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[jupiter or japan]

I'm disgusted with my body
I'm in hate with my soul
I know nothing I do matters
I know I'm tolerated, not loved
You can say I'm wrong
But I won't be convinced
I overstayed my welcome

You'll get sick of me soon
The charm that I faked
The mask melting away
You see just what I am
And you don't hate me just yet?
I can say a few more words
That can change your mind

I don't like myself
So I can't like you either
If I have just one talent
It is making you think
I am this way in love
Why I cry like a fake
Because I know the truth

I hate that you're fooled
By my miserable act
You say I'm all wrong
But I know that you smile
When I'm this paranoid
I'm rotten and dead
A perpetual and emotionless void

[jupiter or japan]

^ Pure =D =D =D

I've had haiku fever recently too.
But it's a few stuck together. But I don't care. =]



Questionable care,
pulling a small child forward,
push, grow up through touch.

Don't ask the books if
Jesus helps you, baby girl.
My darling, he can't.

The Bible lies, dear.
heeding to the modern ways
in ancient fashion.

Years ago gurus,
past image modelled by Kings,
"to the cross!" they yell.

To the hills they march
to watch your fucking Christ child
stain pure white, death red.

Doesn't he look rad
up there our legend martyr.
He told us the truth.

God will come tell us
"Wear faith with pride and colours
to compliment it".

I like that. 

[jupiter or japan]

My last poem sounds fucking downright suicidal, I know.

I'm not going to pretend I'm ok, spewing stuff like that, but I thought it might make me feel better to spit it out instead of letting it brew inside me.

It didn't. I'm having a bad week. Areal bad one, and I'm just sort of running on emotional fumes right now.

Thanks for letting me vent.

[jupiter or japan]

Dude, I'm sorry you feel that way. =[

Well you should know everyone here thinks you're fuckin' awesome. 

~sends spiritual hug~
Better? Tiny bit..?

Lil bits. Thanks. I will look at the LOLDOLLZ thread to keep me going. That should help.

[preferpencil]

Larry, vent away...by all means. You shall receive something from me soon. (sorry it isn't a new guitar...$ you know, is a bitch)

ahhhehhh. here:


years will pass: five, ten, one
hundred and more.
the tallest building will
leave no hobo insurance;
the chance that a nut may
fall.

yet in five, ten, one hundred
there will be a reenactment,
something will recur and cough
its return out like a sponge
letting go of milk.
not sopping it up.

another first kiss
(no kiss is ever the same)
or the appearance of a mushroom
taking the lawn for repairs,
the sea blushing with a new
fish.

laying eggs on top of what was.
5. 10. 100. times the idea
of the circumference
four arms make in snarled and
jumbled greetings.
goodbyes and desire flipping off
a Yield Sign.

a drop of saliva
stained on glass,
may attach lustful
wishes onto a buzzard...

5, 10, 100.
it will repeat with indifference
to your shoes and finest gown.
flee to the museum where
the vaults
keep the scare in view.
only it may not be you.
no.
once around or always matters
little in terms of calculating

dustbins, tin cans, a dvd.
the cd you've wrapped around
your head
presuming tomorrow is always
a tick away...
the ticks themselves no better.
though we have the funerals
to prove it, we'd rather watch...

until it's 5, 10, 100.
classical music has already been
repeated by the exhaust of Rock
on the back of a fossil or stone
turning to pebbles with no
Shame.
yet the solo that freshens
a stage
is new, new, opening a trail.
diving in on one same key,
stroking out the mouth of a
novice
with no Shame.

in 5, 10, 100
a bubble will surface on some
planet or moon or tidal wave,
and it will be the first time
it comes around--
you just might see it--
and the last time it swings
its own body into view.

sit down.
the old t.v. is out in 5.
what my father first saw,
I'll never know the genius of it.
what he won't understand.
someone will expand upon it.
and technology hits you with
ammonia to try and shake a jar
of pennies...
but even the words typed in
Cyber...

what we feel is owned.
in 5 to 10 to 100.
the crux of it lies in knowing
that we own our personal
second and underwear.
darling, even a fool says it's
the second that counts.


you Are a walking relic.


think of sex on atomic terms.
laughing over this planet
in drought or water,
Krakatoa on a massive scale
blows and blooms over the wax
in all of this.
5, 10, 100.

