let's keep count of moments
tamed and titled
made
personal & precious
the little one
lost and found
her middle name is sin
the last is senseless
i was so lost
overwhelmed even
sent back to the surface
washed up
and in my mind
the world was black and
i couldn't read the words
a blossom of flow
desperation is turning
no where left for me to go
inside constant yearning
I swallowed the world whole
and found I was still empty
no matter what I shoveled in my hole
the strength I needed was not lent me
The backdrop was, in fact, a little overdone.
The backyard boys were still
laying in the grass, staring at and bottom of the
trampoline. Their mothers sat upon the patio
with their middle-aged spurts of laughter,
started out of politeness
to the uninspired gossiply stories they
told each other
in the boredom of the evening.
Their fathers, burly-like, stood
around the barbeque on the
cement pallet by the bungalow's kitchen window
discussing sports and politics
which they knew nothing about.
The girls stood inside the screen door to
escape the bugs and the boys, who
frightened them out of their socks at times.
Not literally, bu
gets jam in his peanut butter
unintentionally at every use.
doesn't mean a thing, he just needs to
be more careful.
'you need to
be more careful,' we'd tell him. but some things just don't sink.
other things do sink, though.
like boats.
one good example
would be the titanic.
lord knows i'm a righteous man. blameless in his eyes,
for the most part. but he's pissed
'cause i keep sticking my
nose into shit that don't concern me
like air pollution and sewage.
dumpsters in the slums of new york city.
i'm quite rustic in terms of
knowing right and wrong, and what's whole from half.
but jumping trains
never was a problem because i
Took control while I was still
stumbling,
setting the stage for
young ones not yet old enough to
think in the way of the world
and
what a world!
what a world!
With history speaking in whispers,
diseased as are our children,
some ill-translated spin
pursued by progress;
unforgiving and
unforgiven.
What a world.
i trip over my own words by Felix-Forever, literature
Literature
i trip over my own words
entangled in dramatic
theatre-like politics i trip
over my own words, and it is
no longer the
truth which matters, but the very
anger which now
controls the tongues of your
excited minds craving an
execution or excommunication.
The only one that does not spit me out is
Montreal.
Lily LeBeck.
I fell in love with her
while we were staying in Montreal.
Perhaps, it was the way
she spoke softly to me beneath
the chaotic city sky,
spewing sirens, horns,
helicopters, and electricity.
The electricity of her words
reacting with my ears,
positively or negatively, I don't give a shit,
"Le monde entier
a été construit pour le
bien de votre vanité."
It was in Montreal we had to say goodbye.
I loved the night
too much for my own
good in those days.
Bottle in hand, I sat
watching, waiting, wanting.
tapping.
She had glowsticks in her hair,
I remember. Like he told me.
Swinging
to the rhythm of the
room, eyes closed and pretentious,
she was the only light in the night.
And aimlessly,
as dancers so often do,
not that she was one,
she kneeled wavily toward the
floor, dreadlocks nearly touching it.
And I, among
wretched men, the proverbial
prostitutes of this society,
guzzle down, hoping still
to drown
away these beating
memories left upon my heart
night after night. How sick a
man am I.
oh i miss the lustre of your lips
so smooth and moderate.
i close my eyes, lifting a finger
to touch. how i long for you
in the absolute dead of night
and day and everywhere.
sweet, sweet slumber brings
you and the world and everything
upon me like perfume,
vaguely but utterly, and i sit
and stare and wait,
the train railing on,
i can smell your taste from here.
How I hate this place by Felix-Forever, literature
Literature
How I hate this place
I am much too busy,
riding zebras upon the earth,
which I call my home, to
listen to you, even though
you call my true name across
field after field,
searching for me in desperation,
as our home burns away
spewing smoke like a factory.
I am only as mad as you make me.
And some people do find me quite mad, if I've taken their gestures toward me in the correct fashion. You know how it is, though. Little to no eye contact, limited interactions, short and dry answers to my questions, nothing's funny, etc. They find me intimidating, and serious. Like I am going to fulfill every word that unfolds from my tongue and brushes my lips as it exits my mouth.
