I wrote this in a sort of fevered state night before last. I suppose I write everything in a sort of fevered state, I hold my writing inside me at work, packing it, folding it and crushing it inside me until at long last I allow it it's freedoms and it flies forward like chariot horses on a packed ally-way, slamming and stomping over everything in it's way. So, here's my gift to you, my pent up bubble of thought, mulled over hours and hours of a very long day.
My Children Are Slamming the Doors of My Skull
I have a word in my head. (Something you should know about me, I always have a word in my head, forever a one; a word or phrase that rotates around my head like a moon and sits out on the edge of my tongue, demurely watching the world spin past) The word I have now is Baba-Yaga. Well, I do suppose that is two. In my head they are all smushed-up together and always seem to come out with one quick flick of the tongue.
I spend a lot of time with my words, petting them, grooming them and lining them up like baby ducks; then they fly out my jammering-yammering mouth in a wild way I never meant. I look up at them, floating above me in that heavy way and pluck them back like night stars. I am always bereaved with them as I pull them back into my wild-mild head, settling them back in their quiet compartments, wondering how they'd gotten out in that rough-hewn way and had made the faces around me turn such bewildered expressions that I'd become quite dizzy.
Now this new word, Baba-Yaga sticking deep in my head like the resin my dad used to use on his surfboards to repair what the one-minded beast of the ocean had taken from them. I used to leave that old garage, the one we had when I was six, with the scent of it hiding in my nostrils, patient, until the moment where I had nearly forgotten it, it would spring wildly forward in the midst of whatever six-year-old game I was playing. And here I am, ten years later, smelling it; after my father has given up the trade, without even the end of an ocean to trigger it's upstart, smelling it in the foody smells of the dishes or in the rotting spines of my old books. Here it is cropping up again on it's own accord. I will promise you now, this new word, Baba-Yaga, will burrow it's merry way into the marrows of my bones and settle itself in for a good long night, until the hole it made closes, until I forget the pains of it's burrow. It will become fat with it's brothers, there in the depths of me and when it's time comes, it will rise wildly up to give me a hard nip on the ear, then leap out my mouth, only to be plucked back with the rest of my word-stars, and cycled around and around until it is quite tired.
I wonder if anyone can see me, wily as a greedy old hen, pulling those words back into me, pressing them into my sternum, gasping at their psychobabble. Praying to them again and again never to throw themselves out of me in that way again, praying to them to just trickle from my lips in that way we practiced, that kind sort of way that kept the conversation slipping over itself like a group of upstream salmons, the sort of way that never stopped everyone on their axis in order to crain their necks around at me in that stunned-and-slapped way. Somehow I never manage it, somehow I never line them up at the door right and they end up tumbling right off like baby ducks learning how to fly.
I suppose you want to know what my word mean, don't you? Baba-Yaga is the most common name for an old hag in Slavic folklore, and here it is, tap-dancing it's way around my mind, after having seen it once in a news-paper article. Here I am, writing about my children, my words and phrases, the things I hold so dear, with a deep-seated love that somehow manages to crop up every few minutes when I see them standing up so tall in pageant lines there on my pages or others. Here my children are tonight, running up an down the highways and byways of my head, slamming doors and stomping all over me. Here I am, just basking in the rin-tin-BANG.
(This is not an apology for who I am. Just an explanation. Sometimes I am happy with me, the way I can stun, really stun, people into silence with the way I can swing a sentence together. And, sometimes, I have a smooth rock of regret, riding in my quick moving rivers and this is how I rid myself of it. Iyam who Iyam. But we all have these moments, oui?)
Friday, December 30, 2011
Sunday, December 11, 2011
In The Wild Grip of Those Moods.
Though, I believe a better term for it would be 'Moody'. I've quite become a Judy-moody. I suppose that is a step up from a Debbie-downer. What kind of fanged-monster resides in writers that makes them stereotypically mood-riddled? I am female AND a writer. I am completely nuts. Watch, I'll prove it.
Portrait of The Artist
She is practicing for her future, this wildly plain young girl, scooping bite after bite of salted and boiled salmon into her perfect pink mouth. Of course she is alone, what else would she be? Her Book-of-the-Night lying prone in front of her with it's pages spread gracefully in front of her, baring it's seductive smile. The poor thing, shes been reading it for ages, or, moreover, not reading it because every time she dives in, she begins to day-dream of the greatness she hopes with a reverence will eventually tap on her shoulder. She wants to be a writer. Of course she will never find the greatness she is seeking, her prose is like swallowing a spoonful of molasses after you've already swallowed twenty.
But the real point is that she is, in fact, very alone and eating her dinner at an empty table. There are people in the other room, you can hear them if you shut your eyes and make a focused sort of face. She chooses to be alone in the still quiet of the vastly empty wooden table. In her head, this is pure and logical, a loneliness about oneself is exactly what every writer needs to straighten oneself out into a sharp clinical line; even if she is the one who wraps it around herself in all it's woolly glory. Her belief is that the initiation of ones lone-wolf howls is what brings about the greatness that always seems to taint her cravings.
As she reads, she tilts her head this way and that, flashing her muddy greenies out from under butterfly-bone eyelashes; she practises clever nothings whispered into the quiet space around her, she extends her thin wrist, curling two fingers gracelessly around a nonexistent cigarette. She smiles at her own genius, believing her 'portrait d'un artiste' more brilliant than anything devised before her; she believes it hold a subtle cleverness distinct to her only. She cannot help puffing her chest out a bit, of course, it is perfectly natural for a person of such groundbreaking ideas and unfounded genius to have a slim moment of pride. But she quickly flattens this airy bit of self-absorbance between the palms of her clean, white hands. Hard work, she thinks, will get me where I need to go. And, thinking still of the brevity of her situation, she slaps the cow-skin covers of her book together and leaps up to find what she has christened her 'writing notebook'.
This untalented little waif does have the pose and poise of a writer, we must give her that. Her uncombed head of hair gripped in her free hand, she hunches over the paper in a concentrated, uncomfortable sort of way, a very serious expression on her face. The kind of expression that says 'do not interrupt me or I will shout at you in a uncalled-for and loud fashion.'
She bites her thin lower lip and writes with diligent slow motions; punctuating and making her letter full and rounded like a child's. This graceless doll writes methodically, as if she already has the words waiting patiently in her plastic hands, pausing to blot a thick period at the ends of her lofty sentences. She stops and smiles lovingly at the paper with a peacock-like pride ruffling her feathers. The three sentence-graced paper is then folded and tucked neatly under the white curve of her plate.
She carries a mild half-smile as she eats the rest of her salted and boiled salmon and, when a lanky gent wanders through her smooth, quiet space, she tilts her head in that coy way and tells him of her triumph. The clean curve of his skill dips in a condescending sort of way and he rolls his clear blue eyes under the shelter of his window-blind eyelids. She mentally laughs at him, knowing what she does not know, that the utter stunner of her brilliance is far beyond his comprehension. She really is practicing for her future, this wildly untalented little waif. Come, let us watch her, bring the popcorn...
