archivd sept 06
workerb
Unregistered User
(9/5/06 4:28 pm)
Reply | Edit | Del Al
6 minit pome
writing anything for a pome
is better than writing not a damn
thing about my day, like i've been
doin caught in all this pragmatic but last
nite when the storm came up
from the airport in all its sunset mauves, sub
dued blues and we just barely escaped
the deluge yes it was a deluge for at least an hour
and after the road between the trailers
was fit for canoe and not much else
and stll this morning, a small river there i'd call that deluge
i thought man what a new way to see the sunset
under the power lines praying the lightning
that just went off up at linebaugh
doesn't turn us into one of those statistics
but it'd be ok if we saw a ball of it
go thru some of those suv's/
%
two more cigs, whatever i do in that time
that's what stays. just read a post where this poet
who wrote poems on napkins in bars was taken aback
when someone used it for a napkin. he'd given it to her
to read but her drink spilled. not intentionally
she wiped it up with the poem. so? yr not emily
you write on scraps they[re meant to disappear.
^^^
Unregistered User
(9/2/06 4:15 pm)
Reply | Edit | Del All some other matrix in which you were not a player and the world was not a stage
i lay me down to sleep
but you were there instead.
lavender gloaming stippled
with the touch of your absence.
fingers gripping the zip
and letting go. i opened
my eyes and yours were there
the color behind the sky like clouds
making faces between lightning strikes.
i have never believed you
but i have loved you, never
like i needed to or how you wanted
but love doesn't fill to spec.
snuggled against the soft pillow i desire you
absent. i need the rest.
my body fills with bee hum, a drift
into spider secrets and the moans of the web.
but i'm hungry. i dream of vallarta's and fifteen
dollar pitchers. how you'll take me there
and we'll get happily drunk, like we were children
again and we'll laugh and there will be joy.
there will be. you will get angry with the waiter
as he flirts i will be jealous of the woman who walks
by and drops her purse between your legs.
we will love like this: possissive, instinctual, groping.
the nape of my neck. the tip of your
ear. the last sound before a tsunami of light.
&
things that make her feel real nietzsche thinks a great poet
could explore cobwebs
or was that god's boredom in the thundrous
wondrous applause that followed creation.
and why do they call it cobwebs.
what have spiders to do with corn ?
maybe the connective tissue, is silk.
odd what binds us.
the asphalt is curved like a river.
when it rains like seattle the river
slimes in the dull grey light but when it rains
like india it shivers with a pox upon the deep.
and at nite
the water is black, holds its secrets
as ophelia did.
bewildered
belittled.
perhaps a gun to the mouth
or the head. iron on flesh.
tim burton's eyemakeup runnels
from manicured lawns knifing
themselves into respectablity.
still the windows leak. she learns
to not answer the phone.
it keeps ringing.
like in her head.
but the caller id is someone she's known
she picks it up after the second round.
some things voice mail just can't handle.
the sun slits thru the end of the day
bleeding light in a golden wash
parsed over certain pieces of sky.
a young lad throws an unripe orange
at her cat. he misses and hits the house.
she feels the thump, in a single compacted
vibratioon. if she was less than ectoplasm
would that happen? and then there's
the mystery of the o's. she can't
catch them all, so she vows to abstain
entirely. her fingers are quicker
than the gulf under katrina's
yawning mouth. the rush of river
riding waves imprints itself .
she didn't know she was a hatchling.
watches sunsets but not sunrises
feels the revel of velvet beginning at the end
like her favourite books.
trashpo
ezOP
(9/7/06 7:23 pm)
Reply | Edit | Del
ezSupporter
i have written THREE THINGS TONITE.
TWO OF THEM HAVE BEEN LOST TO THE WEB.
one of them i may reconstruct.
fuck fuck fuck
&&
parrafin mirrors never turn one down: dumpster
eviction on the even days, patriot sirens
on the odd. there is something loose
about the slap of that bass, they're comin
to get cha like the time jay pulled the plug
on ya open mic then left his equipment behind
and you and jerry hadda schlep his stuff
home too and he tellin ya ya suck man
ya suck
i've been dreaming a river of motes,
her river, that deep forgetfulness ophelia
as played by helena bonham carter
betrayed by madness
or obession or will he
be or not
her love her
hamlet wrapped in honor and ghosts
wrapped in onion paper skin
she write on the leaves she leave
with brush stroke meandering along
the side of your face o
feel ya breakin my heart
o the soft kiss of water
but that wasn't what i was gonna say
then i saw these images in a bird's collage
and forgot my song. how sweet sometimes
to be free of the word, the need for voice.
