The Denver Hero

I stayed up like a bum with my hands coverd in ash. I sprawled out on the roof. I listend to Jack Keuroac for four hours now. My breath smelled like hot rum and it burned in my throat and feet and fingers.

I was drunk. Damn drunk. I was reeling and laughing and crying at his adventures in Mexico. He was a bum, I'm a bum, You're a bum, too! I paid more attention to his airwaves and hollowed out recording than I did my own parents.

His voice gravled on, dark and sexy and lonely in his discription of the America's to Mexico and back again. How he was lonely in Denver, How he went away from Denver, How he bloody died in Denver. The time were he sat and listend to Dean and Carlo talk about the mechine and how you couldn't shut it off because if you did everything would die. How he laid with some girl in some grass mummbling and slurring til everything made sence in there minds.


And about Mary Lou. How her honey colored body and soul was enough to drive him to the brink of hell, into hell and repeat itself before morning. Then morning came and he, a hero of this American teenager, walked and hitch hiked into the shadey road of alholoic death. Into the shadey woeful boxcar night on the railroads of maybe his hometown... but probably Denver. Everything happens in Denver. Living, loving, and dying in Denver. The hero of Denver, the devil of Denver, gets out of a shadow truck and onto the boxcar. Only to ride off in the rainy naked light blub night once again... all the way to Denver.

A Quick Twenty

As I'm sitting here trying to get Darklands to download and waiting for my brother to show up so I can beat him in some serious video games, I've been thinking. Here now from my mind comes two list. These are not in by number of importance... they are simply there because they popped into my head first. This is not meant to be a piece of writing... just a random blurb so possibly readers could know me better.

Ten Things That I Hate And Or Annoy Me:

1. I hate it when people think The Jesus and Mary Chain are a Christan Rock Band.
2. Christan's in general.
3. Posers.
4. I hate it when you say you're bisexual that automatically means you're lesbian apparently.
5. Justin Beiber.
6. The really hard core (not necessarily religious) purist. "I don't drink or smoke or do drugs or anything of that nature so there for I have a better life than you. I'm so clean." You fucking wanker. Get a life!
7. Math. Enough said.
8. When you're mom even starts calling you goth... whatever that is.
9. Really really slow music downloads. Isn't download supposed to be instant?
10. The fact that The Cure isn't touring.

Ten Things I Like And Or Enjoy Doing etc:

1. Lou Reed.
2. The Jesus And Mary Chain
3. Music in general.
4. Ranting about things I hate.
5. Rum.
6. That moment you know there's something between you and a person.
7. Seeing someone you missed.
8. Anytime a Beatles song comes on the radio.
9. New eyeliner.
10. Christmas.

The end.

It's Complicated

It's complicated... when you're this sad. When you're this alone. It's complicated to tie you're own shoes when you're this sad.. this alone. It's hard to see in the darkness of you're own poedic, tragic, thoughts. They bubble up blacking out the star map of my mind. It's complicated to be involed with someone you love and yet you love someone else the same way... the same portion of you're heart you're willing to give up to them. But you can't take both. It gets so long; the days. It gets so short; my breath. It gets so bleak; my days. It is cold; the tile floor I lay my head on. And hard. Resting on a stone blanket of ice, rolling over to hear the dumb hum of the naked kitchen bulb. Now all I do is watch it swing back and forth, most days. Also I count my miserable exsistance on the kitchen floor. Every drop from the rusty faucet into the skin means another tear drop on the tile floor. I love you, can't you see that? Can't you feel that? It's complicated.. when you're this sad. "What's wrong?" I heard someone ask, looking down at me. "It's compleicated."

"Not In Love" A Rave

There's a neew single out by Crystal Castles featuring Robert Smith called "Not In Love" And It's really awesome! There's alot of awesome synth and keybord. And Robert has this grate bassline. And his voice is just wonderful. Listen for you're self! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ftKBjYUamQY&feature=fvst

America

America, the secert subject of these poems.

America, my home land.

