for taxes and i'll be left with customary toothpick - but you... if I lose, what will you leave me with, a consolation prize.. a gag gift.. or will you stumble right out of my life and watch me sync tunes to my wounds and feed of the sounding information of shoulda, coulda, woulda. Would Yah?

Your Amount of Self Loathing

The savory smell of your benediction mixed with the grotesque amount of self loathing you bring to the table, topped with laughter and stupidity. Put you in the freezer, serve you on the rocks. Shake the shit out of you.. we're still shaking, you're so full of it. Strap you to the windshield, we're talkin' drive thru darling. Stuff your mouth full of cotton let you dry those tears. The chitter chatter of the demons whom rest gently on your collar bone and the recognizable smell of your pity party bullshit. Hot and fresh, right out the oven, baked out of recognition makes this a helluva lot easier then any sort of shuffle. You are a predictable omelet left on the counter, fermenting but still looking appetizing in the fit of a severe case of hunger, but no longer will I let the uproar growl of a hunger within effect the food poisoning that you embody. I rather starve, then eat your crap. I've been force feeding the taste to think of something much more filling but sadly I've decided to diet, cut you out. No more fast past romance, simple long haul, let the stuff stir, slow cooker meal has got me feeling very content. Your dine and dash attitude towards your beloved is upsetting, does she know your using coupons on her services?

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

Beg My Heart to Turn Off

The sock is on the other foot and the questions still pummel in, but only while life is on intermission because during the show, we're all in our spots. The passion is there and you can feel it coursing through the sheets but actions always speak louder then words so little actions will have to do to create little voices and little voices with vocal cords that want to say all the things they cannot say and the body has become a vessel of messed up idealistic. The morals, evident. The wants, powerful. The soul, comfortable. You idiot, with your ways and quirks, a disfigured sort of friendship that still has our teeth in it. I'm surprised. You might be too. Things keep happening, as if we've forgot but I haven't - as much as I plead my brain to write you off and beg my heart to just turn off, as much as I aim my passion to a heavier notion of sorts. My magnetic items find your lingering fingers off the edge of beds, in between slurps and sleeps and feet and video games. All too familiar. All just the same. Breaking bones like hearts and getting fragments of what so easily comes in places usually so hard to get to you but in this case, wide open/ on sale. Tired eyes, please tell me I'm dreaming. The head and heart ache isn't worth this funny but the feeling in the moment and the length of that moment stretched over my body like a cool sheet in the summer pricks me skin with an uncanny irony of realism, actuality and the phonies of it. Selfish little people, pretending everything would work in their favor. But while it doesn't happen, we betray our racks of adoration for stealing moments, exchanging clothing, sleeping comfortably, and the loudness in the stares and glares, dance moves and smiles. The enchanting chaotic failure redemption of this heart, stopped. 

A Dialect of Self Proclaimed Hate

The passion to which has engulfed my wisdom. The tedious statue of the isolated and the freedom. The constant bustling to other places, the continuous stepping on other faces, differences begin to unravel into the exact same cases. A dialect of self proclaimed hate, with an anarchy self detonated it is easily considered a series of fates. A tall tale told to catch the eyes of passersby, the time has passed and nothing was worth the buy. The heavy hearted agony of suffering from a galaxy much like this one. Thoughts of the pain are out of this world, but it is merely your intellect drawing conclusions from things you don't know, but dream about, to soften the blow. A gala event, to last the ages, your heart may be prone to give out before you age, choices and decisions, a lost cause on burden and ambition. Flames that won't quite catch, the attire of the things that so needy be burned and turned to ash and float around the sea so that seagulls can pinch and nibble on the remains of the things you want to no longer carry around on your coat tails. The same coat worn for shelter in the verbal bashing of all you stand for and the swift memories of all that is potent distending and dancing into oblivion. God speed said the immortal soul who calmed nothing and had nothing and therefore loved everything, because there was no where to go and nothing else to do but love.