actually, that's rationalization for losing the thought
between outside and now
things go by so fast.
the reset button on fruity loops
the digital falling apart.
like that cool site jack found with the exploding letters.
a link would be nice.
in the evening, rain.
the band in the trailer
behind us practices heavy
metal. thunder sluices thru
power lines, monsoons
poke holes in the gutters.
traffic holds it prisoners
off in the distance, like kabul.
there is nothing that ties me
to these people. nothing
that seperates me. the gulf
rattles, a small shift of earth
reminder for the lacy anthills we build.
if i could put it in one line
the mote of each moment
dizzling in a beam of light
that's how i feel a lot of the time.
as if nothing has consequences since
the consequences are inevitable
gravity does its thing, entropy obliges.
light gets caught at the event horizon
and immortality is born
in a quazar spider's planetary system
didacticly, i remember that you said
solar system as a term should only apply
to the star sol, our yellow sun
whose googaplexirant of the slipstream
roils in trilobyte ecstacy.
i use the proper term.
talk too much. insert the commas
but leave the question marks to the future.
by then i'll have this bass line imprinted
and maybe that star you want to ride
wil fall out of the sky for you.
heh, but that isn't what i wanted to talk about either.
she told me " i had lost myself in him, ya know?"
and i think, yeah, i do.
****
when one character wont come up as i push the little spirograph symbol
on the mac
instead of the shift key i try another.
then i realize. i was readingg some good bloggs tonite.
my gg likes to double.
even when it didn't, i did it for it.
the sound of video games permeates my house
we're in toward the end of the grapes of wrath,
right before it all goes to pits when they're in the
govment camp. i so identify with those okies
just scratchin chickens tryin to make some rulez
to govern ourselves by. and i've read the book before.
i know they leave the safety of the camp
the hot runnin water, the toilets
i know they go back out on that cruel road
and i want to stop now, i want clean clothes
and cornpone for dinner, twentyfive cents an hour
and livin in a tent to the boxcar i know's coming.
that terrible hour in the rain. the breakup of the fambly.
***
and i wonder how jake will react.
and why do i read it to him now
just as he turns thirteen?
()
i was so careful or so i thought
thought i had it all ready
but when i punched enter
fuckin ezbored erased it
becuz some fields were missing.
anyway.
i'm going to daytona
this weekend, brithday present
for my girl. somehing her
turning 18 is not sinking in.
she might think she's adult
but i just painted her room pink
i just taught her how to ride a bike
shit i JUST changd her diaper,
what do you mean she can vote?
¶¶¶
7 min pol pot pome
bury my heart with habeus
corpus out by corpus christi way
i'll never find the missing thing
beat bush or beat the livelong day
bury it deep in the dust of zeus
newmade with this century's gold
a knell, a toll, a sad bell's ring
in memory of passing old
both bodies we can spirit away
like death camps in the jungle
cambodia, nam, paraguay
Percy Budgie Shelley
Moderator
(9/20/06 6:43 pm)
Reply | Edit | Del
Re: 7 min pol pot pome If I think in terms of this
Personal self then I must think
In terms of the destruction of
This personal self. Such destruction,
Unredeemed, because inside of it,
In its midst, we’re always looking for
A way to see the healthy half, the
Still-fresh, still-living half. That can
Only work if I see past myself. It can’t
Just be the I who sees past myself --
It has to also be an other who sees
Through me, I am a window through
Which one other looks at another other.
And each other is full of others…
See this huge bubbling, seething of others.
It is absurd, to worry about the extermination
Of this one little self, in the face of these
Zillions of others each as intense. They
Disprove self. Self is an error of the language.
The health is the health of the fish in the bowl
On the desk, of the kitten, of the two parakeets,
The wife, the kid. And for all the others glimpsing
Through them, trees with faces in them, leaves
Full of sea, earth full of footprints.
A new language without a self, yet poetic,
Already occurs, is known as the wordless.
fade i'm writing to you but
posting on the internet
b/c you stopped reading my mail
long ago , if blogger was working i'd
post there i am so finicky
about where i put my notes most times
i bury them in some obligatory heap
and expect you to find them but not
this time no i'm watching
the way perception changes, love me one
minute, psychobitch me the next something
a little exciting about having got out of that
alive i'm sure
you'll look back on this in a few years
and wonder what about that slack
body ever excited you how those eyes
could ever know you cuz when you finally
fucked fame she was better than you
thought, the best pain you ever had.
but this is not about you.
it never was.