America, a hell hole.

America, a melting pot.

The driving force of the futures super highways.

Roads lined with trees of red violet.

Roads cut into this land like the old, dried up, river beds of Mississippi and Arkansas.

Dusty grit and gravel; America's ash tray.

The road.

Beat Angel

I awoke looking like a survior of a concentration camp. I was hungrey and I could feel my ribs poking at me threw the thin wall of my stomaches flesh. I sat upright then I rememberd a dream.

I was sprawled out naked on a tile floor and my wrist were cuffed by metal loops with spikes dug into my flesh so my arms would be wrapped around me. I was a human straight jacket. I witherd and convulsed in anger as I heard Howl read and reread out to me millions of times by someone that wasn't him. My body arched in a way that it wasn't suppoed to be naturaly and my cerbal pasly made my legs twitch. It was all so bleak. The night sky from what I could tell threw this barred window..... was acid. The moon was full but it wasn't pretty. It gave off a war time greenish glow.

My own vile slid out my mouth as I heard his horrid visions. Then I cried. I was no longer a child. Was this what it was like becoming a woman? No longer a child yet I remained untouched. Everything around me was blue. A soft glowing blue, like the clean sheets at my Grandmothers house. The steal cuffs had melted off of me and then I heard his voice. He stepped threw the mist of acid night and wall and bricks to get to me. My twisted gaping body. I could move my hands again. He knelt down next to me and then I knew I was dead.

I saw the angel and for a moment I believed. His wings were a soft blue. He had jeans and a flannel shirt and no shoes; he was a beat angel. I felt something well up inside of me; my words. "Are you with me?" I asked. It didn't talk. I saw now that it had no gender. Beat Angel wrapped me up in its embrace and then I was floating backwards towards infancy.

Journal Entry 2

Mood: Neutral? Confused? Confused works.
Tunes: "Fire In Ciaro" The Cure

I'm not really sure what to write about to be honest. Feels like the ink well of my mind has dried up. For now.

Security Within Insecurity

I laid there.

In shadows of firmilar night. Cut open raw like a wound in the skin.

I lay flat on my back.

Staring up at the night sky that is the roof of these four walls; security within insecurity.

Blackness all around me.

Washing over me.

But I can still see.. when I close my eyes.

Red flowers flow gently past the inky rivers of my thoughts.

And then I see a darkness.

Journal Entry

Mood: Sulky.
Tunes: Bonnie 'Prince' Billy- I See A Darkness

I've deiceded to do some journal entries. About my life, I guess. Maybe It'll make for a good piece of writing. I don't know. This year is one of grate change. I can feel it. I keep going down and down in a spiral. As if I'm sinking and I'll never get better... or I'll drown and pull myself up then I'll fall again.

I don't know. It's all so bleak now that I think about it.

- The Typist

That this is life

I cried because I got it.

My tears were cold on my frozen freckled face.

Oh Allen! Oh Allen! I understand!

Oh Oscar! I know now! I know!

I get life!

My legs shake as I realize what this all this.

That this is life.

And that is all.

A brighter red flower blooms in my vision.

The moon becomes paler and lonely.

I become the same.

But that is okay.

That is life.

And that is all.

What? (A peice of writing to be considerd a poem, story, or rant and everything else in between)

Look where I am now.

I tried to be a poet of the Beat Generation.

Till Allen set me straight.

What now?

What now that my typewriters out of ribbon?

What now that my pen is out of ink?

And my mounting sea of paper starts to shrink?

Where will I go then?

What do I do when I get to the end of the road?

Who will I look up to when my poet dies?

When Bobby is gone?

I stare at the wall in horrible frustration trying to picture life with out his words coming threw my speaker soft and strong; like a sewing needle hitting the tile floor.

They'll still be there.

But he won't be around to read them.

That's life isn't it?

People love you more when you're dead.

People realize you're genius when you can't produce anymore of it because you're laying in some hole in the ground or a ditch. They don't want you back though. They say how grate you are but secertly they, the masses, are glad your ideas of change are out of there heads... because they are afraid.

