Because I had A Vision.

We all sat there. Staring up at the poet Jesus of the 20th decade. A year of my life I never got. And he howled. Then I howled. I howled, piercing the night.

Her skin burned like hot oranges and cigarettes. I was the frustrated teenage girl in the back row, wanting to be physical. Go! Go! Strip your clothes off and fuck. Fuck America for we are free now.

We are free like lost children in the Midwestern night. Or the hot southern swamp. I am trapped here in it's acid filled lakes. It's hungry, sexless roads. The cigarettes pile up in numbers.

And where was he? He. The man of the hour. He. A dead poet. He. An alive poet. He. The bum. He. The hoodlum hero. He. The writer?

You call this gesture absence. Yet you groan and you grind along with the other naked man and his pulsating body. A summer night of hot, shimmering heat on bronzed skin.

I called out to Jim Morrison in the summer night. In the winter night. In the night. I called out to him, begging him. Wanting him. Needing him on my body and my mind.

Thrown into a vast abyss of sidewalks and city streets. They keep going. Lost in some once glorious vision of the 1960s, all faded away with the bloodshed. The bleeding of its last pawns of war. The rise of the American Capitalism and the fall of Jack Kerouac.

Yes! Yes! All I felt was skin. Skin of an animal. It wasn't human. This feeling of tremors and cold sweats and screams. I was hunched over on the cold tile in the bathroom. As I looked up at her naked, bronzed, body I saw it all. I saw life thrashing inside her soul. The ark angel trying to get out of her prison of flesh and bones. Her body.

Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty. Empty is the sidewalks at dusk in small town America. Empty is the wallet of a poor man. Empty is the parking lot on a Sunday afternoon in swamp lands.

The souls of angels spread out over the horizons of the people in the hospital. Like a germ. They were all dust. They were all thrown into war. They were all abused. They were the rape objects. The horrid sexual feeling of seeing the body of the young boy in the river, stripped naked and bruised. Oh! The tragedy! Such is the American Way! Oh, little boy. Oh, big man who raped him. OH! The cruelly of it all!

My lover stands poised in the face of the man that marked her. My lover spits on the lesser man. Her father. The one who gave her life, she damns. She damns it all with the wave of her hand.

I am not some grate movement. I AM NOT some crack head in the basement jerking off to sorrowful poems of Poe... thoughts of dead bodies. Drowned.

We all sat there in the building staring at the screen mindlessly. All of us sick perverted souls who just wanted to be fucked then left alone to make thick fog on the edge of our illegal illusions we bought of the street.

We want to be something. We want to be poets and perverts and lovers and Jesus and drugs and dreams and bums! All of us want to be something! We want to be free and alive and dead and pleasured and tortured and heard about and hidden. We want to be alright and horrified at the gaping bodies and we want to be the cold corpse; the price of war. We want to howl at the night for no goddamn reason other than we want to free our angelic souls from our prisons. From our prisons of flesh and bones. From this hellish world we created for our self. For the rest of it be damned! Everyone is an angel even the devil and I say fuck it all.

She threw the bottle in the garbage and watched as the glass hit the rim and shattered into a million microscopic pieces of souls. And she herd them scream. They called out into the only night we know. They called out for something else beyond ourselfs. A drugged up world were dreams are reality and reality is a foreign concept.

Oh everyones a faggot! Just fuck it all. Suck a cock and get it over with. Fuck it all. I'm a grown being now, there. You happy? Are you satisfied? Was it good for you, too?

In these valleys of death I traveled threw a rickety world of barns and houses and cities and back alleys and whores and drugged up dreams. Because I had a vision. Because I had a vision. Because I couldn't sleep. Because I had a vision. What was it? I visioned my naked body twisted and battered and bloody and bruised. Forever dying and unholy death in the river. Hot swamp, hot frog.

We wanted to be something. We wanted to be herd. Damn it we want to howl. To expose our lungs in the night! To cry out for every god damn thing we've done or haven't done. Herd or seen. Been or being. We want to howl! Howl! Howl! Howl! Cuss! Fuss! Fuck! Drink! All these things! We will be lost in the vision of the night.

Time in Class

I'm sitting in class dressed as The Doctor. Several people thought it was a good idea to attack me. Ha ha. I was in several persons pictures... most of whom I didn't know. My friend is dressed Ala Rocky Horror. Heh. Oh costume day. I should be working on my story for class... eh. I'll do it later. I can't focus. It's a mess. I pushed my forward plastered bangs to the side of my face and exhale. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm amazed this thing isn't blocked. Oh, boredom.... watching the clock. Words on my screen. Time to save the world again.

The Road Home (A Poem For Jack)

All I remeber is that we were lost.

Lost.

Neck deep in highway and road.

Asfault and gravel.

Yellow lines.

And this is the road.

And this is my home.

I threw my head back at the wind in my face and laughed.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

Everything is a consant blur in the little toy mechine.

And this is my car.

And this is my home.

I am a lost cause, built only for the road.

The open world is my lady.

And she calls to me sweetly.