Overrated, Use to Date Her

I’m not one for the pretentious mirror clinging photographs. The over exuberance of change room antics and the flavorful boast of the price tag, label, mix and match who-ha. The style in the frontier is not unique but mimicked by the change of season’s look books. Labels lovin’ you off for free advertisement, stores creating warning signs in your honor, “no cameras”. We thank you for the effort but we aren’t loving you off, yet. Your ambition might be in the sales bin, and your ego was written off time ago, and you’ve been top shelved – collecting dust, running your mouth. Your so last season. Things are changing and your closeted affirmations for the plastic and the bedazzled are really completing your outfit. A real prize. Quarter machine prize, with a cherry popping IQ of this plus that equals, what? We’ve forgotten about you. Boom. The closed sign is on, doors locked, locked out, you’ve been shut out, we don’t sell your brand here no more, fake shit – bullshit isn’t trending, you can tweet some other shop and hope that they don’t defend me, and while your shopping around for new ways to get limited, you better just remember that you aren’t a special edition, you’re a combo pack – bundle, hurry give them all away, first one hundred customers, we make sure to get rid of you all the way, and stepping on the people to shove you down their throats, the fast they swallow you the fast they digest, and once they get the digest away well toilet bowl the rest, and no ruby slippers but we sure wish you’d go home, no place like a empty place, get the hell out of the zone. Knock off, bootleg, you sure are kind of pretty, in an overrated use to date her Sally Hansen polished way.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

The Sexual Grip of a Paperback

The trouble with this company is not the fact of our clothes. Nor is it the fact that none of us have anything beautiful to say. We are all sort of beautiful. I think they are anyways. Different kind of beauty but the weather is working in their favor because the mundane against the mundane often is left mundane and the mundane across their backgrounds seems, flavorful. The music is doing no justice and were barely looking at each other, its rather amusing but no ones laughing so why start now. The dodging and dashing of sentences and dotting imaginary "I"s in my mind to complete things I'll never say. Amusing, right? The way you can grip a paper back is so much more sexual that the grip on a hard cover, its coarse and distilled but the paper back grip on the house of something your in love with. I'm in love with the words on the pages and the pen the words came out of and the fingers that held that pen to the heart that pumped the blood into the hand, the pen, the paper, and the person... The soul behind the paper back that I've fallen in love with. You are my most cherished read paper back and I love you. The weather to say wouldn't begin to express love to most but you understand, and this company might not get it and neither do you, my paper back lover, but you feel it, the weather. The sudden billowing of something else settling in this stand off perspective I carry around with me and I am ready to actually get involved with some form of action, violence maybe? Maybe I am prepared to throw books, and throw away my dignity. Did that make you nervous? Because you aren't worth my dignity and I am drowning in this high ball glass of Johnnie, he's suppose to make you walk but I'm swimming in my head and I cannot find my feet and I'm not walking Johnnie, another swing only cuts my feet right off and should somebody hurry and cut me off, nobodys listening to me, paper back? Paper back, I cannot remember where I was with that because Johnnie has gotten a good hold on me and the weather is the same and this company is mundane and I'm lost in a crowd of people I know but they do not know me. Movie threater darkness and I'm hoping for a sequeal. Your white balance bracelet has got me unbalanced from the row behind you, and I hope my eyes are crowding you because I can't stop staring at you. Threatical weather on a work day night and the casual lust at first sight I'm having with you physically. Get to know me personally? Stay cool, I tell myself, but I am so into you. And its foolish to say because this has happened merely with the touch of my pupils to your persona. Fantastic affairs on a work day night. Then you step outside and the rain has you feeling and thinking and mending something entirely different, before you even considered the rain a possibility of change.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

The Zen of Something Chaotic

The quickly severed remarks you made in a state of change. The change evolved into a turpentine of spearmint and it knots your senses and clears your memory and zaps you into a shock of something much more than your hair. The compliments of insanity that goes with the knitting on a winter sweaters, these sweaters hope for snow, so they can cling to your body and keep you warm, garment perversion, but an uncanny tactic that has us delivering ourselves to the perversion quite tastefully. The zen of something chaotic. The screaming voices inside the veins of your lover and you can hear them crashing down on your private areas, you want to pound those screams out of them with the contours of your body, but what is shed is an entirely different sort of scream and still you are left satisfied. A journey through trial and error and we are in error here. The gushing pleasure of error. Mistaking mistakes for actualities and the mistake of this actual mistake is mistakenly mistaken for error.