Afraid that if you are still alive you can cause more harm; more change.

My father once said that there isn't a grate need for writers these days. He was wrong. They always need writer's who will write not for artistic reality or truth but they write what they are told. There are needs for writers... just not poets.

No. No. We poet's live in secret society's of our minds. Everyone says because I am a girl that I therefore am labeled to write poems of the feminist. "They need creative inspiration!" Fuck that! I write what I feel. Not for the female masses so they can preach some fat middle age women wine drinking self empowerment bitch fest. All genders are wrong.

When Bobby dies my pen will die, too. I know it. I just know it.

What am I gonna' do when I'm lost in the rain in Juarez and it's Easter time, too?

All those hopes and dreams I've had sense little-girl-hood will be exposed all at once for everyone to see. It all boils down to the question that everyone has asked a million times when they lay akwake at night all pent up from there own lonliness.

What do I do now?

Hyper Writing: Gonzo In Action

I'm cold. And bored. Hence why I'm doing this. Basicly I'm just typing whatever comes in my head. See if anyone reads this. If you get this far I congradualate you! I miss Amsterdam. I have no idea why. I guess the same reason why everybody misses the place; pot. Chtulhu for president 2012! I don't want to do this science project at all even though it won't take long. Grr. I wish I lived in England so I didn't have to wait another week for the Doctor Who Christmas special. A week isn't that bad really but I get excited. I'm going for a walk.

A Conversation With Kurt Cobain

I looked at my poster. This blue wall that I pined you too. And yes. It was in every way meant to be sexual. I sat on the edge of my bed and looked at you. Studying you. Wavy blond hair, those tortured blue eyes that I'm a complete sucker for. What can I say? I like the artistic moody type. And then I go to me. My insides. This feeling of lust... or is it love? I can't tell you, Kurt. I honestly can't. I changed my middle name to Cobain for you, and I have a jacket named after you, too. I wear you everyday wrapped around my body like a shroud. You feel good there. Looking deep into your paper eyes I can almost feel some reality in them. You know, I've wanted to die before... just like you. "I'm so happy 'cause today I found my friends." You did? "There in my head.." Yea. I have lots of those. "I'm so ugly.." No you're not! I touch your paper face, maybe if you could feel human skin again you could see how much the world needs you to come back in zombie form and kill that cunt of a bitch you took for a wife. "But so are you." What? I light a cigarette and I kept staring at you. Your face remained the same.. placid. No emotion. I looked over to another place I pined you. Here you look happy and your playing guitar. Maybe you didn't mean to call me ugly. I go back to the first one right up o n the wall where my bed is. "Go away.." You said to me. Fine. I fell back on my bed but I couldn't see you. Wouldn't we make a lovely couple? "I like you I'm not gonna crack... I miss you I'm not gonna crack.. I love you I'm not gonna crack..... I kill you I'm not gonna crack." Aww... that's so sweet.

Stereotypes

What the fuck is wrong with you?

There all a bunch of whores...

All the girls love him.

Too bad.

Too bad he's a fag.

Bitches and Dykes...

Another sexual teenage sterotype.

They all try and say "I'm better than you. I'm better than you."

Bro's... and Ho's.

Another sexual teenage sterotype.

I hate my life.

I hate my life.

We all fall into sterotypes!

Highschool.

Nothing but a label.

Nothing but a label.

Nothing but a fucking sterotype.

Deface

This page I will deface.

This virginity I took.

Fuck it all.

I rant and rave about socitiey. Every punch I take, I do it for this.

This page I will deface.

These pages I will discrace.

For all thoes times I've been called a punk.

For all thoes times I've been called a goth.

For all thoes times I've cried....

These are my rants, raves, and rages.

This is the face they are afraid to see; everyone's scared in bullshit socitiy.

This page I fucked up to royaly, to show that you are wrong, to punch the fucking whores.

This page has been defaced.