Do Something.

change positions in bed
with your lover.
this bang of Krakatoa and shirt
stains will happen
over and over
but you aren't absolved by this.
in 5, 10, 100.

Curie cut her life short to solve
"i don't know why..."
and that is better than
waiting for a nut to fall.
for a twenty to show up
on a dead hobo in a tall
building.

5.10.100.

existence
is not your own.
born with it,
a choice.
and finally
for you...

nothing final.




----------------------------that was so simple in my book. and i've made a big fat mess........................................... :'(

[jupiter or japan]

I want atomic sex!

Pencil, I await fine gifts, even if they are not guitars.

Not so bad today. Not so down like I was.

music doesn't always comfort me
i depend on these comforts
yet the support is cracking
i have to find another prop
wear it out, then shift back
until time grows tired of me
time is yawning now
i don't matter much just yet
i get to survive
and run in my circles
my pain reminds me
and keeps me on the ground
but i do want to soar

[Musings]

Eh, what the hell, I'll take the beating:

Here's a fragment of a poem I wrote back in my workshopping days:

Footprints of a Sleepwalker

I.
At midnight,
it is as if my synapses are shut down
one by one.

My arm falls to my side
mid gesture
as I relate the events of a soccer game
as if the players stopped
playing each other and decided
to take up the cause of the abused ball,

my mouth refuses to form
any words except those I knew
in the crib,

and my occipital lobe remains
stubbornly dim
in the CAT scan
when the neurologist

asks me to watch the video
of the hummingbird flying
into the melon
over and over.

Puzzled,
the doctor will open up
the top of my skull,
reach far into the gray matter

and find that the man who controls
such things as the neural impulse
takes his first drink of champagne

every night at 11:59 and 50 seconds
because the calendar at his bedside

always reads December 31, 1999 and

he missed all of the good New Year’s partying
five years ago

when I had my first full
glass of champagne

and refused to share.

---------------

And I'm not sure if this goes here, as it's pretty much anti-poetry, and I'm sure DD fans will either be amused or want to kill me -- but man, last night I read this:  http://www.mtvu.com/music/the_hot_seat/?artist=the_dresden_dolls

And sent this out into DD mail but thought it was too much fun to keep to myself for a year until Amanda has the chance to read it:

(written sloppily to Christopher Lydon, and let the chucking begin -- I welcome it)

reading the words on the Apple screen
i didn't know, so fresh so clean, minty green
you cannot know what it did for me
when you told me, please floss those teeth

i never knew what my floss could do
i went out, bought some the moment i heard you
my friends like brushing cause that's their style
i stay behind with my flossing smile


Amanda F. Palmer,  your middle name
should be "Flossing", like that old dame

i once dreamt of the way to you
i went to the dentist's office, it's your one too
i waved at you and we sang "Sha la la"
and you found the smile in me, Amanda

Amanda, I floss them every way, Amanda,
even the back row you fucked that day, Amanda
Amanda, now and forevermore, Amanda
i'll never stop flossing, Amanda, Amandaaaaaa

Incisors, molars, and baby ones
you were telling me to remember them til I'm done
I don't care that they make fun of me
I will keep flossing until the end

So next time I see the Dresden Dolls
I see you -- I say
"Amanda Palmer, you've cleaned out my teeth"
When I ask if you feel the same way for me
You tell me yes, looking in between

they won't put holes in me anymore
except the one that you are here for
Amanda F. Palmer, your middle name
Should be "Flossing" like that old dame

Amanda, I am your flossing whore, Amanda
I hope you're happy now, Amanda
Thank you for everything and I'll keep flossing anyday and yes, I'll let the other people know the way
Amanda, beautiful, Amanda
I have the teeth you've been waiting for

-------

P.S. my browser shut down midway through this post trying to save me from myself, but I'm a determined bitch

[gargantuan]

Drowning Nighthawks
She's drowning nighthawks in the kitchen
She's wondering if her children are wishing that she was dead.