Portrait of The Artist
She is practicing for her future, this wildly plain young girl, scooping bite after bite of salted and boiled salmon into her perfect pink mouth. Of course she is alone, what else would she be? Her Book-of-the-Night lying prone in front of her with it's pages spread gracefully in front of her, baring it's seductive smile. The poor thing, shes been reading it for ages, or, moreover, not reading it because every time she dives in, she begins to day-dream of the greatness she hopes with a reverence will eventually tap on her shoulder. She wants to be a writer. Of course she will never find the greatness she is seeking, her prose is like swallowing a spoonful of molasses after you've already swallowed twenty.
But the real point is that she is, in fact, very alone and eating her dinner at an empty table. There are people in the other room, you can hear them if you shut your eyes and make a focused sort of face. She chooses to be alone in the still quiet of the vastly empty wooden table. In her head, this is pure and logical, a loneliness about oneself is exactly what every writer needs to straighten oneself out into a sharp clinical line; even if she is the one who wraps it around herself in all it's woolly glory. Her belief is that the initiation of ones lone-wolf howls is what brings about the greatness that always seems to taint her cravings.
As she reads, she tilts her head this way and that, flashing her muddy greenies out from under butterfly-bone eyelashes; she practises clever nothings whispered into the quiet space around her, she extends her thin wrist, curling two fingers gracelessly around a nonexistent cigarette. She smiles at her own genius, believing her 'portrait d'un artiste' more brilliant than anything devised before her; she believes it hold a subtle cleverness distinct to her only. She cannot help puffing her chest out a bit, of course, it is perfectly natural for a person of such groundbreaking ideas and unfounded genius to have a slim moment of pride. But she quickly flattens this airy bit of self-absorbance between the palms of her clean, white hands. Hard work, she thinks, will get me where I need to go. And, thinking still of the brevity of her situation, she slaps the cow-skin covers of her book together and leaps up to find what she has christened her 'writing notebook'.
This untalented little waif does have the pose and poise of a writer, we must give her that. Her uncombed head of hair gripped in her free hand, she hunches over the paper in a concentrated, uncomfortable sort of way, a very serious expression on her face. The kind of expression that says 'do not interrupt me or I will shout at you in a uncalled-for and loud fashion.'
She bites her thin lower lip and writes with diligent slow motions; punctuating and making her letter full and rounded like a child's. This graceless doll writes methodically, as if she already has the words waiting patiently in her plastic hands, pausing to blot a thick period at the ends of her lofty sentences. She stops and smiles lovingly at the paper with a peacock-like pride ruffling her feathers. The three sentence-graced paper is then folded and tucked neatly under the white curve of her plate.
She carries a mild half-smile as she eats the rest of her salted and boiled salmon and, when a lanky gent wanders through her smooth, quiet space, she tilts her head in that coy way and tells him of her triumph. The clean curve of his skill dips in a condescending sort of way and he rolls his clear blue eyes under the shelter of his window-blind eyelids. She mentally laughs at him, knowing what she does not know, that the utter stunner of her brilliance is far beyond his comprehension. She really is practicing for her future, this wildly untalented little waif. Come, let us watch her, bring the popcorn...
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Tides and Things
So. I was thinking. (Big surprise there. "There are thinkers and there are do-ers". Anybody got a wild guess as to what I am?) It is high time I posted a short story here as a break from my usual short ramble follow by a poetic amble. It is coming. I promise. Imagine this a thrilling advert involving beautiful gents and graceful ladies that stalk across the screen with a bourgeoisie sort of grace. Imagine this a TEASER. In the meantimes, enjoy a bit of penning from yours truelys hand in the normal fashion; poeticly.
Riches
The silence of a silver spoon
chocking it's occupants
in a clandestine sort of way
crystalline works
of natures cruel mistress
bathed bodies, spinal and clinical
with ski jump noses held above your dirt
Spooning well-washed foodstuffs
off icy plates that match even the toilets
perfecting reclination on chaise lounges
that follow you around with arms
open only by the force of their maker
You who bleeds blackberry blood
onto the hell-white towels
(a perfect incident you must rectify)
stay up there, quiet
You who, rules me
fools me, shoots at me,
eats for me.
Riches
The silence of a silver spoon
chocking it's occupants
in a clandestine sort of way
crystalline works
of natures cruel mistress
bathed bodies, spinal and clinical
with ski jump noses held above your dirt
Spooning well-washed foodstuffs
off icy plates that match even the toilets
perfecting reclination on chaise lounges
that follow you around with arms
open only by the force of their maker
You who bleeds blackberry blood
onto the hell-white towels
(a perfect incident you must rectify)
stay up there, quiet
You who, rules me
fools me, shoots at me,
eats for me.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
My Favorite Killer
Dearest ones,
I wrote this little affair for an old buddy of mine to use, but he never did. So, I have taken it's reins back and am giving it to you now. I know the name gives it away a bit, but it's about that murderous fellow we all know and love, Ted Bundy. He is my favorite serial killer, in case you were curious. I don't know what it is about him that I like so much, but he rises like a titian in many of my poems and stories.
Maybe it's something about a bad boy that a quiet gal like me just can't resist......Y'know if you look past the rape and brutal bodily gougings.....
Ted Bundy BBQ
Those ladies in their Ionian death gowns,
I imagine they called to you,
singing the street number
of the lurid hellgates.
For you, the horns of reason
are velvet-muted.
You can talk talk talk
but it dilly-dallys in dead ears.
You slapped their footsoles,
smiling your million
and half-dollar smile
and you can howl
"Hell damn it all!",
you can wax lachrymose
up and down the highways and byways
but you must know, Spawn of Hate,
that the love of Justice is unanimous
and the worlds around you know it;
they know it well.
I wrote this little affair for an old buddy of mine to use, but he never did. So, I have taken it's reins back and am giving it to you now. I know the name gives it away a bit, but it's about that murderous fellow we all know and love, Ted Bundy. He is my favorite serial killer, in case you were curious. I don't know what it is about him that I like so much, but he rises like a titian in many of my poems and stories.
Maybe it's something about a bad boy that a quiet gal like me just can't resist......Y'know if you look past the rape and brutal bodily gougings.....
Ted Bundy BBQ
Those ladies in their Ionian death gowns,
I imagine they called to you,
singing the street number
of the lurid hellgates.
For you, the horns of reason
are velvet-muted.
You can talk talk talk
but it dilly-dallys in dead ears.
You slapped their footsoles,
smiling your million
and half-dollar smile
and you can howl
"Hell damn it all!",
you can wax lachrymose
up and down the highways and byways
but you must know, Spawn of Hate,
that the love of Justice is unanimous
and the worlds around you know it;
they know it well.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Merry Pre-consumerism Hell Day
Pre-consumerism Hell Day is, of course, a day of your choosing sometime in November when people begin the Christmas rubbish and happy warm-gut things and stuff and things. So that's happening. It's making me homesick and the wanting in my lower intestine to be with folks I miss is acting up in a uncomfortable sort of way. Dear Persons I Miss Who Are Not Reading This Blog and Will Never Know I Said This; I miss you. Wrap yourselves up in ribbons and trussing paper and send yourselves to me. I promise kisses and hugs and grins that manage, somehow, to curl themselves around my elvish ears.