*
paris, having tried everything else
tries celibacy. it's the third time
i've heard that word in less than 24 hours.
keith says it, and diana asks if he masturbates.
he says yeah and she explains that's not
celibacy. no sex. that's celibate. then she says
i'm celibate too. i ask, literally. she says,
no, i'm his kind.
8]]]]
once you've entered the maze
it's cheating to step over the bags
where candles glow inside like fireflies
with elephantitis. you can sense frendly
faces beckoning to you outside
the half lite cast by them you can
make it murmurs at the peripheries of concentration.
you learn to ignore them, follow captured
stars along a path whose substance
fades beneath their light. you find yourself
beginning to hope it's a very long maze.
with a minotaur at the center.
*
i have no hope for us, you must
understand. not really.
your life will take you away from me
and when you come back
which you must
the skeleton of what we had
will remind you of the times you watched
freddy kruger knife his friends out of the corners
of your eyes, kissing father goodnite.
you will run, with a lump in your lymph, excise it
with chemotherapy and live to have your children.
as you always knew you would.
so many times you told me.
i look at you
because i cannot bear to look at me.
*
my gut hurts.
not the sharp pains of ulcer yet
but i feel the flare.
once your hands could soothe it.
now, your hands find other uses.
the same as they've been
but without me in the equation.
i sleep alone.
you're in the next room
but the pillow is my lover.
when i put it stark like this without
the valid reasons we both understand
are needed for you to achieve your dream
it becomes the cliche everyone always more than
suspected. i should have known this was coming scorpio,
a friend said she had to eat crow about you.
as if it were settled.
as if this one thing could be trusted.
as if.
stung again.
*
you see the last luminary
the one which beyond
there is only the dark wood
where your friends have gathered
with cider supplied by the priests.
you know this but have forgotten.
it's glow grows in your eyes
a cinder's pulse. you hesistate to leave
the maze but it rushes toward you, warp speed,
you wanted to linger between jupiter
and saturn but now pluto looms in its wrong orbit
and it's calling you home, some place
you've never been before.
%%%%
Self is an error of the language. this is my line she sez o yez
i built it, they would come
a dribble castle on the edge of the tide
pooling on top of itself, crennelated sugar
tumbled and melted in wavewash
admitting to nothing like permanence,
immanence. it melts. i build again
the refrain goes
'like 22 hours of darkness and two of light'.
i found it on my own, but he borrows it.
ike reilly wrote it.
*
used to say "time enough to sleep
when you're dead" . i check my pulse.
you close my eyes.
coquina corpses thick
as the beach grows . breaking out
further, water that licked me yesterday.
same ways, different waves. jonny
cash sings about why he wears black.
jack introduces the birds to his cat.
he's foaming at the brain, like thru
a soap bubble wand with too many holes.
froth, popping from he center out.
froth on the face of the water
sizzling burgers heavy on the salt.
white stripe down the center of my ears.
crank that muther up
we got a skimboard and boogie board
and the ocean's not getting any younger.
*
i have to talk all day now.
about manufacturing, about parts and problems
plastic pieces and underperforming sensors.
the detectors myst across positions
designated by the stars fist
forming in a upper hamptons kind of gasoline & match punch.
*
the chiken kiev is almost ready.
i should put in the fish.
we have italian side dish
and a green salad. at the door
where the sand forms little tidepools of desert
i hear the bleat of a goat, but when i open it...
and there's the sky. blue. uncluttered by metal
or other falling objects. i have electricity.
my li'l shell's color is the last purple before dark.
i feel squishy and ready for dinner.
here comes the tide.
^^^^
ka'tiki we lie in bed, in the dark.
you're very drunk and when you
get very drunk you're always
filled with the hate you push
into your gut like processed sausages
and cold fries. first it's your dad
then your mom then the man
who told you to play a diminished c.
you tell me they can't hurt you, say
i can't hurt you
because any criticisms i have
you've already said to yourself.
worthless is the word.
sobs wrack our bed.
at some point during your self flagellation
i realize we will never bake bread together.
i begin to cry, and can't stop.
you tell me it's not about me.
i agree. it never was.
like i said what i say
doesn't matter.
i can't make a difference any more
i just want to be set free from your pain.
why do i despise myself so much
you wail for the tenth time.
cuz you're drunk.
o
yeah, i forgot
we both begin to laugh.