But no. I am not going to teach your children the lessons they deserve, and I am not going to take justice (unless I see no other way) into my own hands. And I am not going to shave off your skin and feed you to dogs.
Your actua
The backdrop was, in fact, a little overdone.
The backyard boys were still
laying in the grass, staring at and bottom of the
trampoline. Their mothers sat upon the patio
with their middle-aged spurts of laughter,
started out of politeness
to the uninspired gossiply stories they
told each other
in the boredom of the evening.
Their fathers, burly-like, stood
around the barbeque on the
cement pallet by the bungalow's kitchen window
discussing sports and politics
which they knew nothing about.
The girls stood inside the screen door to
escape the bugs and the boys, who
frightened them out of their socks at times.
Not literally, bu
gets jam in his peanut butter
unintentionally at every use.
doesn't mean a thing, he just needs to
be more careful.
'you need to
be more careful,' we'd tell him. but some things just don't sink.
other things do sink, though.
like boats.
one good example
would be the titanic.
lord knows i'm a righteous man. blameless in his eyes,
for the most part. but he's pissed
'cause i keep sticking my
nose into shit that don't concern me
like air pollution and sewage.
dumpsters in the slums of new york city.
i'm quite rustic in terms of
knowing right and wrong, and what's whole from half.
but jumping trains
never was a problem because i
Took control while I was still
stumbling,
setting the stage for
young ones not yet old enough to
think in the way of the world
and
what a world!
what a world!
With history speaking in whispers,
diseased as are our children,
some ill-translated spin
pursued by progress;
unforgiving and
unforgiven.
What a world.
i trip over my own words by Felix-Forever, literature
Literature
i trip over my own words
entangled in dramatic
theatre-like politics i trip
over my own words, and it is
no longer the
truth which matters, but the very
anger which now
controls the tongues of your
excited minds craving an
execution or excommunication.
The only one that does not spit me out is
Montreal.
Lily LeBeck.
I fell in love with her
while we were staying in Montreal.
Perhaps, it was the way
she spoke softly to me beneath
the chaotic city sky,
spewing sirens, horns,
helicopters, and electricity.
The electricity of her words
reacting with my ears,
positively or negatively, I don't give a shit,
"Le monde entier
a été construit pour le
bien de votre vanité."
It was in Montreal we had to say goodbye.
I loved the night
too much for my own
good in those days.
Bottle in hand, I sat
watching, waiting, wanting.
tapping.
She had glowsticks in her hair,
I remember. Like he told me.
Swinging
to the rhythm of the
room, eyes closed and pretentious,
she was the only light in the night.
And aimlessly,
as dancers so often do,
not that she was one,
she kneeled wavily toward the
floor, dreadlocks nearly touching it.
And I, among
wretched men, the proverbial
prostitutes of this society,
guzzle down, hoping still
to drown
away these beating
memories left upon my heart
night after night. How sick a
man am I.
oh i miss the lustre of your lips
so smooth and moderate.
i close my eyes, lifting a finger
to touch. how i long for you
in the absolute dead of night
and day and everywhere.
sweet, sweet slumber brings
you and the world and everything
upon me like perfume,
vaguely but utterly, and i sit
and stare and wait,
the train railing on,
i can smell your taste from here.
How I hate this place by Felix-Forever, literature
Literature
How I hate this place
I am much too busy,
riding zebras upon the earth,
which I call my home, to
listen to you, even though
you call my true name across
field after field,
searching for me in desperation,
as our home burns away
spewing smoke like a factory.
I am only as mad as you make me.
And some people do find me quite mad, if I've taken their gestures toward me in the correct fashion. You know how it is, though. Little to no eye contact, limited interactions, short and dry answers to my questions, nothing's funny, etc. They find me intimidating, and serious. Like I am going to fulfill every word that unfolds from my tongue and brushes my lips as it exits my mouth.