I want to write love letters to so many people. My penning hand is tickling the smooth side of my favorite pen, the one that writes like silk and poetry and makes me want to sing everytime I use it. Boy Howdy. I need me some granola. Granola is my cure to all problems, stomach-ache? Granola. Head-ache? Granola. Broken heart? Granola. Just choose your pains.
I want to write love letters to so many people. My penning hand is tickling the smooth side of my favorite pen, the one that writes like silk and poetry and makes me want to sing everytime I use it. Boy Howdy. I need me some granola. Granola is my cure to all problems, stomach-ache? Granola. Head-ache? Granola. Broken heart? Granola. Just choose your pains.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Chicken Noodle Soup for the Undeniably Bored-Sorts Soul
I am happy. I am almost always happy. Not because I am one of those people who are happy for all the wrong reasons, I. E. 'love', the world being a place full of flowers and grinning morons; but because I currently have a full belly, a warm blanket, sweet tunes flipping through the air like over-excited dolphins and a crisp paycheck grinning at me from behind the eyes of my debt card. Nobody is fighting near me, my cat is contented like me, his soft black belly bulging between his splayed paws, my laundry is done and I smell like Downy. Look, the world is still the same, I'll never change it by myself. But that will not keep me from being happy over those things that just seem to slid over one another like hot butter over toast.
On another note, I've written a lot this weekend. Just couldn't stop. Woke from my stupor at twelve midnight, ate some Coco Puffs and went to bed. Now, who better to give my over-flow to than my sweet dears on the Internet. I do love you all. All I want for Christmas is you. And yes, I will call is Christmas, gall-darn-it. I will also continue to say 'God bless you' when someone sneezes because I am Free, I do what I want, Gall-dash-it-all!
Farewell to Various Things
Dearest Long John
along the banks
of the sweet-flow river.
Drink to me, baby
as my hips swing away
in that infinity motion
the one that carried
the children of the ages
the hooks of men's hands.
No more your hooks,
see what I did there?
Good, I always knew
you had the cleverness
I always seem to swoon about.
Maybe it was just that
you had little else
no matter, Little Leo
I needed little else
Don't you worry
I was the love-lorn one
Remember?
You'll be just fine.
This One Needs a Heart
It's late
even the man
inside the moon
has gone to slumber
in his reflective cage.
It's me up again
Pacing my dark cage
I've spent the night
asking the wizard for a heart.
Maybe not all at once
perhaps aorta by aorta
with a ventricle winding
it's way around the mess
like a wind-riddled weed.
Just as long as it's there
when I need it
when you're here.
Sweetie
There you go
riding away
on the two-tongued sea
where the dolphins
flip-flop and glisten
the right side
of a sun-stroked coin
Tell me what
you're running away from
can't be those flying fishes
that follow behind you
quick as night stars,
It can't be that eel
He's got an electric personality
be he's never done you a wrong
It can't be me
I've loved you all this time
What? It is me? Really?
Oh, Okay. It's cool. I understand.
I'll just be..going...now...
Bye then.
Pay Me Some Heed
Pineapple pie
upside-down
or down-side up
They'll call it a cake
But trust me, it's not
Lying is undeniably
their fine forte
I would know better than some
but no better than many
that's just how
this round stone rolls..
Sirens
Sing-song sirens
of an un-mild wild nature
Half-way between
beautiful and bird-like
But that's usually how sisters are
Noise-makers
with a song half iron
half florally arranged
With a nice sharp edge
that seems to end
forever on 'snicker-snack'
You should be wary of that one
that bobby-pin turn-about
might just knock you
right off your high horse
and into these winged-maidens
these seductresses of the earth
these the forerunners of death
un-mild wild
Sing-song sisters three.
On another note, I've written a lot this weekend. Just couldn't stop. Woke from my stupor at twelve midnight, ate some Coco Puffs and went to bed. Now, who better to give my over-flow to than my sweet dears on the Internet. I do love you all. All I want for Christmas is you. And yes, I will call is Christmas, gall-darn-it. I will also continue to say 'God bless you' when someone sneezes because I am Free, I do what I want, Gall-dash-it-all!
Farewell to Various Things
Dearest Long John
along the banks
of the sweet-flow river.
Drink to me, baby
as my hips swing away
in that infinity motion
the one that carried
the children of the ages
the hooks of men's hands.
No more your hooks,
see what I did there?
Good, I always knew
you had the cleverness
I always seem to swoon about.
Maybe it was just that
you had little else
no matter, Little Leo
I needed little else
Don't you worry
I was the love-lorn one
Remember?
You'll be just fine.
This One Needs a Heart
It's late
even the man
inside the moon
has gone to slumber
in his reflective cage.
It's me up again
Pacing my dark cage
I've spent the night
asking the wizard for a heart.
Maybe not all at once
perhaps aorta by aorta
with a ventricle winding
it's way around the mess
like a wind-riddled weed.
Just as long as it's there
when I need it
when you're here.
Sweetie
There you go
riding away
on the two-tongued sea
where the dolphins
flip-flop and glisten
the right side
of a sun-stroked coin
Tell me what
you're running away from
can't be those flying fishes
that follow behind you
quick as night stars,
It can't be that eel
He's got an electric personality
be he's never done you a wrong
It can't be me
I've loved you all this time
What? It is me? Really?
Oh, Okay. It's cool. I understand.
I'll just be..going...now...
Bye then.
Pay Me Some Heed
Pineapple pie
upside-down
or down-side up
They'll call it a cake
But trust me, it's not
Lying is undeniably
their fine forte
I would know better than some
but no better than many
that's just how
this round stone rolls..
Sirens
Sing-song sirens
of an un-mild wild nature
Half-way between
beautiful and bird-like
But that's usually how sisters are
Noise-makers
with a song half iron
half florally arranged
With a nice sharp edge
that seems to end
forever on 'snicker-snack'
You should be wary of that one
that bobby-pin turn-about
might just knock you
right off your high horse
and into these winged-maidens
these seductresses of the earth
these the forerunners of death
un-mild wild
Sing-song sisters three.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Pink-and-Purple Lips
You know when some tosser gives you a good whack on the mug and from it rises the Fat Lip? And you spend the rest of the day singing this song, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IdxZyzljpQE But that may be just me. Anyway, Fat Lips, I have one. Well, I had one leastwise, it has recently turned into the Fat Lips' ugly cousin; the Pink and Purple lip. Because I ran into the fridge. Yes, the fridge. And for the rest of the week I shall be wildly in love with red lipstick and holding my head at a strange tilt to hide the deformity. Mainly, because few people will believe the excuse, 'I ran into the fridge', because it's not exactly plausible.
Sad Salute to a Swollen Face
Commence crying
as thine eyes glance upon
what was once fair expanse
of full pink lip
But dry your tears
this is a great excuse
not to kiss
that persistent
neighbor boy.
Sad Salute to a Swollen Face
Commence crying
as thine eyes glance upon
what was once fair expanse
of full pink lip
But dry your tears
this is a great excuse
not to kiss
that persistent
neighbor boy.
Friday, October 28, 2011
I plan to go into this blindsided and just make stuff up.
Dear dearest invisible readers of my silliness; HAI.
