too young to be post anything

I will be your jailbreak.

2005-09-23T11:38:00.000-07:00

6 by 6 by 6 by 6, damp walls are sweating and rocking with his seasick motion, she’s all eyes in the window, lowbrow and unseen. In a room that should collapse with one, cracking under the pressure of the pacing guards swagger, who spins keys on her finger as he stairs at her shoes. The woman steps closer and rips his jaw upward as if to be staring into the eyes of god, spit tracers fly and collect in his eyebrows as they don’t raise beyond a permanently neutral disposition.

The convictions rain down unproven and under investigated,
the case and trial ran through without witnesses,
to stand up for truth,
hammer slams as the guard,
laughs and slips bills into the judges hand.

the dusts rolls in easily, he’s humming something softly to himself as the light starts to catch more than just his hallow shadow. The first glints trace palms cupping black liquid from the wrists, which are ground away and skinless held together with metal which feed wounds with rust and iron, poisoning him enough to stay docile. He sits strapped back, to a wooden chair, chest puffed out and back arched turned away from the window where she whispers,
‘that looks painful, somewhat torturous, you must’ve been a murderer, in order to deserve this..’
she watches the chair shake and flip him right over as he tries to find a voice somewhere in his rotten lungs, landing in the shadows the light illuminates his lips on the opposing wall as he scream voiceless his innocence.

she breathes in timing with his chest puffing in and out, crawling through the window and sliding down to the floor, careful to step lightly around the victim on the ground to the boot clad silhouette clutching the key chain while she’s drifted off. One by one, the fingers are pried open, and hold only each other. The girl walks over to her prize, and props the boy back up, erected like a trophy. She kneels down, to look him in the eyes and holds hers arms around him trying to fit the key in a hole full up with scabbed over attempts at escape. And as his hands fall loose the guard becomes restless and in those few seconds she manages to say,

‘this is not the end of us,
but it’s the end of this,
all you have to do is turn around,
climb up and out and I’ll be waiting.’

the guard starts her pacing as his hands dangle there, he’s strong enough to beat her, be he doesn’t seem to care. He just looks down again and takes it as she grinds his spirits into less than nothing. he pulls his hands back into the cuffs, slowing clicking them together and with every notch they tighten the solution walks another mile away.

Invaluable, the inner speech of Vancouver eastside.

2005-06-06T20:12:00.000-07:00

issue two.