Experience The Scenic Route

It's an over used saying with a rift that sounds like happiness, pampered happiness that is. What is so scenic about the route you experience? The scene has long and gone and nature is a novelty and the regurgitated experience you are apart of, the experience for which you take part in is beautiful isn't it, beautiful like plastic. Experience this disco. This flesh. This life. This piece of experience is not a route because taking yours got me no where. No experience, no scene. I saw nothing and hoped for more and its all a little mundane, don't you think. I dare you to move. Move. I dare you to make a sound, for your own sound... Well it all sounds all too familiar. I love your dress, it looks exactly like that one I saw, that one I saw that girl wearing, I mean she had two tone shoes on so it was much more flattering. Flattering than your flat landscape of chivalry? I do give you some admiration towards what you've started. It takes guts. It takes dedication. And it takes a love, a certain kind of love for yourself and for what your doing and you really have started to believe in something, yourself even, you've grown this back bone for you and your pen and for that I am a little half smiled for the efforts you've actually put forth. I don't wish you luck because its not that type of celebration, nor am I celebrating for your mild curiosity in the power of the keyboard but I do notice. I noticed this Experience your interested in portraying, I hope it gets a little more scenic though. Go ahead. Experience this scenic route of subroutine love with a flourished bloom of status quo and melancholy. You sure have got a route there, an experience - I'm not convinced and the scene your thinking of is much different then the fairy tell you've got from write to wrong. Speak up would you, this isn't like the fall it doesn't come and go and if you're here then do it, do something already.. I'm so use to the nothing that this might just surprise somebody. experience this experience for it is quite experiential and it's cool if your testing the water, the water that has long evaporated from your scene. your scene of drama and drama and nicely dressed drama and all done up drama, and the drama your surrounded by is the drama you want to be surrounded by, but maybe that's it.. this is the experience of the scenic route, towards a scene your already apart of, nothing new, and an experience your already experiencing. i don't expect anything new and exciting for this experience of a route so often traveled. This is an experience i've left, a route i've burned down, an ugly scene and i do love some pampered suburanized ugly... show me the route! the experience! the scene!

The Collapse of Mechanical Pieces

Upsetting the sky, I’m breaking up with the time and I can finally breathe without the ticking time bomb of all that is irrelevant pulling me into a state of relevancy. Freedom, obtainable and lovable but so feared. Fear, scary and rushed but ultimately empowering. Power. I have the strength and the sky is reaching down to me here, in the dirt, with a handful of stars and a lipstick smear of the most excellent shade finally I am blushing with escaping moments of everything that had me frightened. The shackles are now a modern affair of couture that I will wear like a cross, and not for faith or for this Gothic apparel flare but for the ever reminder of what I am no longer apart of. Breathing. The rise and fall of my clothing to remind me of the mechanics that are inside of be, that make me up and build me up and I am this machine of live. A production of instrumental activities; the blink of an eye playing fluttering sounds to my symphonies, and heart strings I am pulling, a selfish notion creating hiccups of questions to an imaginative playground and footsteps become the percussion of all the little voices who encouraged and discouraged. A human aspect to a less human place where there is a sudden enlightenment, not enlightening anything, actually weighing done the whole existence of whatever is existing. Stop merely existing and live. Live this life for whatever is to come when the darkness closes in might be merely a reboot or perhaps that is all. Curtain closed. No applaud. No laughter. No encore. The collapse of mechanical pieces and the final beep of electronic existence.

We Hear Your Heart A Spinnin'

The sudden miss, like a skip my turn, keep you closer, close the door and throw away the clocks, addressing envelopes to myself and putting pieces of you inside so I'm never without. The distance not so much a troublesome because your ambition kisses me from miles away, sleeping comfortable with the ipod because that's the way you continue to talk to me. Applauding you from my side of the pond - lilly pads under construction resulting in the anchor that has me here, tied to shore, humming melodies that tie balloons to your soles and keep you, your rock of rock and roll abilities, your a fallen star of some sort, landed over there, as if the airplanes can't decide where your talent will be loved the most because all the hearts in the world are beating for your symphonies and I keep hitting repeat. Smile as bright as glow sticks, your glow is brighter than those glow sticks. Missing bus stops to listen to you longer... Electronic conversations that I always give in, requesting you in places where they know your name but to drop the track just wouldn't mean the same things and to miss you from here but to hear you from here... Its worth the waits, your always leaving these fantastic pieces of you wherever you go and we miss you so bold and so brave, and we hear your heart a spinnin'.

Different Different Different

a different kind of clean with speckled adolescent flair. a different kind of deviancy to violate your hair. a different kind of vision, a different kind of scene. a different kind of moment, a different kind of gleam. a different kind of this, and a different kind of that. a different kind of time, there won't be none of that. a different kind of elevation, a different kind of song, a different kind of lyrics... a different kind of wrong. a different way of thinking, a different way to see, a different kind of different, a different you and me. a different kind of drink, with all the fixings, a different kind of appetite, with just the right of mixing. a different kind of shoes, with a different kind of soul, a different kind of atmosphere, a different kind of wrong. a different kind of feeling and a different kind of melody. a different kind of angry, a different kind of fear, a different kind of embarrassment a different kind of want, a wanting different something different, a different kind of place and a different kind of god, a different kind of saving and a different kind of spending and a different kind of fix and a different kind of crave, a different kind of moment and a different kind of insanity. and a different kind of a prosperity and a different kind of rich, a different kind of mood with an ultra violet flip. a different kind of heel and a different kind of heal, a different kind of sex appeal. a different kind of look and a different kind of haunt, a different kind of trick or treat, a different kind of flaunt. different different different different.