Did you all see the movie Tangled? So dreamy. That part when the lanterns descend on them.........excuse me while I widen my eyes kitten-like and, tucking my clasped hands under my chin, squeal "AWWWWW HOW CUUUUUUUUUUUTE!!!!!!" I've been feeling romantic as of late, to say the least. And I must admit I swooned and fell about laughing when Flynn Ryder said "I know not who you are or how I came to be here with you but may I just say; HAI (Insert stupid grin)" So that's what I did with my week, that and work. Yes, I realize it is unorthodox for an unknown writer not to be an unemployed alcoholic living at home but I have big plans for my future and I won't let what people call 'selling out' destroy that. So there. Now if you don't mind, I am going to write a poem about 'Tangled'. Because I am a loop-de-loop and I feel compelled to live my life to it's extent as such.
Fairy Tales
An old-timey lady
with locks of love and stuff
and those wide green eyes,
like her mother a bit.
That's the problem with women,
they always become like their mothers.
Men never do.
Hey doll face,
did it surprise you
when you found your heart in his sack?
I don't suppose you believed that bit,
until the smoulder set in,
and your eyes grew wide
inside of his.
Charm is never dead,
even if chivalry is.
This would be a good time for a joke
about how he stole your heart
y'know, considering that he's a thief...
but let's move beyond that,
to the part of the show
where you ride off into the sunset
on his white horse,
graceful as always,
at the words flutter across the screen,
'and they lived
HAPPILY EVER AFTER.'
This is the part where I sign out in an 1/2 sarcastic, 1/2 adorkable way. So, insert that here.
Bye
Did you all see the movie Tangled? So dreamy. That part when the lanterns descend on them.........excuse me while I widen my eyes kitten-like and, tucking my clasped hands under my chin, squeal "AWWWWW HOW CUUUUUUUUUUUTE!!!!!!" I've been feeling romantic as of late, to say the least. And I must admit I swooned and fell about laughing when Flynn Ryder said "I know not who you are or how I came to be here with you but may I just say; HAI (Insert stupid grin)" So that's what I did with my week, that and work. Yes, I realize it is unorthodox for an unknown writer not to be an unemployed alcoholic living at home but I have big plans for my future and I won't let what people call 'selling out' destroy that. So there. Now if you don't mind, I am going to write a poem about 'Tangled'. Because I am a loop-de-loop and I feel compelled to live my life to it's extent as such.
Fairy Tales
An old-timey lady
with locks of love and stuff
and those wide green eyes,
like her mother a bit.
That's the problem with women,
they always become like their mothers.
Men never do.
Hey doll face,
did it surprise you
when you found your heart in his sack?
I don't suppose you believed that bit,
until the smoulder set in,
and your eyes grew wide
inside of his.
Charm is never dead,
even if chivalry is.
This would be a good time for a joke
about how he stole your heart
y'know, considering that he's a thief...
but let's move beyond that,
to the part of the show
where you ride off into the sunset
on his white horse,
graceful as always,
at the words flutter across the screen,
'and they lived
HAPPILY EVER AFTER.'
This is the part where I sign out in an 1/2 sarcastic, 1/2 adorkable way. So, insert that here.
Bye
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Excitement over pettinesses.
I've gone to an art store. I have always had the deep-seated wish that I could wake up one day and just magically be a painter. In the mirror late at night I practice the pose and poise of it, they way my pale pink mouth would sneer with disgust at others works, the way my right hand would cradle a dying cigarette and my left would whip a paintbrush with deft accuracy and artistic praises would bloom around me like roses. And yet, I have writer writ across my heart and hands with an ink that just won't wash off, trust me, I've tried. But my wishful thinking took over and I bought an 8x10 scratchboard and some sketch pens. I plan to break out my print-out of Van Gogh's Milk Pitcher and spend the next month and a half frustrated and and praying that my painter skills with just magically appear like a superpower and I will be able to mimic the one-eared master's works. It is doubtful after all, someone is only allowed so much out of life and somethings are just not meant to be. But a dreamer can dream right? I saw Tangled the other day. Have I told you how pathetic I am when it comes to cute, romantic children's movies? It's bad, it's really bad. I didn't realize how bad it was until I found an entire notebook of poetry written about cute romantic children's movies. Whenever I feel a dark bit of teenage angst creeping up inside of me, I whip out the hazelnut chocolate and the cute romantic children's movies and hide out until it creeps away in shame. I don't want my life to be added to the youth suicide statistics. I like to imagine myself as a knight with hazelnut chocolate as a sword and cute romantic children's movies as a shield riding my white horse name 'Living Room Couch'. Maybe I should shut up and poeticize.
Story of Old Man Kangaroo
Ankles askew,
or furthermore akimbo,
galumphing across
the plain planes,
sweating in the rude awakening
of the summer summer sun,
or winter sun
what's the difference?
Carry to your home-
keys, mangos, lipsticks,
aspirin, wallet photographs,
all inside your pooching pouch.
Old as the days are long,
old as the hills in fact,
(We all know they are ANCIENT)
You with your sweater on quite backwards,
zipped up over your thumping tail,
Age is never what it wants to be.
But do come along any way
We can beat you at any old race
but you've got us on storytelling.
So, sing-song it
Old Man Kangaroo
tell us what we need to know.
Story of Old Man Kangaroo
Ankles askew,
or furthermore akimbo,
galumphing across
the plain planes,
sweating in the rude awakening
of the summer summer sun,
or winter sun
what's the difference?
Carry to your home-
keys, mangos, lipsticks,
aspirin, wallet photographs,
all inside your pooching pouch.
Old as the days are long,
old as the hills in fact,
(We all know they are ANCIENT)
You with your sweater on quite backwards,
zipped up over your thumping tail,
Age is never what it wants to be.
But do come along any way
We can beat you at any old race
but you've got us on storytelling.
So, sing-song it
Old Man Kangaroo
tell us what we need to know.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
ACCIDENT
So I accidently hit the 'New Post' button instead of the 'View Blog' one. Now I feel compelled to write as if this is a sign from the great heavens above. (It isn't, this will be RUBBISH) Got published at Magic Cat Press. You've read the poems already. (Ballgame and Oh Love) One small step for unknown pale blogger, one giant step for unknown pale blogger-kind. Here is the link, feel free to hop up there and give them some LOVE. They deserve it. http://magiccatpress.weebly.com/index.html They're cool cats. (PUNDAY) Well, since you've been such good readers, having sat through my on-and-on-ing, HERE YOU GO
Cat-call over the hillsides,
the sides with smiles
Cheshire-like in their wildness.
Tell me my lovelyness seven times over.
I need to know somehow,
somehow I just must
find it beyond these hillsides,
smile as they may.
I can't hold it inside
or outside anymore
it's vanished from me
like the bunny-runners.
I need it told to me
am I still okay,
still sewn up tight as the night,
with stiches straight as the stars.
Cat call over these hillsides
and tell me I'm perfect.
It's lacking a title, feel free.
Cat-call over the hillsides,
the sides with smiles
Cheshire-like in their wildness.
Tell me my lovelyness seven times over.
I need to know somehow,
somehow I just must
find it beyond these hillsides,
smile as they may.
I can't hold it inside
or outside anymore
it's vanished from me
like the bunny-runners.
I need it told to me
am I still okay,
still sewn up tight as the night,
with stiches straight as the stars.
Cat call over these hillsides
and tell me I'm perfect.