this blanket is cold, this blanket is wet (good morning world) this blanket is, blue? soy milk missatisfaction, the flakes and berries made swirling mod logo that morning. swirling mod logos all over my floor, my blanket (my only one in fact) and my new roommate, who I'll tell you about in detail when I feel up to it. as you can imagine, waking up stained from breakfast parodies isn't the most pleasant start to the day. I shook it off, as I shake off most things that happen between nine and noon and watched the construction workers across the alley watch me roll out of bed in my white wife beater and camo underoos. I try not to wave, not to smile and instantly feel chill jumping down to change the five o'clock charlie song that is mumbling on and on about coffee (it's freezing, vancouver doesn't experience "summer") which is what I need in a fucking hurry. the clothes weren't important, same old I'm sure, tight jeans (tight rolled), black shirt, scarf or something, but the make-up was something to be noted. I'll just have you know, I fell asleep the night before reclaiming the wanky manson loving witch of my preteens, yes, I watched the craft. long story short, I always wanted to look like nancy, ha ha. laughing off the paint on my face, it was time to make for the busstop that lives on the corner across from a vegan's nightmare (and smells like nothing short of a washed up cemetery) it was time to wait for the #10 hastings. she rolled in quick, that rusting chariot of hairlice and smokers cough, the doors choked open and I slipped in, flailing my transit pass infront of heaving jealous eyes adding up how many colt 45s (or rocks of crack) they could get selling that simple paper slip. one seat was open and no one was behind me. I positioned myself beside one of east van's finest.
under bitter worn down teeth
slicked back white sparse hair
wrinkles more than flesh should allow
and an outfit to match
I real champion, a good use of skin. all this and reading only the comic section of the sunday paper.
'you can sit near me (pat pat pat) don't worry (nudge nudge) heh...'
I already am, and no real choice, with my recent interest in the (cough) interesting, I decided to ride this conversation out. bantering back I noted the comic reading and the faithfull grinning this man had a real passion for.
'I only read the ones with the little turtle (pointing down at a sad looking turtle loafing aroundon a rock shaped like a love seat in the sea) and the, (pause) this guy, what ever the hell he is (obviously a shark), so damn funny, shooting the shit in the sea...'
'it's a potato, they um, built a potato launcher in the sea'
I'm sure I said that whole sentence without a blink, as if it was a serious matter and I was solving the mystery behind the comic strip. the conversation goes numb, logically I ask the only thing strangers as of each other, the time. he whipped up his sweatshirt sleeve and shows off a fine piece of golden (fake or otherwise) matter that is rolling slowly without even as much as a purr.
'it's stolen'
'oh yeah? thats...'
'from a man, a wife and a kid or two he's got'
I shifted a little just out of instinct, which threw my new friend off.
'not a big deal, I bought it off a nice girl, a tough girl, who sold it to me, couldn't turn down the offer (sensing my disapproval) a shame, going home to the woman without 450 dollars and that fine jewel'
'I don't think he's have a woman after that'
'yeah I suppose not, one of those classy ladies, can't even say the word fuck without them running, took one to a movie the other night, sprung the bill on the whole show, popcorn, fancy seats, leg room (eyes hit the floor, maybe this is wrong of me, but he started to actual sound human) she hasn't called me back, not that I... maybe I'll pay her a visit today, fucking classy dames, never want too...'
rolling my eyes out the window and hoping not the hear what could have come out of that ghastly mug of bottom teeth.
'fucking pigs'
startled, paying attention just in time to hear.
'I've been in jail, those fucks, federal, the pen, done time'
'yeah (2 more stops) my mother worked in the system'
my mother also said to never give personal information to inmates, but I guess if that bus was our holding unit, we were just bonding brothers...
'tell her to watch out, those inmates are known for whispering sweet nothing into woman workers ears, (one more stop) draw them in, make them think...'
just back away and step down.

xo.jude.

2005-06-04T19:56:00.000-07:00

Invaluable, the inner speech of Vancouver eastside.
issue one.

it's a wake up call I didn't want, numb legs caressing the crumbling strath/vaneast/drive (or whatever the fuck the kids call it) area about twenty minutes after waking up from my second, but only real, sleep of the day. I must have stayed in ball position for far too long, I swear I'm no longer made of muscles and bones, but charcoal sticks rolled in cooking jelly. Today was a karmatic failure, I could start with the morning when I woke up abruptly at 9:00 to a cat in heat rubbing it's rear up and down my leg, or I could tell you about trying to walk the few blocks beyond Fraser in a miniskirt and 3 inch heals, pointed toes, but none of these things are nearly as brilliant as my comming home to a locked door and a laughing doorbell with no punchline. Upon notice of this, the knocking began, and continued, after a half an hour or so, the knocking turned to pacing, screaming and kicking. red-faced and almost bare-assed (still in the miniskirt, high healed outfit) it was time for a more adventure-filled/obviously stupid approach: yes, it was time to flail my half naked body over the second story railing and gracefully land in the living room. Inspecting the area, the small fence bridging the stucco walls was aprx. 3 feet off the ground and 4 feet from the railings. without haste, using the pointed toes as rockclimbing picks, I snaked up the wall, bleeding from the knees, dangling from the forearms, this bitch wasn't giving up.

7 feet up wearing:
aviators
high heals circa 1980
white wife beater
60's micro mini
and pink blush

fucking karma.
hip power swung me over and into the living room for a crashlanding and a twisted ankle.
shortly after:
the toilet broke after puking up all of my breakfast into it.
my roommate's cigarette stash was empty.
and I started to miss contact,
It'll be a struggle coaxing someone to climb the 4 feet onto my top bunk, let along 2 stories into my balcony.

xo.

the ice in the fire.