But no. I am not going to teach your children the lessons they deserve, and I am not going to take justice (unless I see no other way) into my own hands. And I am not going to shave off your skin and feed you to dogs.
Your actua
It is 2:00 A.M. at Pete's house. He is asleep on the couch, and I am watching television on his father's seventy-two inch monitor sipping a can of Mountain Dew listlessly. I am bored, tired, maybe a little restless, and sick of television. I turn it off and reflect on the evening. My hands have found their way behind my head and touch their opposite's elbows. My eyes have found the ceiling where the drywall texture is a maze of abundant and interesting design. It appears to the naked eye to be random, because, in a sense, that is exactly what it is. I look over at Pete who is twisted, seemingly uncomfortable, on the sofa next to me. His left
consider it a challenge by YouInventedMe, literature
Literature
consider it a challenge
he sometimes thumps that way.
an alphabetic orbital; swan-song withstanding.
red-shirt tuesdays meant murder and all the kids prayed for green. we spent
& paid and took our own chances. he was the bravest, and saddest, eight-year old
I had ever known. I, just five and with mud on my shirt. the point is, we
had history of every suit together. laughing diplomat to bashful architect,
starving plant owner to third-world terrier. if this was to be real cut and burn,
"speak to the metal in your skull work", I'd need a little more convincing.
I am forty-three years old and in need of a new way of shaving.
that war-torn criminal cargo-house
"dino-gun from the future. the sky's on fire with
possibilities."
that's what my mother said to me right before she left.
it was polar opposites & ice caps looking for a single life raft.
waves of pure ocean and like sounds they wait for
the light to change. waiting for the child to grow up
and start paying rent. life's full of responsibilities
and, the sooner we learn that, the sooner
we can hurry up and die. lessons learned:
readin', writin', and rudimentary grasp
of socioeconomic circumstance.
it's the place where dollar signs
meet geographic location for an extended stay.
the crossroads, baby.
amen.
now that we'
the man with the backwards baseball cap
visits the same grocery store
every thursday, buys exactly three items,
and then leaves quietly. he doesn't want
to cause any problems.
"always the same old thing", he says to
the undercover cop posing as the
lady at the check out counter - it's quite odd
for him to tell her this because he's been gone already
for over five hours and she doesn't speak
english anyway.
meanwhile, on the other side of aisle six,
a woman discovers something is very
wrong.
"this won't be the last you hear from me." she
yells defiantly into the camera. the director
yells cut, but going through the motions
has
I shed myself of the meager
ignoring burning, defiant glances,
head held low, shoulders slumped.
My booted feet crush brittle grasses
and grind shards of glass over concrete
forming tiny crystals.
The meager hone stolen machetes,
carving runes of power into their flesh;
they are tribal now, their ugliness
beautiful, like butterflies emerging
wet-winged and flightless from cocoons.
They have outgrown me as saplings outgrow
the seed; I am just a shell in the dirt.
Swearing Gently - 01.02.08 B by 007-FleetingPassions, literature
Literature
Swearing Gently - 01.02.08 B
She swore gently. The author was always making her swear gently; it was appalling. How the fuck does one swear gently? Do you whisper it like a coy lover? Or mumble it like you might mumble lullabies to a babe near sleep? Its bloody impossible, you cannot swear gently! She glared fiercely at the author; damn bitch just didnt have enough adverbs and the ones she had: she didnt know how to use. The author chided her, reminding her that digressions really were unattractive in prose. To which she sharply pointed out that if she had digressed it was only
I've been thinking a lot lately. Haven't been feeling up to much else. I've been having problems concentrating. And perhaps you've noticed that I've been having problems writing. Well, I really don't like the style I've been mucking about in for the past couple months. I've been stressed out.
I've been having problems in my interpersonal relationships. Friends, acquaintances, whatever. I couldn't care less. I really couldn't.
I'm unhappy. I'm on my knees every night wishing for someone or some thing or something to give me a change, a break, something. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm not doing. I've spent a lot of time