It's lacking a title, feel free.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Happy Fiesta
SO hai there. I've spent the day with a grand two hours of slumber under my belt. Now would be a good time to write because everything would come out all lazy-slow and curled together like a wind-blown cloud. I will tell you the reasons for my insomniatic escapades, it's that darned balloon fiesta. It has come 'round the good ol' state your truly recently moved to and I am determined to be as New Mexican as possible, which means I must waking up at four and tromping down in the freeze-your-buttocks-off cold to watch the hot air balloons fly up into the welcoming sk- Oop, no, they aren't going up today, too rainy. In my pursuit to become a New Mexican, I have also become an expert on answering the Chile question, which is a huge improvement on my earlier idiocy. When the poor man at the breakfast burrito counter asked me 'Red or green?' in a sad little monotone, I (obviously) sat back on my Los Angeles hip and snarkily said 'Red or green WHAT?'. He looked at me for a moment like I was dumb or somethin' as my native friend tugged my shirtsleeve and said, 'He means chilies.'. I grin my this-will-fix-everything smile and told him green. He charged my extra on my burrito and probably spat in it. Now we're even. I also hope to one day use the slang term for my city, smoke hookah and drive as badly as these dear people that I have grown to love. Wink wink. Anyway, where was I going with this? Right, I was giving the sad excuse as to why I have not updated in forEVER. I started a novel I find quite engrossing. It's love I think. I am not going to write much more due to that sweet page-turner. I plan to go balloon chasing tomorrow and I am going to stay up all night reading then swath myself in thick wools and fleeces at the crack of dawn and creep out the door to watch and bathe in the festivities of the Land Of Enchantment. Lord help me. So, to cut to the bleeding chase, as if I can even do that now, here's a poem to tide you over. Goodnight. Or morning. Whatever, it's doesn't matter.
Mara
Those of the metal hearts, I am; tonight.
welded in Assyria by Plato
without seams, so it seems, to you.
He used to say he was falling in love
with the little poet-girl, such a lie
to grace such previously unmarked lips
'Love he said, there in the Nota Bene
But, nevertheless, a metal heart
traded; given was the crumbly black one
shedding it's tired aorta into my stomach
Now I am the mighty child of Ababbar
bore of the breath of sweet, vain Nuit
her kiss to bring me life, her stars in my chest
Tonight, I am; metal-hearted--gilded.
Mara
Those of the metal hearts, I am; tonight.
welded in Assyria by Plato
without seams, so it seems, to you.
He used to say he was falling in love
with the little poet-girl, such a lie
to grace such previously unmarked lips
'Love he said, there in the Nota Bene
But, nevertheless, a metal heart
traded; given was the crumbly black one
shedding it's tired aorta into my stomach
Now I am the mighty child of Ababbar
bore of the breath of sweet, vain Nuit
her kiss to bring me life, her stars in my chest
Tonight, I am; metal-hearted--gilded.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Hello Darlings
So, hi there. It's your favorite nutter here. I don't know what to write about. This would not be such a problem if I didn't WANT to write so darn bad. I mean BAD. My very fingers are itching with want for words. Maybe I'll just write nonsense for a bit and maybe stumble upon something worth your time. Well nothing I write is really worth your time, but more worth your time than this rubbish. Let's start with made-up swear words. Yes, my parents did not let me swear. They thought it unfitting for a lady and besides that, they were good, well-to-do christian people and thought it too rough, though my mother is from Montana and will swear on occasion when the mood is right. So I made up my own. I admit to some of them being Englishisms, but a good amount are just weirdness. Okay, do any of you have those car radios that scroll the name of the song, artist and radio station in neo-green letterings? That's what mine does. So, it was in-between song name and artist name and the word it made was, and I kid you not, 'Ofithem'. Say it out loud, roll it up and down your tongue, and now shout it as if there are wild, rogue children making an utter mess of your lawn. Gooooood. Fun, innit?
Well, the next came from a game, one where we all ('We all' being my large family) start every word with a set letter, such as 'J' or 'G'. We were playing with 'K'. And as we were laughing at the way swearwords sound with 'K', my 13-year-old brother shakes his head and say "Well I am just not going to join into this." Well, I stated the obvious and said "Good, you're too young, you'll have to wait until you're my age to swear like a motherkucker." And we all fell to pieces. If you are not laughing now, you need to say it out loud. Mother. Kucker. Oh, the hilarity. You still don't think it's funny? Ah well, you must have a normal sense of humor.
So, there is this sandwich place called Baggins. Yes, Baggins. I really have no real story behind this one. I just picked it up, like bloody and bollocks, it just happily slipped itself into my vocabulary and stayed to be hush-shouted under my breath. Wait a minute, I like that, hush-shout. POEM.
Child Yeller (Yellow)
Pup of the Nile
hush-shout under
the glean-green waters
drowning is not what it seems
those bubbly hearts
pump-throbbing as the world
caresses their sun-tones
to sleep, sleep, sleep
but wait a minute
hold the clock
press your peasants hands
to your living heart
and gasp that surprised bubble of air
out into daylight
Our hero is lean, street-dog strong
street-dog trained
swimmer of the night and day
and he will hold the day
to the sun-gods in infamy.
Now, be a good pup of the Nile
and thank your savior
after all that water
has given way to air
and your funeral attendant fishes lie
gasping in the burning-eye sun.
Back to the prior subject. Wait, never mind, I have no more swear words. Meh. Next subject? Umm, whats up with that airplane food......Yep, yours truly has officially come up short on things too say. I need someone else in here to talk to. Tell me you're out there, in the Internet void, enjoying my foolishness. Anyone? Anyone? Okay, well I will be off. I have decided to do something different with these itchy fingers and paint those flowers my mother has been bugging me to. Au revoir my sweets. See you tomorrow.
Well, the next came from a game, one where we all ('We all' being my large family) start every word with a set letter, such as 'J' or 'G'. We were playing with 'K'. And as we were laughing at the way swearwords sound with 'K', my 13-year-old brother shakes his head and say "Well I am just not going to join into this." Well, I stated the obvious and said "Good, you're too young, you'll have to wait until you're my age to swear like a motherkucker." And we all fell to pieces. If you are not laughing now, you need to say it out loud. Mother. Kucker. Oh, the hilarity. You still don't think it's funny? Ah well, you must have a normal sense of humor.
So, there is this sandwich place called Baggins. Yes, Baggins. I really have no real story behind this one. I just picked it up, like bloody and bollocks, it just happily slipped itself into my vocabulary and stayed to be hush-shouted under my breath. Wait a minute, I like that, hush-shout. POEM.
Child Yeller (Yellow)
Pup of the Nile
hush-shout under
the glean-green waters
drowning is not what it seems
those bubbly hearts
pump-throbbing as the world
caresses their sun-tones
to sleep, sleep, sleep
but wait a minute
hold the clock
press your peasants hands
to your living heart
and gasp that surprised bubble of air
out into daylight
Our hero is lean, street-dog strong
street-dog trained
swimmer of the night and day
and he will hold the day
to the sun-gods in infamy.
Now, be a good pup of the Nile
and thank your savior
after all that water
has given way to air
and your funeral attendant fishes lie
gasping in the burning-eye sun.