##$#$#$%@#^#^&&*()
we'll feed the power hunger
Unregistered User
(9/5/06 4:28 pm)
Reply | Edit | Del Al
6 minit pome
writing anything for a pome
is better than writing not a damn
thing about my day, like i've been
doin caught in all this pragmatic but last
nite when the storm came up
from the airport in all its sunset mauves, sub
dued blues and we just barely escaped
the deluge yes it was a deluge for at least an hour
and after the road between the trailers
was fit for canoe and not much else
and stll this morning, a small river there i'd call that deluge
i thought man what a new way to see the sunset
under the power lines praying the lightning
that just went off up at linebaugh
doesn't turn us into one of those statistics
but it'd be ok if we saw a ball of it
go thru some of those suv's/
%
two more cigs, whatever i do in that time
that's what stays. just read a post where this poet
who wrote poems on napkins in bars was taken aback
when someone used it for a napkin. he'd given it to her
to read but her drink spilled. not intentionally
she wiped it up with the poem. so? yr not emily
you write on scraps they[re meant to disappear.
^^^
Unregistered User
(9/2/06 4:15 pm)
Reply | Edit | Del All some other matrix in which you were not a player and the world was not a stage
i lay me down to sleep
but you were there instead.
lavender gloaming stippled
with the touch of your absence.
fingers gripping the zip
and letting go. i opened
my eyes and yours were there
the color behind the sky like clouds
making faces between lightning strikes.
i have never believed you
but i have loved you, never
like i needed to or how you wanted
but love doesn't fill to spec.
snuggled against the soft pillow i desire you
absent. i need the rest.
my body fills with bee hum, a drift
into spider secrets and the moans of the web.
but i'm hungry. i dream of vallarta's and fifteen
dollar pitchers. how you'll take me there
and we'll get happily drunk, like we were children
again and we'll laugh and there will be joy.
there will be. you will get angry with the waiter
as he flirts i will be jealous of the woman who walks
by and drops her purse between your legs.
we will love like this: possissive, instinctual, groping.
the nape of my neck. the tip of your
ear. the last sound before a tsunami of light.
&
things that make her feel real nietzsche thinks a great poet
could explore cobwebs
or was that god's boredom in the thundrous
wondrous applause that followed creation.
and why do they call it cobwebs.
what have spiders to do with corn ?
maybe the connective tissue, is silk.
odd what binds us.
the asphalt is curved like a river.
when it rains like seattle the river
slimes in the dull grey light but when it rains
like india it shivers with a pox upon the deep.
and at nite
the water is black, holds its secrets
as ophelia did.
bewildered
belittled.
perhaps a gun to the mouth
or the head. iron on flesh.
tim burton's eyemakeup runnels
from manicured lawns knifing
themselves into respectablity.
still the windows leak. she learns
to not answer the phone.
it keeps ringing.
like in her head.
but the caller id is someone she's known
she picks it up after the second round.
some things voice mail just can't handle.
the sun slits thru the end of the day
bleeding light in a golden wash
parsed over certain pieces of sky.
a young lad throws an unripe orange
at her cat. he misses and hits the house.
she feels the thump, in a single compacted
vibratioon. if she was less than ectoplasm
would that happen? and then there's
the mystery of the o's. she can't
catch them all, so she vows to abstain
entirely. her fingers are quicker
than the gulf under katrina's
yawning mouth. the rush of river
riding waves imprints itself .
she didn't know she was a hatchling.
watches sunsets but not sunrises
feels the revel of velvet beginning at the end
like her favourite books.
trashpo
ezOP
(9/7/06 7:23 pm)
Reply | Edit | Del
ezSupporter
i have written THREE THINGS TONITE.
TWO OF THEM HAVE BEEN LOST TO THE WEB.
one of them i may reconstruct.
fuck fuck fuck
&&
parrafin mirrors never turn one down: dumpster
eviction on the even days, patriot sirens
on the odd. there is something loose
about the slap of that bass, they're comin
to get cha like the time jay pulled the plug
on ya open mic then left his equipment behind
and you and jerry hadda schlep his stuff
home too and he tellin ya ya suck man
ya suck
i've been dreaming a river of motes,
her river, that deep forgetfulness ophelia
as played by helena bonham carter
betrayed by madness
or obession or will he
be or not
her love her
hamlet wrapped in honor and ghosts
wrapped in onion paper skin
she write on the leaves she leave
with brush stroke meandering along
the side of your face o
feel ya breakin my heart
o the soft kiss of water
but that wasn't what i was gonna say
then i saw these images in a bird's collage
and forgot my song. how sweet sometimes
to be free of the word, the need for voice.