Like a cluster of bees to a pot of honey and wild flowers,

"You are your own. Go my child, go. I will meet you in the promise land. I will make you. I will meet you in the promise land...."

I herd dead mans voice...

Jack.

I'm coming back to you.

To New York....

And this is the road...

and this is my home.

A letter to Faris Rotter...

I know we were never ment to be together. You're 23 years old and I'm 8 years younger. But... deep down, I wanted you to know my face. Just once. I wanted you to know my skin, just once. Yes it's wrong but I don't care. Sometimes at night I used to pick flowers and rip there petals off hoping you loved me... one point you did. I taped the petal in my notebook. It was something symbolic but now, I know that it never met anything. I have to get over you... the man I never knew. You're with some other girl now... whatever her name is. She probably understands you. I won't try and steal you from her, whoever she is. It's not logical. I shouldn't be upset but then I would be lying to you. Knowing that you could and never would love me is something that I'll have to get over. It's not like I knew you anyway or I will I ever know you. I just know what everyone can see. And yet, if we ever passed each other on the street, I would know you but you wouldn't even stop for a moment to ponder my exsistance. I still love you but I let the petal burn.

A Dream.

"Come on! Come on! Time to save the world!" What? You always seemed to find yourself in the middle of a dream, not knowing how you got there or what lead up to it. One moment I was laying down on my floor passing out from playing video games and the next thing I know... I'm running. Running threw London in the rain? "Come on! Come on! Time to save the world!" said some random man's voice running in front of me. I looked down. Well, I was dressed normally, thank god. Just jeans and a shirt and my chucks... the standard American Teen running from what? I looked back. Robots. Oh wonderful. "WHAT IF I DON'T WANT TO SAVE THE WORLD!?" I cried, still running very much out of breath. "I'm afraid you don't have any choice... Now.. in ya' go!" I was shoved into a phone box. "It's bigger on the inside!" My brain suddenly kicked in. Wait a minute... London plus box plus random British man saving world plus robots plus random girl (me) equals.... DOCTOR WHO!? I suddenly was very excitied.Alittle kid on Christmas morning times ten. I dug frantically for my own screwdriver but it wasn't there. Looking around, still standing in the door way I was in the TARDIS. Grinning like a git I just stood there. The Doctor... or the person that sure as better hell be the doctor sense I'm in the TARDIS. I jumped up and down and started to make TARDIS noises like I did when I was three. "Stop being all wibbly wobbly and watch the screen." Seeing it was Ten, I had to be professional. The world was in danger! I buried all the girly thoughts I ever had about the tenth Doctor deep down inside me and gave him a hug. "Will you let go!? Did a Dalex get you or something?" He wiggled awkwardly. "Hi...' I grinned up at him with shaky knees. "Pay attention! We're going up against weeping angels... what ever you do... don't blink, okay?" I fell over when we landed. I wasn't used to space travel. Soon we were outside on something that made me think Mars. "Stay close... and don't blink." he warned. Oh I'll stay close alright.... I thought. We were in some abyss of sand and stone. It was really eerie. We stood back to back, each facing a stone angel. They looked pretty. The one on my side seemed to move forward, coming closer and closer. "Use your screwdriver..." Ten whispered. "You have it..." I said, shaking. How the hell did you kill those things? My eyes hurt from the strain of not blinking. The stone creature was touching the tip of my shoe. It was a staring contest. I blinked. Its once calm face turned like the scream and lunged at me. "I told you not to blink!" the Doctor said turning around he zapped it with my screwdriver. But there were two... the other one grabbed me. Then in cold realization I was back on my floor... my hands buried in my face trying to hide. "I told you not to blink..."

Your Scene Sucks: A Rant About Scene Girls

Mother fucker. I'm sick of all these stupid, dumb ass, preteen or teen wanna-be-some-area-of-pop-culter-label! The best example of this I can think of is Scene. Now, what is it? Well, basicly its every cool thing from the 1980s compleatly ruined with stupid hair, big sun glasses,japan and a fuck load of makeup that looks like the said "scencester" (as they are called) is compleatly willing to give them a fucking blow job because there whores. It's annoying! Here is a discription of a Scene Queen (AKA Wanna-be-goth-or-some-such-BITCH) as told by one of my favorite websites (http://yourscenesucks.com/)

this utterly useless scene queen is internet-famous for no apparent reason other than the fact that she looks like a clown and is as naive as she is colorful.

she claims that she invented fashion trends like stripes and becomes furious if anyone “steals” her hairstyle or any of her other patented looks. making it a point to hunt down anyone who has a similar style and subsequently spending countless hours chastising others, she still can't help but wonder why she only has friends in the online world.

the scene queen boasts that she is buddybuddy with fellow myspace icon jeffree star, but outside of gender-bending 15 year-olds, who really cares?

like most "artsy" girls her age, she has dreams of being a fashion designer and attempts to pass off bedazzled trinkets from michaels as jewelry. all that she has truly mastered is the art of manipulating mindless fans into buying her cheap junk through endless blog postings.

do mommy and daddy really know what their little girl is up to when she really should be doing her homework?