2005-04-19T13:07:00.000-07:00

voices voices, lude and swaying in some sort of awkward pattern. they step off beat but in time, somehow, somehow. crowds of them, stealing your eye contact claiming your words. a misconstructed cut and paste of your past, like a paper doll jacket onto their present. in a panic, waving my arms, I motion them to silence, in silence of my own. i had a flag up this mountain before the snow hit the peak, but the ambient echo triggered the avalanche of tone deaf sing alongs that freeze up my pupils and put me back in that audience where I don't belong.

2005-04-19T13:00:00.000-07:00

for bri:

I think of the word morose, which by definition would leave you in the state you are when we talk. something slightly muggy in the air of caution, it's thick, makes you hard to breathe in. your text surfs into shore via oil spill, when the tied rolls back out in daily habit, there is a film of constant substance spreading from my western ocean to your poluted lakes. will the salt in the seas break you down, or will you spread the water? either way, both are a slow poison, and cancer has become the new red lipstick. together we've got this whole goddamn country covered, lets think of it as spreading love instead of cursing distance.

telephone tag:

in this slumber, I reign victorioius over knotches in white belts, and telephone circles. in this sleep, playschools are burnt down, children are cursing the names of their source.in this rest, the rest of them are writing off blessings and riding my name in self defence.try not to feed it the violence it deserves,stuff their heads in plastic bags,inlaid with capital letters,I AM NOT YOURS TO DESTROY.

2005-04-19T12:47:00.000-07:00

is it fair to guess,
chalk it up to odds,
that your dice is one sided,
the coin is being tossed.
i'm left with a lady,
her name was luck,
till she smashed a glass mirror,
and her fate had been lost.

and her and I,
hold hands with bad endings,
gun downs, and death scenes,
blood, gore and rappings.
me and her.

(unfinished.)

the streets are over walked and underappreciated

2005-04-17T20:25:00.000-07:00

lonely apathy,
lucky lethargy,
flourishing on bullet fast train tracks,
don't lift a finger,
this is paradise,
this is paradise,
well I crave misconduct.

this is the way I deal with you so deal with it.

2005-03-30T12:51:00.000-08:00

I thought you were dead to me,
but I could still feel your heart beat through the body bag.

(goodnight,
I hope again someday,
I'll bury you beside me,
and sleep pressed against your grave.
goodnight, sweetdreams, goodbye.)

the fault of change

2005-03-06T10:39:00.000-08:00

a little bit of laugh out loud, public protection from.
a little bit of haircut sway, public reflection on.
this is a girl who once wore a cross of golden judgement.
this is a girl who once knew the point of right and wrong.
and this is a city that leaves a bad taste in your mouth,
and this is a town where apathy is a precursor,
and positive change is switching to milder cigarrettes.

2005-01-30T10:26:00.000-08:00

this city
is
a sulking tyrant.

2005-01-26T16:29:00.000-08:00

We’ll stalk like ninja’s
painting the streets with
the town-names of truck-stop
bathrooms we kissed in.
-----------------------
Coax open the keyless
with rusty rain spy tricks
that linger on street lights
which flicker in code.

2005-01-26T07:29:00.000-08:00

my arm hairs are saluting in early morning soak down,
jostled awake via knocking on the tomb,
it's too early for romance,
so I turn the monitor off,
and try to forgot I'm still living in this town.

2005-01-25T22:15:00.000-08:00

dial tones are are our handshakes
and silences our winks
filtered truths chalked over yards of string.

the record's warn
from lyrical observations
none you've written
you'd rather be
tossing rocks at patronized puctuation
leaving sentances to miss home and run on
and on
and on
and

you've left that taste
we're making-out with tinfoil tongues

2005-01-25T22:12:00.000-08:00

I'm the fair skin solitude,
(pass the comfort pass the comfort)
the light eared translator,
(pass the comfort pass the comfort)
the bipass bipassed by the past.
pass me on the highway,
squeal your tired tires race,
race me spinning to the ditch,
(save face oh save face oh) l
ay the flowers down,
on the passenger side,
where you would have been.