actually, that's rationalization for losing the thought
between outside and now
things go by so fast.
the reset button on fruity loops
the digital falling apart.
like that cool site jack found with the exploding letters.
a link would be nice.
in the evening, rain.
the band in the trailer
behind us practices heavy
metal. thunder sluices thru
power lines, monsoons
poke holes in the gutters.
traffic holds it prisoners
off in the distance, like kabul.
there is nothing that ties me
to these people. nothing
that seperates me. the gulf
rattles, a small shift of earth
reminder for the lacy anthills we build.
if i could put it in one line
the mote of each moment
dizzling in a beam of light
that's how i feel a lot of the time.
as if nothing has consequences since
the consequences are inevitable
gravity does its thing, entropy obliges.
light gets caught at the event horizon
and immortality is born
in a quazar spider's planetary system
didacticly, i remember that you said
solar system as a term should only apply
to the star sol, our yellow sun
whose googaplexirant of the slipstream
roils in trilobyte ecstacy.
i use the proper term.
talk too much. insert the commas
but leave the question marks to the future.
by then i'll have this bass line imprinted
and maybe that star you want to ride
wil fall out of the sky for you.
heh, but that isn't what i wanted to talk about either.
she told me " i had lost myself in him, ya know?"
and i think, yeah, i do.
****
when one character wont come up as i push the little spirograph symbol
on the mac
instead of the shift key i try another.
then i realize. i was readingg some good bloggs tonite.
my gg likes to double.
even when it didn't, i did it for it.
the sound of video games permeates my house
we're in toward the end of the grapes of wrath,
right before it all goes to pits when they're in the
govment camp. i so identify with those okies
just scratchin chickens tryin to make some rulez
to govern ourselves by. and i've read the book before.
i know they leave the safety of the camp
the hot runnin water, the toilets
i know they go back out on that cruel road
and i want to stop now, i want clean clothes
and cornpone for dinner, twentyfive cents an hour
and livin in a tent to the boxcar i know's coming.
that terrible hour in the rain. the breakup of the fambly.
***
and i wonder how jake will react.
and why do i read it to him now
just as he turns thirteen?
()
i was so careful or so i thought
thought i had it all ready
but when i punched enter
fuckin ezbored erased it
becuz some fields were missing.
anyway.
i'm going to daytona
this weekend, brithday present
for my girl. somehing her
turning 18 is not sinking in.
she might think she's adult
but i just painted her room pink
i just taught her how to ride a bike
shit i JUST changd her diaper,
what do you mean she can vote?
¶¶¶
7 min pol pot pome
bury my heart with habeus
corpus out by corpus christi way
i'll never find the missing thing
beat bush or beat the livelong day
bury it deep in the dust of zeus
newmade with this century's gold
a knell, a toll, a sad bell's ring
in memory of passing old
both bodies we can spirit away
like death camps in the jungle
cambodia, nam, paraguay
Percy Budgie Shelley
Moderator
(9/20/06 6:43 pm)
Reply | Edit | Del
Re: 7 min pol pot pome If I think in terms of this
Personal self then I must think
In terms of the destruction of
This personal self. Such destruction,
Unredeemed, because inside of it,
In its midst, we’re always looking for
A way to see the healthy half, the
Still-fresh, still-living half. That can
Only work if I see past myself. It can’t
Just be the I who sees past myself --
It has to also be an other who sees
Through me, I am a window through
Which one other looks at another other.
And each other is full of others…
See this huge bubbling, seething of others.
It is absurd, to worry about the extermination
Of this one little self, in the face of these
Zillions of others each as intense. They
Disprove self. Self is an error of the language.
The health is the health of the fish in the bowl
On the desk, of the kitten, of the two parakeets,
The wife, the kid. And for all the others glimpsing
Through them, trees with faces in them, leaves
Full of sea, earth full of footprints.
A new language without a self, yet poetic,
Already occurs, is known as the wordless.
fade i'm writing to you but
posting on the internet
b/c you stopped reading my mail
long ago , if blogger was working i'd
post there i am so finicky
about where i put my notes most times
i bury them in some obligatory heap
and expect you to find them but not
this time no i'm watching
the way perception changes, love me one
minute, psychobitch me the next something
a little exciting about having got out of that
alive i'm sure
you'll look back on this in a few years
and wonder what about that slack
body ever excited you how those eyes
could ever know you cuz when you finally
fucked fame she was better than you
thought, the best pain you ever had.
but this is not about you.
it never was.