She's drowning children in the bathroom,
everyone is asking for her number.

Light some incense.
Light some incense.

Throw away those magazines,
they're all you're ever used to seeing.


Actually that's a song I wrote without thinking. I just hit record and sang it.

[Musings]

Wow.

If that was directed towards me, I'll take it as a compliment.   

[gargantuan]

that was bizarre enough because it was so Amanda-oriented... and then on top of it... it's about her telling you to floss.


Congratulations on creating something. I just..uhhhhhhhh.

Yeah, what?

[Musings]

that was bizarre enough because it was so Amanda-oriented... and then on top of it... it's about her telling you to floss.


Congratulations on creating something. I just..uhhhhhhhh.

Yeah, what?

"Creating something", eh?  I perfer to call it a masterpiece of massive proportions, if you will...  I haven't yet explored enough to read everything you wrote besides the song above, but I have to say I always have deep respect for songwriters -- me, I lack anything close to musicality, and just write to get the voices out of my head.  Nighthawk, is a freaking awesome word, btw and the few verses you have so far definitely creeped me out (which serves as an emotional response, so good for you).

[jupiter or japan]

I could buy you a drink
with my last dollar
would that be romantic?
or just so lame?

payday don't come for a week
but your smile is all I need
and if I have to starve
just a little

you are so sweet
I want to hurt myself
just to make you laugh
can you love a fool?

play silly songs
they don't cost a thing
just listen once
and I'll be paid

I could lay around all day
never get bored
as long as I can see
your long auburn hair

you twist and curl
into my mind
and slide down to my heart
you don't even try

you are so natural
I want to live with you
pretend we don't have work to do
and make our love

make love our work
and work at our play
you are adorable and sweet
you make me feel wanted

[jupiter or japan]

Dear America, Dear John

Dear America,

Where are you? Where is your outrage? Where is your heart?
I see the apathy dripping into your eyes, the stinging sweat of permission blinding you. I feel your comfort of fears making you into the lambs of God, awaiting deliverance from accountability. I see you lean on the crutches of survival’s excuse, placating responsibility.

America? Will you not walk with me? Will you not talk with me? My name is consequence, and did you think I’d hold my tongue forever? Are you so surprised to see your infrastructure crumble under your endless desire for comfort? Did you think the oily carcass you feasted upon would not return to pollute your souls? Did you think that by relying on others that the blame would shift away from your door step? I watch you walk by the wretched mirrors, bodies sleeping on cold hard mattresses paved by favored progress.

America? Are you there to listen, see and speak out? Your silence has betrayed the world. Your hushed voices commit acts of violence, torture and rape. Your silence is equal to compliance and condoning. Your quiet bickering will not absolve you. To be meek in times of consequence will not make you holy in the face of the slaughter. Do you believe that your sins are all accounted for, because of one tale of sacrifice? Did you miss that some lessons were meant to be followed, not as excuses to lean on?

America? Do you not care for your sons and daughters? Are the daily doses of celebrity morphine enough to dull the pain for you? Does the folly of rock angels and hotel daughters make you feel like all is right in the word for a while? You need more, just one more sacred fix to erase the wooden boxes covered in patriot rags of denial. The pictures you never demanded to see. It is the virtual and actual death of America.

America, will you come with me? I will set you free. All you have to do is forget the guilt, and let yourself mourn your failure. Time is too short to heal your wounds now; we must go into the fields, suburbs and streets. We must demand our soul progression, and leave our earthly desires to the earth. Your fear is the ammo to the guns of war. Your fear is driven by threat of loss. America, lay down your arms and open your hands. There is nothing to lose if you have your soul intact.

Dear America,
I’m afraid if you don’t make an effort to change, then I must leave you.

[tonic pancake.]

there's a three alarm blaze down the street
and we laugh as the sirens pass
an inconvenience to our sound
the amp can't compete
sure we feel for those
less fortunate
and we're forced to think
of the burning flesh
and collapsing roof
but for now
we blow out the candles
and continue to drink and play.