Now, the irony, I am blogging about this. So there. Most of there music sucks ass anyway... No. All of there music sucks actualy. They think there so origonal and differnt when people have been doing shit like that forever. This also leads to another thing... interent fame. Once again, I see the irony in this. Alot of girls want to be interet famous now a days. (I could be an example perhaps? I just kind of do this for a good bitch fest and some writing but you know..) And how to do suppose they achive this? Take a million fucking pictures of them selfs pretty much half naked with a shit load of makeup on then post it on myspace or some other form of social network. Alot of them say for art purposes and for clothing. One, the clothing that they uses has been done numerous times over the course of fashion history. (EX: Stripes and Joan Jett hair.) And second, the only people you'll really get looking at your so called art is pedofiles and other scene whores bitching about how you stole "there look".

In closing, You're music sucks, YOU probably suck dick, and you're make up is horrid. Oh also, fuck you.

Have a good day.

- The Typist.

The Theroy of Evolution

It awakes from bed. So begins the day. It slithers out of the safety of the craddle. Pale feet step unto white painted later downwards. The kingdom of its four walls remain the same. The same pictures glued to the wall, the same things scatterd on the floor, the broken alarm clock in the corner, the beloved typewriter with no ribbion. All is there. It slips on the candy cane color robe. It pushes the white door open and it replies with a groan. The door hates being op end. The door likes to remain shut. To hide things. It walks into bathroom and looks at its self in mirrior. Slowly, ever so slowly, IT becomes GIRL. Girl stares down, never to be content with the way she looks. Girl throws on robe again. She forces the door open again. This time the door opens with a long drawn out "Whhhhhhhyyyyy?" "You had to be opend. I had to get in."

Her kingdom of four walls is the same. She turns to her typewriter affectionatly. "Soon my love, soon." she says with her dark eyes. Girl lifts up the needle on the record player and drops it down to "Herion". A pale hand reaches up to touch the dark hair. It hangs in her face freely. Girl yawns. She feels like the room is smokey. As if someone had smoked with her several nights, days, or hours ago.

Slowly her realization that she is alive sets in. There, right there. In the middle of her own floor, facing the record table. The lyrics roll of the needle and unto her face and into her mouth. But this is okay because it is normal. Cracking snow-boney-fingers, she starts to look for clothes. The same ones call out to her and she answers.

Picking up grey pants, a shirt from a various band, a rainbow belt to hold the pants, socks, her Chucks. Slipping into these things she slowly, ever so slowly, starts to become something more than GIRL. Girl advances to mirror again, ignoring the doors moans of pain. Girl applies her normal face. Eyeliner on the top of lids and pin-up lips. Eveolution

So now we see that IT eveloved into GIRL and GIRL eveoled into MARGARET.



About the peice: I had to write something about myself for English. I liked the peice so I posted

Alone On The Floor

I see you standing there, alone.

The lights light up your skin.

And you speak, unaware of what you mean to me.

And I watch; helpless.

If I called out to you, you wouldn't hear.

And if I cried? You'd be blind to me.

Yet somehow I can feel your eyes robbing me of everything.

Then you leave me laying here.

Alone on the floor.

The Tile Floor

The girl that walked beside me remained quiet.

I kept glancing at her, thinking that the next moment in time would be the right.


Then she told me.

And like an arrow I was broken.

My heart lay stabbed and opened.

Laying on the tile floor, I cried.

She was so close and she was never to be mine...

The tile floor my only lover.

The tile floor, collected stone.

This tile floor knows my secrets.

This tile floor my only home.

This is it

FINALLY! After what felt like years and years of waiting its finally here. Just have to hang in there a few more hours.... Man I really hope Dylan plays "Stuck Inside A Mobil With The Memphis Blues Again." And that I run into him. More so the first one sence the second one is rediculously far fetched at this point but oh well.

Love,

- The Typist

Waiting is the hardest part.

I woke up this morning and obediently ran to my record player. Croucnhing down I put the needle on Dylan and so began another day of waiting. The words "I'm SO close...." flashes on and off in my brain like a neon. I looked over to the window ledge. The candle I had left burning last night had died and its remains were a green waxy glow. Happy Birthday John Lennon. You are 70 years old today. The sky glowed a bright fall blue. Excitement ran threw my body at the coming weather. I love winter and fall. The process of my vanity took over as i fixed my hair. It annoyed me but I did it anyway. Blaring "Absolutely Sweet Marie" I fell back on my bed. Waiting. Waiting for that time when I'd surely find someone willing enough to share there joint. When he would brake down and finally play it. After years of going and going threw heart brake he would play it. I know he won't see me but its all I got. Just a little bit of faith. Oooohh Mama, can this really be the end? To be stuck inside of Mobil with the Memphis blues again? I guess Tom Petty was right... the waiting is the hardest part.

On The Road And Little Confused

Got into Atlana, GA. Seeing family. I'm on the road again but I'm a little confused. I like this girl at school but at the same time I like this other girl who I went to school with last year. >< Ughhhhh. So. Confusing. That's my rant for the day.

9 days.