2005-01-01T18:09:00.000-08:00

If today is a tribute to the year to come, start nailing my coffin now. I'll pay the grave diggers for the overtime, I'm getting tired too fast, getting tired too fast. Lay me in the wood box propper, play something that used to mean a lot. Have my father walk me down, since he'll never see me marry. Dress me in white as if I were that pure. Mail my friends invites like birthday bashes, so you'll have some presents to bury me with. Kiss my love wearing my lipstick, and tell him this passion was all just a faze, and to think about how this year will bring him better days.

numbers gone dusty.

2004-12-29T23:32:00.000-08:00

instant coffee breath and soda cracker smiles,
living in the vacancy of childhood dreams,
if I had passion than these shoes would be worn out,
and my finger wouldn't bleed,
everytime I played you a line in this phrase.

there is something wrong with this grin,
there is never a clever place to begin,
the speach that will leave you stranded,
but there's a level of content in knowing I'll never see you again.

basterdizing what's left of open arms,
justifying this as last day conquests,
your voice, your lips compaired to new life lovers,
and roll back phrases sound sweet,
like they could actually mean more than they seem.

dear shaun.

2004-12-29T23:19:00.000-08:00

every tone rings epic, in your softness, in your frail strumming fingers. and, every work you master, pieces fractured chances and failed romances and I, blazed down the trail before you could even kiss me goodbye. I'm the horseman in black against a new moon sky, you could almost, bairly, maybe, watch me be ride away.

in our ballroom

2004-12-19T01:49:00.000-08:00

this is your last dance,
with moves made in glass windows with a hint of irony,
your fingers laugh,
pressing pannels to let down A-bombs,
the sweet tastes of sugar tears,
and lack of years.
this is your first fight,
pinning limbs under wood confines,
you count to three,
with endless struggles and patient judges,
with a sigh counting to ten,
no one defends.

if we were prose.

2004-12-19T01:46:00.000-08:00

“I bastardized our conversation,” she proclaimed in a last ditch effort to avoid the coming silence with lack of context. Feeling slightly violated by the caress of the white noise in the background, she took a stab in the dark and opened a fresh can of awkward cyclical talk, ‘So what is it about me that is so damn hard to talk to?’
With that she flipped through a few muted music channels and waited for the silence to turn to breath, knowing full well it would just bring up the same issues of personal relations, distance barriers and emotional boundaries.
After a long haul of heavy pacing, she musters up nostalgic reference, “I thought you liked feeling a little uncomfortable,” with a smirk and a slow breath out, “you should be learning to really love me by now.”

learning guides of winter romance.

2004-12-17T02:14:00.000-08:00

the inbox is empty and mail boxes full,
bills of accounts that are likely expired,
and the dull aching light bulb wires losing pressure,
keel over in anguish and seizure with broken nerves.

call me tomorrow on paper cup strings,
it's as likely as technical as you can understand,
and you'll type me a long life on half blacked out paper,
from failed punctuation and loss of right words.

we'll pretend it's the 50's,
when dial tones were cyclical,
and we can make believe,
we're nostalgic,
not naive.

the leash.

2004-10-23T07:01:00.000-07:00

lost puppy licks his papercuts and see's only gaping wounds. with moist eyes rolling, he's choking hard from letting out sighs more than he takes in breaths, and in this cage in the corner (a viable punishment) he could run indefinatly. someone just needs to hit the lights.

my very own song.

2004-10-22T20:18:00.000-07:00

there is warmth between my palms, but the heat only travels up to my elbows as they lean with lack of instict holding numbers on each finger to dial. Last sip lingers playing diplomat to taste buds who are steadily on strike because of bland budget cuts. callous breaths are taken and let out with smokers speeds making love to long lost passions that piss on moan on strings played by the unworthy with the hopes and hums of future lovers and former loves.

2004-10-19T21:23:00.000-07:00

finger tips of sandpaper, typing on asphalt, sketching on sidewalks. Old fashion communication, letters of chalk-dusk, arrows from door steps. Following less-than's, one foot counting paces. Eyes brushing floorboards for X's promising 3's. diving shallow, grinning profusely, dusting off envelopes blank like a dead aunts checkbook. sliding the switchblade over the corners, paper cut palms shake out the twenty-five words.
"Dear lover, this would be easier if you had a name, but for once in my short life, I have no you to write about"

dancing with arrows.

