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27 February 2011 @ 05:29 pm
I'm sitting here on a Sunday with two screens.
One is feeding me all the things I despise about wealth,
but I thought it'd be a glamourous way to while away the wait.
I ended up getting sick instead.
I can't appreciate what you're wearing
when there are people arm in arm in a building,
and they have been there all through the night
and they will not go gentle.

I try to reevaluate my reason for flipping on screen one.
Screen one, screen one, I tried to take a walk with you,
but you've begun to smother me with your oblivion.
I keep waiting for someone inside to stop and think your belly strange.
I keep waiting for someone to be wonderfully gnarled and glare you cold.
I keep waiting for someone to stop you midnonsense and say,
"We are in a box, goddamn it. Have you looked outside
of late?" But everyone keeps milling about and the longer they mill
the more desperate and angry I become.

Screen one, screen one, you bastard.
You've let me down, and I am not in the mood for trash.
Screen two, you are hurling your heated passion my way incessantly.
I sit here and become saturated with your deep-set purpose
while screen one smiles and I tell it to shut up before I am torn
into two or three and all my writhing insides ruin the carpet.
I'd send that very carpet your way, screen two, as some apology for my sedentary state.
Screen two is more real than I am, perhaps.

I turn them both off and brood up the stairs.
How is it that screen one and screen two can share a room?
Two hates one, but one is too titanic to even notice.
I am I horrible for letting one even light up my wall?
I don't want to feel horrible, but two is right and I am uneasy.
Perhaps someday I'll throw myself and one and tell it how warped its worldview is.
Perhaps someday I'll go to two and weep at its weary feet and offer it my soul.
Perhaps I'll continue to bob between them, like I am now.

Screen one will sneak back later, once the sickness has broken,
and I will remember how celluloid charms me so.
Screen two, I know you'll still be there, glaring up at me as if I were screen one.
It's no use to try and convince you otherwise, but someday I'll try to be more like you.
I admire you, screen two, I truly do, and that must count for something.

All screens leave me polarized, you know.
Wretched as it may leave me, I suppose it's ultimately a good thing I'm so broken up.
It means screen two has a real chance for tomorrow.
14 November 2010 @ 09:36 pm
The Printer's Wine

Rinse your mouth out with ink
and examine those teeth
before you write me a letter.

- - - - -

My Body Will Not Live Forever

I hope that science comes to my funeral
to discuss string theory
with the sleeping flowers
that grace
             my decomposing form.
16 May 2010 @ 04:09 pm
Unloved, unloved, you brutish son
So make me tall and brave and strong
Your cruel grin and your boots of violence
It is not of these that I do love.

It is your tongue, your tongue, your tongue
How I shall steal it away and keep it in a jar
To fill me with mad delights, the passion of crime
Wild-eyed boy sans civil tongue.

Eyes may roll but ne'er may they shut
Poor brutish son, rather driven mad
To wash you clean and pure and young
All but your tongue, little son. 
30 October 2009 @ 05:07 pm
It is here in these empty canals that the spirits dwell,
the wind a strange bedfellow.
The tired glass and pretty coins in windows
wait in a lonely, solemn peace.
Red, green, golden hues on land that once held birth.
In the fragile leaves of time and minds
there lies a thousand delicate symbols of a hand and tongue long forgotten.
Sparkling dust that is rough and warm
runs its hair and teeth over things that once were,
the crux of the great seas now vast and dry.
Grinning in the heat that throbs, there is no other life.
A pulse of solar profusion across this forlorn land
The baths of gods and fountains of art and science
still stand in a quiet, resolved calm.
Over the violet night, twin bodies keep vigil.
Streaking, flowering, blooming sky,
there is a thirst to know.
To know, to drink, to see of these
To touch this distant cusp of space and time
which blows its strange winds beside the hearths.

Current Mood: calmMartian
06 October 2009 @ 09:14 pm
Dreaming through a screen,
Kiki with the yellow hat and black eyes.
Tú eres la manzana del ojo.
As he drums his fingers, they turn to ash.
Kiki with his blue eyes, red lips.
Mi hijo, mi muchachito bonito
Ven aquí, por favor
He just wants to look at you.
Don't be shy, Kiki-boy.
Te miro, like a dusty film at a hot,
scratching midnight movie house.
Sweat like salt, like bloodied lips.
Kiki with the violet eyes, Kiki by the screen
con las luces en sus dientes.
Skinny boy, crazy boy.
Spiraling boy down the thin metal stairs,
thin like his wrists.
Como Díos, pero más joven. 
Díos debe ser joven, y bonita.
Como Kiki.
Dark-haired, black eyes.
White print with no color.
Kiki, you're a name in a newspaper
no picture, no fotografía
pero voy a te recuerdo.
Cuando Kiki está muerto, 
all that shiny black hair of yours
is going outside en la calle.
Oye, Kiki.  Adieu.
28 August 2009 @ 05:06 pm
It rained all through the departure.  The people on the dock fussed with umbrellas and coats, for they did not want to say goodbye, really.  It seems people often become strangers when saying goodbye.  There was a considerable turnout, rain and all.  Some came just to see the magnificent ships, and they were truly a breathtaking sight to behold.  They were very beautiful, albeit a touch cold.  The people had hoped for a clear day in which to birth the future and see the ships off, but the departure would proceed as scheduled all the same.  People waved in earnest, for all sent their hearts out to the voyagers.  The voyagers were to go to a new world, a strange and fantastic place which the people knew nothing about.  As launch time drew nearer, the people on the dock said their final goodbyes and anything else that they needed to say in order to be at peace lest anything happened to the voyagers.  The people prayed that no harm fall upon the ships as they were escorted off the launch dock.  When the last voyager had entered the ships and all was ready, a beautiful light appeared.  In horror and wonder the people stood transfixed.  The rain was forgotten as all watched the ships rise steadily into the air.  Higher and higher they rose, until even the sharpest of eyes could no longer discern the ships.  Very slowly, the silence was frayed away and the people came back to life.  Many left for home, seeking shelter from the rain, and there was nothing left to see.  A few others lingered at the launch dock, but eventually the rain and winds drove them reluctantly home.