Back to the prior subject. Wait, never mind, I have no more swear words. Meh. Next subject? Umm, whats up with that airplane food......Yep, yours truly has officially come up short on things too say. I need someone else in here to talk to. Tell me you're out there, in the Internet void, enjoying my foolishness. Anyone? Anyone? Okay, well I will be off. I have decided to do something different with these itchy fingers and paint those flowers my mother has been bugging me to. Au revoir my sweets. See you tomorrow.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
I've Been Thinking Too Much
So, I wrote a poem all ee cummings-y. I think it LOOKS quite pretty.
Sound///Splice
(Music)
Sound-
-singing
Lully
b ------Bethica
y ------Yizma
e -----Emmaline
Deep
S Shade of grey
E Eggplants
A Animalistic
[DIVER]
you don't
s y
a
Cometh (giggle)
b
ack to ME
>>swimm
faster<<
{ I. E. love } (Laughter)
Don't you just
S I T
over th-
-ere
and LAUGH
at ME
Sound///Splice
(Music)
Sound-
-singing
Lully
b ------Bethica
y ------Yizma
e -----Emmaline
Deep
S Shade of grey
E Eggplants
A Animalistic
[DIVER]
you don't
s y
a
Cometh (giggle)
b
ack to ME
>>swimm
faster<<
{ I. E. love } (Laughter)
Don't you just
S I T
over th-
-ere
and LAUGH
at ME
Thursday, September 15, 2011
People I Like. (Rare Occurrence.)
So hi there. It's me again. (It always will be until the zombies take over, at which point I take to my guns.) So I decided it was high time to have a poetry day. My poetry, others poetry, and your poetry. (If you so wish) We'll start with others poetry because that fulfills the title shown above. The first is an old buddy of mine, his name is Ian Schmidt. We were tomfools in high school and committed quite a fair bit of tomfoolery. On the more serious side, he is a LOVELY poet. Here's his bit of lovely.
Hey Guys, Why Don't We Speed Up the Tempo and Make it Sound Happier!
Every waking hour
spent, but never used
For all my sleeplessness
I still can't quite refuse...
This is a nightmare of a dream
gag my mouth, plug my ears
so I can't hear myself scream
Try and let go of my fears
I'm breaking by the weight
Of all the stress and all the pain
oh dear please try and understand
how much of this is done vain
[and yet I find myself longing for turmoil
A reason, to forget
something bigger to regret...]
Drift off into sleep
And let the sickness overtake me
I'm a fool to think I'd care
And I'm too dead to feel your heartbeat
So dear please disregard my charm
and ignore my crafty words
Oh I can't tell you all I've heard,
Because I'm still just so unsure
[Of what I meant]
We watched the sky
As if it's distance would
Somehow make us closer
We heard the waves
As if their breaking would
make us hold together
Oh but the sky
Grew cold and dark
And the waves
Let up lost heart
And though we tried
We could not find
The question keeping us apart
So there was you
And here is me
And all I've left
is endless sea
And we are left
with nothingness
And nothing but
Our broken dreams
My dear please understand
That when I fail, I didn't mean to hurt you
You know I've tried but can't
say what I meant, say anything
It's these things
I always miss
my passiveness
will be my end
But if you let me
I will try
Oh I will fail
But I will try
At least I'll try.
A Timeless Voyage
We began our voyage
down by the river's edge
we walked on for ages
with no sight of the end
We braved mountains and cliff tops,
and great creatures of evil
through the caves, on we marched
for the lives of our people
We go on,
as if there's no choice
with no thought
to the danger ahead
but some day,
you will hear my voice
i'll burn away
all the doubt in your head
i can't quite recall,
the last time i saw light
as the air grows thicker
and our eyes grow wide
straining to see
there, a shimmer of hope
a passage to surface
the way back home
We go on,
as if there's no choice
with no thought
to the danger ahead
but some day,
you will hear my voice
i'll burn away
all the doubt in your head
my dear, don't worry your soul
All these years we've crusaded
for a king far away,
with unquestioned faith
in his will
but i'm starting to doubt
that we'll ever be the same
i've realized our king
had no care for our lives
We go on,
as if there's no choice
with no thought
to the danger ahead
but some day,
you will hear my voice
i'll burn away
all the doubt in your head
My love don't,
cry in the night
for i wont
be gone for much longer
keep searching
the western horizon
when my singing
reaches your ears
i'll be home soon,
be home with you
Yeah, I know. He is a bit long-winded. That's why I like 'im. How 'bout we throw another of his in and move on to the next? Sound good to me, and you have no say in it.
Hey Guys, Why Don't We Speed Up the Tempo and Make it Sound Happier!
Every waking hour
spent, but never used
For all my sleeplessness
I still can't quite refuse...
This is a nightmare of a dream
gag my mouth, plug my ears
so I can't hear myself scream
Try and let go of my fears
I'm breaking by the weight
Of all the stress and all the pain
oh dear please try and understand
how much of this is done vain
[and yet I find myself longing for turmoil
A reason, to forget
something bigger to regret...]
Drift off into sleep
And let the sickness overtake me
I'm a fool to think I'd care
And I'm too dead to feel your heartbeat
So dear please disregard my charm
and ignore my crafty words
Oh I can't tell you all I've heard,
Because I'm still just so unsure
[Of what I meant]
We watched the sky
As if it's distance would
Somehow make us closer
We heard the waves
As if their breaking would
make us hold together
Oh but the sky
Grew cold and dark
And the waves
Let up lost heart
And though we tried
We could not find
The question keeping us apart
So there was you
And here is me
And all I've left
is endless sea
And we are left
with nothingness
And nothing but
Our broken dreams
My dear please understand
That when I fail, I didn't mean to hurt you
You know I've tried but can't
say what I meant, say anything
It's these things
I always miss
my passiveness
will be my end
But if you let me
I will try
Oh I will fail
But I will try
At least I'll try.
A Timeless Voyage
We began our voyage
down by the river's edge
we walked on for ages
with no sight of the end
We braved mountains and cliff tops,
and great creatures of evil
through the caves, on we marched
for the lives of our people
We go on,
as if there's no choice
with no thought
to the danger ahead
but some day,
you will hear my voice
i'll burn away
all the doubt in your head
i can't quite recall,
the last time i saw light
as the air grows thicker
and our eyes grow wide
straining to see
there, a shimmer of hope
a passage to surface
the way back home
We go on,
as if there's no choice
with no thought
to the danger ahead
but some day,
you will hear my voice
i'll burn away
all the doubt in your head
my dear, don't worry your soul
All these years we've crusaded
for a king far away,
with unquestioned faith
in his will
but i'm starting to doubt
that we'll ever be the same
i've realized our king
had no care for our lives
We go on,
as if there's no choice
with no thought
to the danger ahead
but some day,
you will hear my voice
i'll burn away
all the doubt in your head
My love don't,
cry in the night
for i wont
be gone for much longer
keep searching
the western horizon
when my singing
reaches your ears
i'll be home soon,
be home with you
Yeah, I know. He is a bit long-winded. That's why I like 'im. How 'bout we throw another of his in and move on to the next? Sound good to me, and you have no say in it.
A Simple Sonnet.