The crumpled leaves blow across this street like pieces of paper, once attempted letters to people we loved. The breeze chills me to the bone. I can feel its burden in my feet, making this tragedy hard to speak. The moon is giving off a good light, a light that has me slightly mesmerized and enchanted stream pointing far off in this scene and I might be past the point of no return. To return those crumpled letters that have fallen off the trees, like leaves, to their owners like library books without the fees, for they are long overdue you see. And the shadows that have suddenly engulfed me, must be dancing with this breeze because they are moving all the same. The stars, usually so far, seem to be closer to my head tonight for their heat has got me bewitched and the witching hour that causes sweat doesn't bother me tonight, but the headlights of a distant item, casting sounds like rusty swings, has be captivated by the moon to pick up those leaves, and read their letters. The lovers, they do howl, for their letters are astray; on rooftops, streets and lawns you see, they are searching for a way. But that is what they'll try to do. Fall and fall and fall again, for tis the season to be falling in and out of the way.

Nonverbal, Best Plan

biting the lip until it bleeds, stabilizing the conjured structure of the very language that allows you to breathe. desperately hoping for the change, but too many lives have encountered yours, asking things… telling things… forgetting things you want to forget. the continuous struggle of self vs. self and self vs. you and self vs. self vs. you… a tribute to the words you wish you could’ve said but didn’t say and want to say and want to scream, the things you want to say. there must be a place, somewhere, perhaps a black hole of words and things and ideas of things I didn’t say, wanted to say, want to scream, a grave yard of all the things I wanted to say; not just to you but to you and you and you and you and the one you know and the one we use to know and them and her and him and it and it and you and that and them and this and all the things I wanted to say have gone to this graveyard to die, and it’s full of all the verbal death I have once wanted to say. they don’t always go there though, and sometimes not immediately, sometimes the things I want to say they build and build and build until I can feel them right at my esophagus, I almost choke to keep them down, and sometimes the things I want to say simmer on my skin and I can feel the prick of it’s heat burning me inside and out and I just let it happen, carry around the burn and not say anything, never wishing it away just wearing it away and when I suddenly don’t realize it’s intensity anymore that’s when I know its long gone and left me and died and is off in the black hole of a verbal graveyard I have out there somewhere, and sometimes when it rains and when the right conversation strikes I want to say these things and I cannot find my discarded words so I sit in silence or make up new things to say in their place, or if the rain is just right and the conversation is to a desirable flame I see the words fall on to my clothes with the lightness of a raindrop and sometimes I absorb it and spill it out and then I wish I was dead, wish I could just die and lay nicely in my verbal graveyard, it doesn’t happen much. the verbal graveyard must be under a nice heavy lock and key and it’s grave keeper must know me all too well because to not give me a map might be it’s most nonverbal best plan.

Soundtrack of the Rain

As if the raindrops have voices, they are all screaming, "What the hell is your problem, enjoy this!!" Dancing on your shoulders like fear, bullying you into something much more severe, but you keep a blind man's ear to the raindrops and listen to them scream, "What the hell is your problem, enjoy this!!" Blinking through the blinding stains, as if your looking through dirty window panes and as if your feeling subsequent pain it is fully ironic that you're sharing your eyes with an inanimate objected labelled with the heavy feeling of the beating rain, all the while it's screaming into your eye lashes, "What the hell is your problem, enjoy this!!" Shielding all of the most intimate things because somehow the rain can drive them out, and hoping something doesn’t slip out of your trench coat doused in weather, to squeak and shimmy on beautiful pebbles and slip and fall and bump your head, the old man will still be snoring while the rain is screaming, "What the hell is your problem, enjoy this!!" the cars are screeching from near and far causing you to stay in your bed, soggy puddles of ideas form on the floor, tripping you up on bath robe hope, searching for comfort food in a weathery daze and were does the sun go when it decides it is allowed to rain, wondering, while listening to the soundtrack of the rain, "What the hell is your problem, enjoy this!!"