2004-10-13T16:11:00.000-07:00

Oh that confidence is almost blasphemous, harmonies of screaming whispers hunt down heads with bows and arrows. This my dear, isn't to build an ego, to sharpen lions teeth on bones of birds who lack a reason to evolve in the same ways. Clap those same hands together, pattern the rhythms to our dancing, the head swings and mid-air gunshots are cat calls in camouflage. You’re waging the war, don't worry darling, only I know you're not flawless, and integrity is holding a cold .44 calibre to the back of my head.

2004-10-03T08:42:00.000-07:00

the runner up.

I understand,
to say she's more beautiful would be an understatement,
she's an inch taller,
and she's an inch smaller,
with skin that's been kissed by alberta frost.
I'll accept that I've lost.

Don't be a sore loser.
I'm not a sore loser.

Think,
I know it's hard right now,
but if you don't you'll lose the past.
It's all you have left for relapse,
cause this future is gunfire.
this sniper is at close range.

I'm picking riffle shells from my gold teeth,
I can't stand the taste of sulpher with my iron.

Don't be a sore loser.
(chick chick)
I'm not a sore loser.
(bang)

maybe it's a good read.

2004-10-03T07:48:00.000-07:00

attention! I've decided I'm going to be along with posting newer poems, adding one or two old poems dated to the bottom of every entry, just so eventually this is almost like an archive for first drafts.

I'll let you catch up though, I think there are a few new ones you haven't read:

God bless Dallas Texas

You can stop now,
pry the fingers off the muscles in my throat,
you live there in spirit,
you're far beyond practice,
you've penetrated without a task force,
a silent liquid army tearing into sleeping valves.

you can stop now,
bottle and shelve your honesty for latter liars ears,
all the passion in your conviction,
is causing these poor chambers to shake.

file-out,
line-up,
your notes are running perfect,
and it's making light of what's been tied,
onto my ankles,
when they pushed me off that bridge.

shouldn't I be too intellectual for mentors,
too talented for teachers,
too stubborn for captains,
and far beyond instruction by now?

pardon me for doubting the scholar

I'd light a match to this but you rolled in gasoline.
two steps ahead my friend,
if I can call you that.
I'd raise the glass to you but you bathed in the champagne.
two flights above my friend,
if I can make you that.

I'm sorry,
I've used up all my words,
the only two I can string together are:
'Thank You'

You can stop now,
slaughter passed the haunting measures,
of melodic masterminds from more sophisticated times.

small.
(ten on the spot poems.)

1.I'll lick this plate clean,
passed the left overs,
right until the ceramic starts to taste like iron.

2.solder,
rip off that dog tag,
leave it on her pillow,
let her cry about something worth while for once.

3.you had me at hello
...and lost me at how are you.

4.migrating secrets,
from my eyes,
passed my ears,
painted on your lips,
only to rest in your hands.

5.-I brought you something
-oh god it's still moving
-I thought you'd--there,
you had no use for it anways, did you?
-I guess not.

6.coiled around other fingers.
I've never been so jealous of your hands,
interacting with the royalty that lives but a few inches from those lost eyes.

7.our love is an oxymoron.

8.medicated on metric motion,
ticking tight, in petrified patterns,
scattered like the laundry,
slowing crawling toward the door.

9.maybe I just want you.sorry.

10.
xo?
x/o
<3?>mittens.

hollow hands with carved out fingers,
secret compartments willing to lease.
the offer is small,
students lack salaries,
so auction with mercy and pull down that sign.

ring fingers house curtains and cartigan sweaters,
pointers hold guilty 4:00am. balltles and broken dishes,
pinkies are hallways,
and thumbs will be showers,
middle fingers are bedrooms with ash trays on nightstands.
(...unfinished...)

greyhounds run like 1950's drive-in movies.

a view finder window
plays slides of grey
each powerpole starts
a reprecussion of the same
few clouds again

she's knee deep in simple phrases
keeping sylibles to a three point max
vying for some understanding
but to say keeping this level of integrity via simplicaty alone
would be simple itself
is simply an understatement,
oh look where my count went.

with the calculator out
composure lost for good
she clears her throat
straightens her scarf
to quickly erase dotted signed lines
from the page

the babysitter.

