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[Nov. 21st, 2006|10:01 pm] |
The Sad Reality of a Neo-Desolation Angel
wake up early-
sticky with cold come
to an existence
of too-weak coffee
and an office: 2’x3’
in the hallway of
a disused wing
at the top of the row.
lights flow into oncoming
traffic,
bass heavy and sad
in papered sepiatone
and smoke (smog).
one break: hardly time
to finish off the
cigarette left lipstick-smeared
in a steel bowl by the bed
from last night.
not what you expected
when you scowled,
sulked and proclaimed
your place in the
grand scheme of things,
but it’s better than
getting married
staying home
and spending an eternity
becoming your parents. |
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| Instead... |
[Aug. 5th, 2005|02:17 pm] |
of me posting my things here, you should click my journal and read them if you're interested. I'm a beat fan, obviously, Kerouac and Cassady being favorites.
Book? Big Sur or Road....collections of letters are all good too. |
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| The Jester Weeps |
[Nov. 6th, 2004|12:53 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  melancholy | ] |
| [ | music |
| | the hum of the computer | ] |
After the lights have faded
And all the crowd is gone
There is a man who sits
All alone
A heart filled with sorrow
And mourning deep inside
He sits alone, his pain
To hide
The crowd was filled with joy
And the jester weeps
For sorrow has his heart
For keeps |
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[Aug. 27th, 2004|04:37 am] |
Gone
For a month long retreat
To great green isle
To disconnect from everything left behind here
To just be
And exude brilliance in the meantime
And I wrote nothing
Just kept phoning back home
To cling dearly to all I'd lost
To cry myself to sleep at night with
And still I wrote nothing.
Any title suggestions? |
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| New |
[Aug. 15th, 2004|10:23 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  okay | ] |
| [ | music |
| | german punk cover of 'Wonderwall' | ] |
Hello. I am new here. I am Hannah.
Eggs and Coffee for you?
Eggs
soaked in amniotic sauces
sprinkled with the savory arsenic-red spices
from Asia, which your poor fat cook
pours on in cultureless indifference,
flick of blue-veined wrist.
Eggs, where we had furrowed our brows
over debates on abortion and suicide,
before we were inhibitionless Epicureans
concocting formulas for capitalism.
obese Marys in white suburban nightgowns
hairpins tight, Sunday morning America
fleshy lips devour placenta
the blow-job salute to the beginning of life
enough for the whole litter.
Eggs, turquoise layers
jaundice unbirth, Biology's wrath
crooked legs, slime dripping down his chin
carnivorous lust
the fluidy enterprise.
We never gave them the chance to be helpless,
was my main concern
as the greasy construction worker
barrells on to the washroom,
drops his overalls,
and we're all reaching
for more.
Coffee
beige entrails of morning
bands of evaporation on mahogany,
hugging the nuclei of white teeth
and anchoring in the sunrise.
Mild secretaries like theirs with cream,
a milky brew that barely stains
white sweaters, circling red fingernails
round the axis of a mug--
And their rumpled counterparts
enjoy it black
strong and jaded and always
wearing a four-o-clock shadow
nevermind the time of day, or whether
the subway's on its last stop.
The containers boast of Hispanic maidens,
blackhaired and grinning
comb-toothed grins
carrying the secret of humility
in canvassy skirts with colorful stripes,
gray mountains proudly
tucked behind;
Unkempt college students refer to it
in slang, addressing it vernacularly
and tenderly as murmers to a lover.
Because it is no easy feat
to remedy 5 AM, and lighten the rings
beneath his eyes, with splashes of cream--
And sex, death and coffee
will always soothe our souls
in the murkiest of hours,
and the darkest, darkest nights. |
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| Late Night Ponderings |
[Jul. 17th, 2004|02:48 am] |
It's 2AM. I should be asleep by now. I have to get up at 6:15 AM. It's too warm to sleep. I hate warmth. It makes it impossible to sleep. My body has now set itself into summer zombie mode. I hate summers. Always have. I'm a winter kind of guy. You can have your sun. You can have your wild summer nights. And you can definitely have your daytime back. Give me grey skies. Give me the biting northern winds. Give me my long nights of ice and desolation. There's something almost comforting about the dead of winter. It's cold. And offers no respite for the weak; of body or mind. If you can't handle it, you can always stay inside, and bundle up. Not so with the heat of summer. Unless, you like curling up inside the freezer. So ends my rant on weather.