*
paris, having tried everything else
tries celibacy. it's the third time
i've heard that word in less than 24 hours.
keith says it, and diana asks if he masturbates.
he says yeah and she explains that's not
celibacy. no sex. that's celibate. then she says
i'm celibate too. i ask, literally. she says,
no, i'm his kind.
8]]]]
once you've entered the maze
it's cheating to step over the bags
where candles glow inside like fireflies
with elephantitis. you can sense frendly
faces beckoning to you outside
the half lite cast by them you can
make it murmurs at the peripheries of concentration.
you learn to ignore them, follow captured
stars along a path whose substance
fades beneath their light. you find yourself
beginning to hope it's a very long maze.
with a minotaur at the center.
*
i have no hope for us, you must
understand. not really.
your life will take you away from me
and when you come back
which you must
the skeleton of what we had
will remind you of the times you watched
freddy kruger knife his friends out of the corners
of your eyes, kissing father goodnite.
you will run, with a lump in your lymph, excise it
with chemotherapy and live to have your children.
as you always knew you would.
so many times you told me.
i look at you
because i cannot bear to look at me.
*
my gut hurts.
not the sharp pains of ulcer yet
but i feel the flare.
once your hands could soothe it.
now, your hands find other uses.
the same as they've been
but without me in the equation.
i sleep alone.
you're in the next room
but the pillow is my lover.
when i put it stark like this without
the valid reasons we both understand
are needed for you to achieve your dream
it becomes the cliche everyone always more than
suspected. i should have known this was coming scorpio,
a friend said she had to eat crow about you.
as if it were settled.
as if this one thing could be trusted.
as if.
stung again.
*
you see the last luminary
the one which beyond
there is only the dark wood
where your friends have gathered
with cider supplied by the priests.
you know this but have forgotten.
it's glow grows in your eyes
a cinder's pulse. you hesistate to leave
the maze but it rushes toward you, warp speed,
you wanted to linger between jupiter
and saturn but now pluto looms in its wrong orbit
and it's calling you home, some place
you've never been before.
%%%%
Self is an error of the language. this is my line she sez o yez
i built it, they would come
a dribble castle on the edge of the tide
pooling on top of itself, crennelated sugar
tumbled and melted in wavewash
admitting to nothing like permanence,
immanence. it melts. i build again
the refrain goes
'like 22 hours of darkness and two of light'.
i found it on my own, but he borrows it.
ike reilly wrote it.
*
used to say "time enough to sleep
when you're dead" . i check my pulse.
you close my eyes.
coquina corpses thick
as the beach grows . breaking out
further, water that licked me yesterday.
same ways, different waves. jonny
cash sings about why he wears black.
jack introduces the birds to his cat.
he's foaming at the brain, like thru
a soap bubble wand with too many holes.
froth, popping from he center out.
froth on the face of the water
sizzling burgers heavy on the salt.
white stripe down the center of my ears.
crank that muther up
we got a skimboard and boogie board
and the ocean's not getting any younger.
*
i have to talk all day now.
about manufacturing, about parts and problems
plastic pieces and underperforming sensors.
the detectors myst across positions
designated by the stars fist
forming in a upper hamptons kind of gasoline & match punch.
*
the chiken kiev is almost ready.
i should put in the fish.
we have italian side dish
and a green salad. at the door
where the sand forms little tidepools of desert
i hear the bleat of a goat, but when i open it...
and there's the sky. blue. uncluttered by metal
or other falling objects. i have electricity.
my li'l shell's color is the last purple before dark.
i feel squishy and ready for dinner.
here comes the tide.
^^^^
ka'tiki we lie in bed, in the dark.
you're very drunk and when you
get very drunk you're always
filled with the hate you push
into your gut like processed sausages
and cold fries. first it's your dad
then your mom then the man
who told you to play a diminished c.
you tell me they can't hurt you, say
i can't hurt you
because any criticisms i have
you've already said to yourself.
worthless is the word.
sobs wrack our bed.
at some point during your self flagellation
i realize we will never bake bread together.
i begin to cry, and can't stop.
you tell me it's not about me.
i agree. it never was.
like i said what i say
doesn't matter.
i can't make a difference any more
i just want to be set free from your pain.
why do i despise myself so much
you wail for the tenth time.
cuz you're drunk.
o
yeah, i forgot
we both begin to laugh.
##$#$#$%@#^#^&&*()
we'll feed the power hunger
posted by hiccup at 11:06 PM
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