I'm blushing pink, standing plaid skirt and pigtails, handcuffed and taking the back seat ride. what went wrong my love? is it the wrinkles in my cheeks? the crows feet around my eyes? the grey in my hair? it must have been a valid shock, they must have stared as we took our daily highschool -hallway walks. I thought I was a convincing actress, I thought I had stolen enough heavy make-up from the drama department downstairs, I giggled loud and played rope in the school yard, never once did I act my age. Maybe they saw us cross the street and load into the van parked carefully behind where all the busses collect the grade school darlings, maybe they thought I was a kidnapper, like in the movies, who'd brain washed you into loving someone so frail and lifeless... or maybe this is your way of finally untying our bunny eared shoe lace of a romance.

Give blood.

live it up. the time is on the side of the devil, waiting in the wings to take away your four strings, he'll lay to rest, the blood of you the savoir, the original inspiration, the reason for the evangelical antics and the rabble-rousing reputation. they'll say "that Christ, he was so charismatic in his blazer and jean underlay, bandana fastened loosely coiled under collars without a use for buttons. locks painted toffee, under lights dimmer than interrogation halls, whispering into the eyes that close, with retro-aspects reminding us of why the Beatles had a mania in the first place, that's grace."
(and I'll laugh, only because I know the quote's you've spoken... maybe life is nothing more than martini parties with cameras flashing on houseboats in the middle of the north pacific ocean.)
but too this day, I can’t shake your blatant hold on everything I find a passion for .

pardon me.

but this is seeding flowers, of is this growing weeds? in the stale garden of the west coast, where lives have not yet seen, but is this where it is ended or god help us, is this a beggining?
on the plus side, we just don't know.

there are few written within the last two months.
here are three from a long time ago:

novemeber 2003.

'jokers will drag you down.'

You come before the end,
even is the end comes today.
Circumstancial evalualtion,
the dawn heads upwards backwards towards the skies My own ruin,
the reprecussions of the worlds last setting sun

you created endless theories and now your theories will capture your own ending
the joke's on you the cards have been played Aces high,
Jokers forfit.
Take one last breath as the hand in yours stares back at you.
At least one of us will die laughing.

'48 hour angel'

My words are;
Locking lips with graphite gratifacations.
Making love to razor book romances.
Holding hands with pouring red warmth.
Keeping eyes on whats important.
Nothing and no one.

My angel took me to the doctor
My angel said I should lie down for a while

My angel held my other hand
My war between this road and something real.
My new city conquest night in night out It should be satisfying enough you'd think I should be too.
My angel said she'd always be there

My angel told me she would drive around for a while
my angel understands nothing

september 2003.

remind me of my surface. scratch the top and look in, into the crack that fills with red. thinking about nothing but always thinking about your actions, your motions toward my... I don't know what to tell you anymore, I don't know what to open with let along my closing statement. I guess I should tell you this, but I think I told you earlier and I lost my words in the empty stare of your mile-high eyes. I'm under the wooden stage with the last kind words you left for me. I'm under the impression you may come back to take them away. I'm kind of hoping you could be like you were today and a leave a couple more so I can find my way back into you ball and chain.

A static city night.

guns loaded with light beams that jumped out as rockets and provided the sky with just the right reason to shut off the advances of society and leave the driving headed into blankets of strobe-lightning and black. running into you in the front passenger seat (singing a song to cry to, two keys off at top vocal range) and seeing you lying there in the middle one (panic eyes, drunken frowns and in a smokey reasuring calm).
Idol to many, can't beleive the humble mess you've made, and what reputations we have to clean up, and what an innocence this red old van air carries. driving crosses through 7-11 parking lots, tiny mary's pet the dead souls on thier small exhuasted laps.

"why are you such an angel?"

"because tomorrow morning, you'll ask someone what happened, and they'll tell you nothing, then you won't need to remember me."

thanks for reading.

music of the day
dallas green - sam malone

something smells poetic, or is that flesh?