I thought about how I have problems connecting with people face to face. It's wierd. Online, I tend to reveal my more locquacious side. In person, it's like pulling teeth to get me to open up...at first. After I grow comfortable with you, I can talk like crazy, in seclusion. And, it's this very "seclusion" that we are afforded online. Sure, anyone with the means to do so can peek in, but it's not like they'd make their presence known. So, for the most part, online, we have a nice little hidey hole to shield ourselves from unseen prying eyes. Anonymity...it allows us to be so much more than we normally are. If only I could bring forth this verbose side in person; without freaking out all those around me. I guess I'd probably shock many of the people that know me with the wisdom that I do have...even if it is but a shard of a pebble from the mountain of all knowing wisdom. But, I have found that it is best to allow others to be. Not who they would like to be; who they think they are; nor who they are; rather, just to be. And, that is all any of can do. Just be. With that, I take my leave. |
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| Since I'm the mod...I can pretty much do what ever I want |
[Jul. 8th, 2004|03:55 pm] |
And I will...by posting a promo for *GASP* another community. ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif) pretty_lesbians
It had to be done.
Feel free to critisize me poetically. |
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| Being Baltimore |
[Jun. 9th, 2004|07:33 pm] |
note: it's simple and has cheap rhymes, but i guess that's why i like it.
Take a stroll on the sidewalk, outlined with police chalk,
While Charles Street whores, sleep with men robbing stores,
And the kids on West Oak, dropped school to sell dope
To the business men in the harbor, who graduated from Carver.
All the punks in Fells Point, get high, smoke a joint.
And it leaves me wanting more of this dirty city called Baltimore:
The one I was raised in... I wish I could abhor. |
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| one more |
[May. 26th, 2004|03:46 pm] |
The old man
and his books
are solid as
the iron chair
he sits on
Drinking coffee,
studying, occasionally
pausing to
exhale wisdom with cigarette smoke.
The best men are self made-
Never satisfied with what they already know. |
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| an old poem |
[May. 26th, 2004|03:44 pm] |
Styrofoam
You aspire to be snow
or something lighter
Floating through gutters
as I plod on concrete
Gray and heavy from
the weight of the week
Tremulous
But not spellbound
by your beauty
(which can be altered)
I'll crush you
scratch you
with my fingernails,
Make dents. |
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| And something else I wrote |
[May. 26th, 2004|10:20 am] |
Not exactly a poem, or mad ramblings, but I just want to share it with ya. All of the people in this story are based on actual people in my life. So, here is
( A Tale of Two Lovers ) |
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| Been a while |
[May. 26th, 2004|10:06 am] |
It's been a while since I have posted here. I've been kinda busy. Life sure can be kick to the head that way. Anyhow, here is something that I wrote a while back.
The soul dies slowly. Its death is a slow descent into madness. And all the while, you feel the loss of something important. This feeling lessens with time, until you feel nothing. No sadness; no joy; nothing. Everyday is covered with a n emotional grayness. People no longer connect with you. Their concerns seem empty. Colors no longer have the same life that they once had. Everything seems to have faded. There is no comfort; no love; no hope. There is nothing. Just a dying of the soul; a slow descent into madness. With any luck, you do not notice this descent. For me, this is not an option. I witness the madness everyday. |
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| New Member |
[Apr. 14th, 2004|11:19 pm] |
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Hi. I just found this community and it looks good, so I joined. Here's something I wrote recently. I guess it's kind of a stream of consciousness type of thing...let me know what you think
( click ) | |
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| Thespian |
[Apr. 11th, 2004|07:29 pm] |
In my superficial world
I pretend to live the surrealist's year
Think I'm a better person than I am
Even thought I'm still too afraid to pinch dying ember out
I blame my inability to write on one ex-boyfriend's distaste for poetry
(How did that last so long?)
While another learns to write better than the teenage girl who'll always live inside of me ever will
And friends suspect relationshpis and liking
In the most unlikely
-And all the wrong-
Places.