I'm amused at the repetition,
and meaninglessness we endure
conclusions drawn from superstition
they think will make us pure
we're trapped inside a cage
with quite a modest view
if all the world's a stage
we're sitting in the pews
there's so much else to see
than what they have to offer
there's so much more to be
than just another scoffer
we were made, set apart
we had purpose, from the start
I made him write a sonnet. And thus was born this beast of the east. I admit to loving it. Don't tell anybody though. If you want more of this lovely gentleman, just ask. He has no link for me to give. So sad, too bad. MOVING ON!
These next few are by a rising artist named Andrew James Stone. He is destined for greatness I tell you. Or at least a life of poverty and greatness after he dies....But aren't we all (Twirls villain moustaches.) He is based out of LA but I imagine will soon move to somewhere less sunny and more poetic. I like to imagine Seattle or Prague.
The Lovers
She cried,
as she read her poem to the class
of expressionless art students, teasing
her with their indifference. She
lamented Rene’s Lover’s, mourned
their anticlimactic kiss beneath
ill-ravened sheets until her pathetic life…
a man that never knew the existence
of a slender girl with brown hair,
brown skin, brown eyes, and a bleeding
heart– are swallowed by sobs in oil on canvas.
If I remember correctly, that one is based off a painting, but I scarce remember which one. I do know that it's titled 'The Lovers'. Now, these next three, I believe, got published somewhere but again my sad, small memory fails me. I need a new memory card...
Creature in the Boss’s Office
Pinstriped scalp. Warty knuckles. Werewolf arms. Polka dot rash covering his ass. Tree stump feet. Hamburger thighs and tattoo eyes. Fish hook claws and tattered paws. Bulbesque chest. Black cat whiskers and toucan lips. Dandruff lobes and linoleum hips. Crocodile nose. Pastel toes. Vampirecosm teeth protrude from his gums. Crab thumbs.
Fuck you asshole, he’s my son.
I'm amused at the repetition,
and meaninglessness we endure
conclusions drawn from superstition
they think will make us pure
we're trapped inside a cage
with quite a modest view
if all the world's a stage
we're sitting in the pews
there's so much else to see
than what they have to offer
there's so much more to be
than just another scoffer
we were made, set apart
we had purpose, from the start
I made him write a sonnet. And thus was born this beast of the east. I admit to loving it. Don't tell anybody though. If you want more of this lovely gentleman, just ask. He has no link for me to give. So sad, too bad. MOVING ON!
These next few are by a rising artist named Andrew James Stone. He is destined for greatness I tell you. Or at least a life of poverty and greatness after he dies....But aren't we all (Twirls villain moustaches.) He is based out of LA but I imagine will soon move to somewhere less sunny and more poetic. I like to imagine Seattle or Prague.
The Lovers
She cried,
as she read her poem to the class
of expressionless art students, teasing
her with their indifference. She
lamented Rene’s Lover’s, mourned
their anticlimactic kiss beneath
ill-ravened sheets until her pathetic life…
a man that never knew the existence
of a slender girl with brown hair,
brown skin, brown eyes, and a bleeding
heart– are swallowed by sobs in oil on canvas.
If I remember correctly, that one is based off a painting, but I scarce remember which one. I do know that it's titled 'The Lovers'. Now, these next three, I believe, got published somewhere but again my sad, small memory fails me. I need a new memory card...
Creature in the Boss’s Office
Pinstriped scalp. Warty knuckles. Werewolf arms. Polka dot rash covering his ass. Tree stump feet. Hamburger thighs and tattoo eyes. Fish hook claws and tattered paws. Bulbesque chest. Black cat whiskers and toucan lips. Dandruff lobes and linoleum hips. Crocodile nose. Pastel toes. Vampirecosm teeth protrude from his gums. Crab thumbs.
Fuck you asshole, he’s my son.
Wrong Way Out
Creatures hid themselves in the wind, their echoes seeping through the cracks in the wall once occupied by a door. It was a black night. Rain lashed against my sinking roof. I covered myself with blankets, but they ghosted through. I never saw them but I knew they were there. Creatures coffinized my melting heart, their voices possessed my soul and led me to an open door ready to lock me inside.
Creatures hid themselves in the wind, their echoes seeping through the cracks in the wall once occupied by a door. It was a black night. Rain lashed against my sinking roof. I covered myself with blankets, but they ghosted through. I never saw them but I knew they were there. Creatures coffinized my melting heart, their voices possessed my soul and led me to an open door ready to lock me inside.
The Man and His Box
Men shouted “fuck” and “shit” as the machine guns fired metal balls through the screaming wind. Blood dashed circles around my mind. Eyes, mouth, ears, nose shattered like glass. Kids fell to the ground screaming in agony and a voice inside my head laughs laughter. But how? My soul cringes at the carnage and unhinges from my body. Sweat clouds my forehead and that damn laughter says: Relax dude, it’s just a movie.
Ain't he a darling? I get the feeling he will eventually change the world. Well everyone will change the world, just some in more subtle ways than others. His, I believe, will be less subtle. Oh, and here is the link to his blog and thus access to more of his brilliance. You're welcome. http://andrewjstone.blogspot.com/2011/09/magic-cat-and-music.html?spref=fb And yes, I do realize he is an intense fellow.
Men shouted “fuck” and “shit” as the machine guns fired metal balls through the screaming wind. Blood dashed circles around my mind. Eyes, mouth, ears, nose shattered like glass. Kids fell to the ground screaming in agony and a voice inside my head laughs laughter. But how? My soul cringes at the carnage and unhinges from my body. Sweat clouds my forehead and that damn laughter says: Relax dude, it’s just a movie.
Ain't he a darling? I get the feeling he will eventually change the world. Well everyone will change the world, just some in more subtle ways than others. His, I believe, will be less subtle. Oh, and here is the link to his blog and thus access to more of his brilliance. You're welcome. http://andrewjstone.blogspot.com/2011/09/magic-cat-and-music.html?spref=fb And yes, I do realize he is an intense fellow.
Well, that is all of others poetry. I know, I know, I am lacking in the poet-friends area. What I lack in quantity, I make up in talent.
My turn. Yep, I saved the best for last. (Cue wry face) Always a good thing to do, saving the best for last, Except with Skittles, by the time you get to the good ones your mouth is all thick-sugary and tastes too much like high fructose corn syrup. Alright, well, here goes...
Make Believe (this is)
Little Robby Cottontail
was a-hoppin' in the jungle
and a spotty Mcspottypants
leopard
swung in from a vine
and ate him
up
down
and all around
so sad
too bad
sure hope
his millionannahalf
brothers and sisters
don't miss him
I bet they've forgotten about him
right about now.
Ballgame
Louis or Louie
hit the ball
with a slugger
a real slugger
that knocked it
far far away
to never ever after
and spent
the next ten
twenty
tick-tocks
Little Robby Cottontail
was a-hoppin' in the jungle
and a spotty Mcspottypants
leopard
swung in from a vine
and ate him
up
down
and all around
so sad
too bad
sure hope
his millionannahalf
brothers and sisters
don't miss him
I bet they've forgotten about him
right about now.