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

The Language Is Changing

a president feeling of bliss with the grip of well worn shoes looking almost brand new electrified to go. and instant effect, like the best cocaine, or a more literal approach, caffeine. a rippling pulse, from a more mechanical dream, fuelling dreams and growing pots of love in handbags stowed away for next season. things are changing, evidently, and we cant help but claw at the glimpses of strangers passing us by on busy streets for their minds contain fragments of us, fragments and pixels and tiny actualities that on any given Sunday, you would steal back. planning an attack, but suddenly out of whack, you let the strangers wander into crowds of blurred faces because they will forever remember you, better then you will ever remember yourself because the language is changing, just like the seasons, this you doesn't last under the falling leaves of autumn and your bones would merely break if seduced into old winters clutching calloused grip, and the rain washes you out each and every spring but with perfect measure so you can become a tidied hot mess for the summer sun, so it can cast a different shade of love on your clothes and allow a new peep hole for your soul to blossom at untimely places for all the wrong people.

Pleasure Me This

The idealistic pleasure of the teasing breathing parts that have lungs grasping for air. The sexual current, an electricity for the masses, has begun a pent up concoction within the very mouth of being filthy. The game of twister with garments and words all building up and shaking down through the body of extreme desire. Bumpy road, you riding it? Smooth sailing and no fun was ever had without the rough seas for all the world to see the quick quake of a pleasure craft. Pleasure me this, magnetic ideas clinging to the zippers on my pants, if I were wearing any pants, so they cling to the nylon of the night and the depriving swarm of this sexual energy has got us grabbing out for red bulls and cigarettes to keep our hands and mouth busy on the idea of our hands and mouth busy on you. The electric feel of the ideas the mind is piecing together quickly and the sexual involvement that has surrounded my clothing has got me naked. Naked lunch? The time for naked is now. The injection of a physical drug, got us junkies feelin' freaky and with a little more bass there would be trouble. Wants become sugar coated into beautiful attributes but who can we kid when all we want to do is get our kicks. The hopscotch game of naked. And keeping this sex to the cost of a verbal affair is really fucking me huh. The ironic actions of a verbal frenzy contorting everything that appeared to be oh so fitting. You'd fit me perfectly. The excess is good. The hope towards not seeing and ignoring the foolishness of all that is fooling the fun out of this. Pleasure me this, won't you?

Love Burn Rush Breathe Bubble

the interesting actions of eyes. streaming conversation from a whole other language, from a whole other dictionary of verbs and nouns and adjectives and places that your not sure exist but they all look dazzling. such a state of piercing interaction happening. you watch it slow and steady, trying to highlight the importance in everything that is conjuring up and dancing about. sledge hammering wonder, swimming around like fishes and butterflies inside a skull of worries. dressing up curiosity with a semi sauntering idealism that keeps catching on your lips while you try to harbour all your blossoming fantasies inside the lining of your best clothes. wearing them on the town, not caring about the faces who try to pry open the seems with all they've got, really talking, expensive talk leaving cheap stains on the abundance of crushes you've collected and examined and swiftly left in other places so no one would mention the potential of it all. candle light entourage and a night to remember, watching everything we love burn and rush and breathe and bubble; watching everyone we know, love and burn and rush and breathe and bubble.

Is Your Heart Broken, Like A Sweater

Was it the ice cube that cracked the ship or was it all the emotions aboard? People forever feeling things, forever such a long time. Is it the tears that dampen the tissue used to soak up the feelings or is that wetness coming from the intensity of the action that is causing the people to erupt like a volcano into an atmosphere of change. Is it the action of feet walking over and through fires that indeed make them sore, or the constant thought of moving forward, the strain on the entire body… pushing those feet in new directions that indeed bring on the actuality of it’s pain. Do our hearts break? Is there a moment we were feel a crack right in half, does the rest of our body send blood or empathy to the heart to relieve it of this pain, is their a heartbreak doctor, we call, not a soulful singer but is there an actual license to fixing a broken heart. Have we compared our heart to something that breaks, but what exactly… everything can break; glass, rocks, houses, noses, feet, and sweaters. Is your heart broken like a sweater, thread slowing fraying, one by one? Is your heart broken like a nose, all bloody and twisted, all black and blue? Is your heart broken like a toaster; in fact is your heart toast? Kaput. The quality of emotion flooding parts of the mind, leaving it dry and blank. The irony of the impact of words to the surface, creeping into the depths of places you didn’t realize could be reached. The moves people are waiting to play in a game you weren’t prepared for. The rule book in the fire, everything goes, no uniform required. You’ve got to be committed, they’ll take you for all you’ve got and by the looks of it, you don’t have much to lose.