In my make believe "artist's" life
Even sleep betrays me
Taking a virgin's soul and fornicating with it
Until I feel
Afraid that I'll be making love to him constantly in sleep
Living out what should have been
No, would have been
In dreams
After watching Beauty and the Beast
Is nothing sacred or even safe anymore?
I tell myself I cannot sleep, for fear of my sub-conscious
Just lie awake and wait for stabbing sunrise
While the remnants of my chocolate pudding dries and crystalizes to the spoon
Like semin on a sheet rock wall
Sex scorns and sears me
Makes me a whore under the dock in some German port city
Anything for a good time
In this numb socioty the sluts are placed high on pedistals,
The brokenhearted swept into the dust pan
The vacuum that's emptied this world for all us
Starved souls
Poor, self-pittying things we are
Can't get our act together and won't listen to the director
Two days before opening night
It brings up the question
Why haven't we burnt our own shaddows onto walls
Instead of trying to stick them back on
In the instant before we vaporize the scurge of human existance?
If artists hate it so much,
Then why can't they see?
Mass suicide could solve it all for them. |
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| Adam and Eve |
[Apr. 8th, 2004|08:44 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | blank | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Time~Blind Melon | ] |
I wrote this right before my last boyfriend and I broke up. I'm glad we did.
They lie side by side
Gazing into the abyss
that sucks them from this frozen landscape of matchboxes and chain links
These two virtual virgins
And they take the super highway of their eyes off to
the garden that grew the
sweetest apples
She ever tasted
In naked exhaustion they suck all the nectar their stolen time for a
'sin-session'
has allowed them
Limbs intertwine until they become
that tree that turned us all into such smart asses
...Almost
Between the flat sheets
Between her sheet
As if it were almost
permissable
They make love
Love-for the first time
She knows it's love because he can't stop saying
"I love you"
which he never does when they get this naked together,
or so it seems
But he does this time
He knows it's love because
She wouldn't do it otherwise
She couldn't
He knows, he knows
He's won
Her
Two young nude figures collapse into
Blissful Oblovion
And She doesn't feel so dumb
for wishing She could marry Him
Anymore
And then they share one last sweet, teenage smile |
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| At this late and early hour... |
[Apr. 2nd, 2004|12:04 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | Ars Poetica | ] |
| [ | music |
| | The Tele | ] |
A little something I started but don't know how to finish, or if its worth finishing....
Your thoughts would be appreciated.
And it occurred to me
That we are all susceptible
To the laws of physics
And that when you fall
You hit the ground beneath you
Whether it is concrete
Or cotton.
And when your heart
Is in motion
It will remain in motion
Until stopped by an outside force
Like the stupid things you say
Or the back of your hand.
And I knew I hated science
And I knew I hated math
When you told me you loved her
And that despite the distance (measured in years)
And despite the time (immeasurable) |
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| Sunny Monday Morning |
[Mar. 29th, 2004|10:39 pm] |
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I love the coffee shop by the university. Moreover, I love the little plaza that it resides in. I love it more on a warm sunny morning. Come to think of it, as much as I love dreary, sleepy, gray mornings, nothing beats a warm sunny morning. It's not the weather that I love. In fact, I moved up here to get away from the sun. I can't stand it. It burns both the eyes, and on occassion, the skin. My photosensitive eyes find it harsh. The warmth saps me of my energy, and causes me a lethargy that just won't go away. However, I cannot stand being inside on a sunny morning. I was late to work, but man, oh man, it was worth every minute to see all that I saw; well worth it. Even on the way to work, I had a lovely time. If I had died, as I sometimes pray would happen, on the way in the door, I would have died a happy man. Ah well...such is my life. Each night I go to sleep hoping that death will take me, only to wake up again. I only hope, against all odds, that I can experience a wonderful morning like this morning, again; maybe even better than this morning. Ah...but the time for reverie is drawing to close, as my ever dreary life is starting to creep up on me. Time to return to a world of mind numbing oblivion...sweet, ever faithful oblivion. Fairwell, bustling business people, lollygagging lovers, howling homeless, pouting princesses, skipping sweethearts, industrious intellectuals, pokey party-goers, and so long, sweet, sweet plaza. I must take leave of you now. Until we meet again. |
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