Ballgame
Louis or Louie
hit the ball
with a slugger
a real slugger
that knocked it
far far away
to never ever after
and spent
the next ten
twenty
tick-tocks
on the clock
talking about it all
Liar
If everyone were
to lie through
their teeth, tongues and noses
would it whistle and shudder
like a lone wolf-child
or click-clack-clatter
like claws on a typewriter
If I asked you to read this again
and tell me it was good
what would it sound like
through your teeth, tongue and nose?
If everyone were
to lie through
their teeth, tongues and noses
would it whistle and shudder
like a lone wolf-child
or click-clack-clatter
like claws on a typewriter
If I asked you to read this again
and tell me it was good
what would it sound like
through your teeth, tongue and nose?
Salmon-coloured Salmon
It's a racetrack down there
and if I were
a them or a they
I would toss in a 'baby'
and sing-song it
like old man kangaroo
But I'm not
and we're not
so let's just be
spring-summer-winter salmon
and swim backwards
up-stream
and just be so mixed up
that we turn a full circle
back
to
normal.
Oh Love
It's a racetrack down there
and if I were
a them or a they
I would toss in a 'baby'
and sing-song it
like old man kangaroo
But I'm not
and we're not
so let's just be
spring-summer-winter salmon
and swim backwards
up-stream
and just be so mixed up
that we turn a full circle
back
to
normal.
Oh Love
I would make life a dream weave
If I dared have a chance with it
I have those clumsy fingers
But I would dare it
if you'd come along for the ride
a trip to the land of Cush
and back again to wherever we were
You and I, we get along swimmingly
deep out there in the Great Green Sea
I left for a moment, just a moment
to kiss the sun at it's zenith
but you weren't there
and my heart then hung undone
so I came back to you and your arms
I won't leave if you don't
Deal?
Alright, I know there's more of me than others, but hey, I have more guns in my weaponry. Give me that will ya? Well in other news, my 'blogger fro' is growing out from it's 'normal person' stubble, I have perfected the settling of my thick, hipster glasses on my nose and my skin is stay-inside-day-in-and-out pale. I've got this blogger deal DOWN.
Buffalo Gal cancha come out tonight, cancha come out tonight, cancha come out tonight, Buffalo Gal cancha come out toniiiiiiight, and dance by the light of the mooooon.
Well, as always, Banksy is a fantastic lawbreaker, The Clash made great music and if you don't like me, follow the blog and file your formal complaint, that'll show me.
MUSIC
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Happy News
Good newsWorld Wide Webbers! Your favorite nut just got published! Heh, I didn't specify who the good news was benefiting.... Anywhooooo, The Rainbow Rose has been so gracious to me by allowing my nuttiness to pollute their webpage and for that I am thankful. So, thanks. Here's the link....http://therainbowroseezine.blogspot.com/ You may need to scroll down a bit, I didn't check my email for a bit. SCHOOL. That is my excuse. An excuse I shall not be able to use in a few years...bollocks, whatever shall I do then... Anyway, the moral of this blog is good things come to those who check their emails. And with that I bid you adeu, I have made myself productive and now I am going to make a very bad decision and do little else. Hope your day brings you joy and productivity, Happy Sunday.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
I'm back....didja miss me?
Hellooooo down there...slow going? Alright, this one never got publish, never will, mainly because I never tried...that might be the problem. But some things just never do. This Beast of the East is about 'The Jungle' Y'know, the novel by Upton Sinclair that changed the food industry and helped the working class? You don't? That's okay. I still love you. Anyway.
Into the Jungle
A beefy underling
sweeping the entrails
a dime for his time
thick 'n' red like the sun
under the dust and blood-mud
peasant hands
deft and clever
good at what they do.
Lunch with lard
instead of butter
a dime won't buy much
he who has know
no other
than the curve of a back
that holds
the weight of the sun
and the pin-bright stars.
A sun-dried tomato
work-shriveled until it is
alienated from it's original self
He is a cog
among other cogs
and when he grows rust
he is replaced
that's just the facts, honey
because in this day and age
a human
may not be
such a terrible thing to waste.
So yes. I do realize it's depressing nature. But I am an artist and I do what I want. So toodle-oo.
Into the Jungle
A beefy underling
sweeping the entrails
a dime for his time
thick 'n' red like the sun
under the dust and blood-mud
peasant hands
deft and clever
good at what they do.
Lunch with lard
instead of butter
a dime won't buy much
he who has know
no other
than the curve of a back
that holds
the weight of the sun
and the pin-bright stars.
A sun-dried tomato
work-shriveled until it is
alienated from it's original self
He is a cog
among other cogs
and when he grows rust
he is replaced
that's just the facts, honey
because in this day and age
a human
may not be
such a terrible thing to waste.
So yes. I do realize it's depressing nature. But I am an artist and I do what I want. So toodle-oo.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Let's get this party started
Okay random blank-faced Internet users, here is the most most most recent publishment. In fact, it is so recent, it is not even up on the site. So you are in the good here buddies...'cause I love you all, every single stranger...
Vlad
I was the shadow
of a waxwing slain
sullen and sodden
plain as a Jane
but I suppose
that is well beyond
your concern
so close me down
ford me up
hide me in
that pages of a library book
where I belong
along romance and jokers
goodbye goodbye
forget me not
or do
if it makes you feel any better
Yes, I know it lacks punctuation. I happen to lazy. But we in the business call it creative liberties. Anyway, here's the site link, visit it, I happen to love it a fair amount, if that influences you at all.... http://thecamelsaloon.blogspot.com/
Here's one I didn't even try to publish, probably because I wrote in on the side of my arm in semi-darkness at around 2 AM. I rarely give my two AM ideas much more than a second thought but where's a better place to say stupid things than the Internet?
Mr. Perfect
If an Einstein
were a real Einstein
he and I would be very happy
flirting and currying each others favor
and lew of pay raises
but y'know
that's the way love goes
and goes goes goes
right honey?
Alright, that is all folks. Go back to your normal well-adjusted lives...
Vlad
I was the shadow
of a waxwing slain
sullen and sodden
plain as a Jane
but I suppose
that is well beyond
your concern
so close me down
ford me up
hide me in
that pages of a library book
where I belong
along romance and jokers
goodbye goodbye
forget me not
or do
if it makes you feel any better
Yes, I know it lacks punctuation. I happen to lazy. But we in the business call it creative liberties. Anyway, here's the site link, visit it, I happen to love it a fair amount, if that influences you at all.... http://thecamelsaloon.blogspot.com/
Here's one I didn't even try to publish, probably because I wrote in on the side of my arm in semi-darkness at around 2 AM. I rarely give my two AM ideas much more than a second thought but where's a better place to say stupid things than the Internet?
Mr. Perfect
If an Einstein
were a real Einstein
he and I would be very happy
flirting and currying each others favor
and lew of pay raises
but y'know
that's the way love goes
and goes goes goes
right honey?
Alright, that is all folks. Go back to your normal well-adjusted lives...
Oh, I have to title this rubbish?
First blog post. Oh, now I feel all internety....I need an internet fro and some hipster clothes. I don't know where I would get those. The hipsters just won't tell me. Okay, I sould probably tell you what this steaming pile of rubbish is going to be about so you can decide what to do and all. I plan to blatently self-promote, randomly assult you with my poetry and generally blabber on about the strange thoughts that pass my mind. It sounds fun to me. If it does to you, you may need to talk to your doctor.
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