[preferpencil]

all i can say to Larry and Innocence....god damn. hot damn. shit damn. here:    

the chord fallen
_____________
finished with the performance.
a remnant of e minor in a degree
of erection flowed.
foot poised on the pedal
like an epoxy nightmare,
Ting struggled and lifted it...
her rhythmical piano discussion
made the jealous metronome
in view
a farcical and open-mouthed
chicken.

realization. fruition had her back
arched in closely besides the
position of an ultimate Orgasm.
this could rumble like fountains
into repetitive splash,
Or.
she noticed her hands.
hovered above the keys like a
Supernova in mid-shatter,
fingers splayed and throbbing.

what she had played she Owned.
the rhapsody was no promise,
but a cut into the space of letters
and a split of accents
where no recorder could save
what she Owned.

she had started with the peasantry
in the front of her eyes,
wishing them a gift without any
possibility of giving,
desiring to dry the eyes of a woman.
just one she had seen from a carriage
now replaced by horses she'd ride

she'd ride into the instrument...

a lonely violinist often carried her
like a bowl to the doors of the
estate.
opening the bedroom wall that kept
Distinguished from Hordes,
Ting would often twist down to
her knees in sorrow's net...
those melodies would soak her
in Salt. Acid as well.

--------------------

seemed to be a hush.
the audiences' still ignorance of
her centrifuged-flying playing
slithered from toes to face.
a full flush as red as a strawberry,
and a fire as incorrigible as the
enfant
enraged itself.

she waited, hands falling to her
lap as pebbles floating through
oils,
she waited longer.
   a Single boom flew threw the
   room in one ostentatious and
   thunderous Clap, the sound of
one machete looking to find...


Charlie's Car
____________________

the car shifted forward and
her head bumped the chair reserved
for escorts up front,
like a trip over ice, she was
humiliated slightly by Charlie's
laughter.
But. He was always laughing when
he didn't have a person's face
wrapped in his fist like
a piston through a plant's leaves.
or a reddened head extinguishing
in biceps as large as
thighs,
and much more present then
Charlie's own eyes and mouth.

his hysterical giggling continued.
annoyed and flabbergasted,
she felt the crack pipe by her thigh
and tossed it towards the dash
with
a tad more force than required.
the inside joke was tiresome
Yet
Charlie was always chuckling about
something,
and her action made him even more
enthralled.

another enfant as well, Ting thought.
grimmacing and swearing in the
process of checking purse,
adjusting neglige'
picking at her teeth...
she experienced a flashback of
the client Nen.

Nen.
Fury ripped up from Ting's gut,
and as she envisioned the whip and
Sneer, my god. my god. the butcher's
Belly was a sweaty rock of flesh,
hairy and rubbing up her face
in the rapid pace of a sprint...
his paw pushed
the top of her head downward,
Hard until it was so clear

the whip slashed her lip in 3
spots and her body in plenty
of isolated chunks as Ting stared.
That
yellow water spot on the ceiling,
and Nen was riding a kind of
horse that had blood dripping from its
hooves...

she flung her elbows backwards and
hit the young woman beside her
like a hammer to a tooth,
and there was the tooth to prove it,
and there was no girl when Ting
dared look to her right again.
the blow with her arm had dissolved...
the way tablets hit water and
blow bubbles. the way cleaver's
dismantle bone and don't
apologize.

she felt idiotic with her arms up
and elbows squeezed into
Cushioning of the custom ride,
and it was the traveling she delighted
in more than...

white and black spots covered,
as a map of bass-thrashing music
charged out of the rear speakers
with malice.

damn ghosts always persistent,
she thought.
"shut up Charlie and give me the
damn tablets."

"Pills for the chills?" Charlie guffawed
and belched simultaneously...


ehhh. Devery. Here it is as it stands. I like the finished performance better than the car...yes. I do. I have to put in more in the car area. Just wanted to show right now, and I think I'm revising "Charlie's Car" tomorrow. The first part, I have to stick with even if you hate it, only because I worked my ass off on it. (my ass?...sorry.)
Innocence. Changed the beginning a bit from what you saw. Not much. Shall be posted here as well.

Love to all! Musings? why did you think you'd get heat for that? no heat here. just experimenting poets...