2004-08-25T15:28:00.000-07:00

my black hawk's down

Valliant messages, tied on the half-mass flagpoles, ripping from light winds alone, the tattered, faltered sign of remembrance waves royally....or is it a slow means to forget?
am I the last patriot?the only one who weeds the bed of crippled lilies,bowing and swaying with evenjelical soul.am I the only one with the keys to the chains to pull that mess down?because mine broke off in the rusted teeth of the padlock,I guess I'll worship a sign of fatality until it comes true.

untitled

"call me officer,
call me anything but over."

simply goodnight

fire my talking skills at first sight of an open mouth. This speechless pen will make too little of this lucid romance. With lack of the perfect medium, the perfect sonnet rests.

they'll be room for you in heaven, writing the anne landers column.

There is a definite lack of comfort tonight, wearing four inch heals and over accessorizing, like a Montreal beauty queen at the 3rd booth back in the empty over frequented coffee corner… or in reality it’s third from the corner (what a silly thing to lie about) though she finds the biggest lie to be the word “coffee” it’s self. Maybe lightly oiled wastewater would be more appropriate, ha; maybe she should learn to spell. The vast and socially inept air is flowing thick through the paste of pale yellow cigarette stain that will forever paint the walls in this once thriving smokers haven. She pulls a tattered book of nothing out of a self-sewn handbag, and grabs a pen out of her back pocket. Her new word is "lacklustre", she barely could use it in a sentence, but she really admired the ring. She gives it it's own spot on the top of a list of other fine words such as poise, lethargy and melancholy. Obviously all alone she learns back for a private laugh, fingering the old diary, she loved the grade school attitude behind making lists. Memories skipping pages back to ones about which boy’s she liked (in order of course) and what cars she’s drive (vespa, porche, lamber…er… never mind) she falls forward to the winter realization (sipping lightly on the now slightly iced and defiantly stale refill) just how much poison leaks out of pens that list important things in order of importance, she tries to take a grip off the red pen but it’s become sewn to her hand…. she’s feeling faint, and I don’t think a gossips favourite liquid could possibly be the anti-venom.

Don't over think, just over sleep.

Excuse me while I stutter out too wasted on this I don’t know what I’m talking about this is nothing more than what I would have never expected. Please please let me explain these terms I’ve come to be remaining written vows and written rights with names blacked out and dotted lines are crossed by lesser evils who are plugging wires and circuitry to network our lack of motivation onto one double lane highway.
I’m just asking a simple favour, can the wheel be yours for a while?I’m too tired to drive any further.

it's a shame.

This lacquered glass does nothing more than kill my imagination, following the blue prints to the pages preached by nations, of masterminds, in science fields, who’ve spend long lives, behind tiny wheels, that turn the dials on microscopes, just to find reasons people float, so mindlessly, while others lick the open wires until they’re rust free, lab rats of sorts, vibrant minds cooled for sport, or is it just a necessity, that is fairly obvious to all the flat line migrants, but it’s just too damn simple a solution for me.

art film.

you’re positioning the vice grips on the back of my tonsils… -I’m just siphoning the air to release what you’ve been trying to say…you’re weaving fishing line through my lips and nostrils…-I’m just lessoning the urge for dramatic coalitions…you’re coiling cords around my wrists and tying ends to ceiling fans…-I’m just stirring up the cold undertones I’m sick of static air… you’re gauzing eyes taped wide open playing shadow puppets on grey walls…-I’m just loosening your faltering urge to see what you believe…

(white lights fade…5….4….3…2… and curtain down, the audience claps with artistic delight, standing ovations occur, they stand to leave leaving soiled white linens on the ground, and leaving husbands pockets with only shaking hands, and the theatre is quiet)

you’re going about this all wrong, shut this down, blow the breaker, joke’s over, my flag’s up, can I go home now? Where is the restart button? Don’t I get a one up for lasting this level through?

(the doors lock effortlessly)

I’m just trying to teach you the meaning of game over.

calling all arms.

2004-08-22T13:47:00.000-07:00

flail at once, try and create a similar pattern, come on, I need to be motivated by something, a cheerleaders chants, please?

(poems go here from now on, want to read about the day in day out bullshit? try livejournal)

xo.jesse