A tree was planted the day of the departure.  By the time the voyagers returned, the sapling had grown into a grand sentry of a tree.  From betwixt its branches the children watching in rapture as the ships touched the earth once again.  They had all heard the tales of the departure, but the brilliant light that bathed the launch dock as the ship doors opened went far beyond their most exotic dreams.  It was in this light that the voyagers took their first breath of the quiet air, walking from their coruscating ships onto the landing dock like a realized future.
Current Music: '39 - Queen
13 August 2009 @ 01:50 pm
sweet dreams, dream train
train of thought.
ride it on to the next stop.

sweet bones, crushed bones
only bones.
walk them on to the next home.

move along
up stream, down river.
move it on to the maker.

living in a 
music box
looking out, watching out
spinning 'round in a 
lock up, lay down.
sweet dreams
for tomorrow.
in a 
precious box, a soft box
living in a sweet
sweet world
of the satin and the crank that makes it
spin, spin, spin to a stop.
shut the lid and
sweet dreams.
soft to the touch,
living in a music box
spin, spin for tomorrow.
Current Mood: thoughtfulthoughtful
27 July 2009 @ 05:21 pm
From Dr. Polidori's Lord Ruthven to Stephenie Meyer's Edward Cullen, the annals of vampire lore are filled with attractive, charming bloodsuckers. Which one would you most want to be bitten by?
I answer this only because I have been reading Anne Rice for the past month or so.  The Vampire Lestat sits beside me as I type this.  While I don't think I'd fancy joining the legions of bloodsuckers for all eternity, I would fancy giving Lestat a kiss because he's a fabulously charming vampire.  I'd give Louis a hug, because it seems he's always in the mood that needs a hug.  And also, I'd wave at Claudia from afar because I fear she'd eat me.  I dunno if I'll get Queen of the Damned immediately after I finish The Vampire Lestat or give the series a rest (it's all school's fault, you know, but I've heard Lestat ends on a cliffhanger... I may have no choice).  Either way I felt this writer's block was a sign to publicly let it be known that I would indeed send Lestat a valentine. 

11 July 2009 @ 05:22 pm
There is a boy who lives inside a box
filled with pictures.
All the pictures are old
and soft
and remind him of better times.
He swims
inside that picture box,
sleeping, drifting, hiding.
When the people glance to the box,
he offers them a picture
but never
shows his face.
There is a hole in his box,
and sometimes the dawn comes through,
but he continues to sit in shadows and
One day, a boy made of light
was flying near the box.
He was curious, this boy made of light,
and he sat on top of the box, wondering what could be inside.
Through the hole, he heard the boy talking to his pictures
and stretched and reached so he could slide his luminescent being
into the box, as well.
The boy hugged his pictures and shrank, for he was afraid.
The other boy offered out his glowing soul
and said
to not
be frightened.
With wide eyes, the boy offered a picture, for that was all he knew.
With gentle breath, the boy of light illuminated the picture
and together they traced the lines as the boy in the box
told the boy of light all about
all of his favorite pictures.
The boy made of light was a good listener, and they were together all morning,
through the afternoon, and into the first hours of dusk.
As the light coming through the hole became fainter,
the light child explained that he had to leave, for outside the box
his kin was moving on.
The boy with the pictures nodded, and touched his tiny hand to a face made
of pure light.
And then, the boy made of light climbed through the hole and west, into the setting sun
who was his mother.
It was very quiet, and only then
did the boy who had lived surrounded by pictures crawl out of his box
to watch the moon rise.

07 June 2009 @ 04:10 pm
About a year ago, I thought the world was ending
and I had never been
so thrilled.
I never left the books I read lying around.
I clutched them to my chest and carried them
with me always.
At any moment, the smoke could have become too thick, too close--
but we were always
just out of reach.
We were on the map, on the news,
and under the red skies we thrived.
The city and the smoke
were the only things on my mind.
Everything else
was distant.
Words and words and words and 
windows.  Trying to find a cool spot
under the sun, so I might turn the pages.
I don't think I've ever walked so much
in my entire life.
We liked to watch the boats go out.
As long as I was home before it was too dark,
I could walk into the sun
and it would swallow me, showing me the sidewalk.
and funny little birds,
always smiling, touching, running away.

Perhaps this year,
the world will end again.

Current Mood: quixoticquixotic
Current Music: Here Come The Warm Jets - Brian Eno