Be Brave

It's been a very long time, my sweet Dream.
I can not look at you without drowning,
In thoughts and hopes and sheer longing.

Desire likes me very much.

But, Desire dosen't matter now.

I can not look at you without crying.

I press the book to my heart and I hear it pound like tribal drums.

Breath quickens,
Body twitches,
And I can only moan softly in pools of memories of sorrow.

How bitter.

I'm crying again.

I press my cheek to the pages,
And I feel whole.
You're all that matters.

My desire burns like a forest fire.

And It laughs at me.
But Desire let's me have my moments with you.

I have decieded your skin, my love, feels as silky as these pages.
I kiss you with shakey lips, frantically. Too happy to see you.

First Desire, then Despair.

The pain comes.
Small at first, like light rain.
Then hard rain.

"Be brave." I tell myself over and over. Fire, Desire, Despair, Rain, swelling up within me.

"Be brave, and he'll come for you."

I have to keep going for you.

Be brave,
And keep reading.

I love you, always, even after your sister comes for me.

A Murder Colored Orange

I'm sitting here peeling oranges, desposting their flesh into a greasy fast food bag where, at one point, I got a burger of some kind or another. I love to peel oranges. Peeling the skin back, peeling beauty back, to reveal something truly flawed and imperfect, something less superfical. I don't eat them. My mother does. I do all this while we speed by fantastic looking (according to my mother) mountain ranges. I can't really tell for I am too engrossed in a murder Hitchcock would laugh at and Kubrick would be a little proud of.

I like how these victims smell... for a little bit. The stench reminds me of my father. But, in turn, as I peel back, the smell becomes too powerful and I hate them all together because that reminds me of HOME. And HOME makes me think of HEAT and HEAT is awful.

So I give mother the bodies and she gets rid of them for me.
The body is easy, the stench you don't have to worry about because dim witts confuse the smell for something nice and pretty. Pretty indeed. Yes all of those are simple. The hard part is the skin. What do you do with that?

You shove it down in a shallow grave of greasy napkins and crusted salt and hope for the best.

Just make sure to wash your hands because everyones skin, oranges and other peelable fruits included, likes to get under yours.

Lou Reed And Other Things

Tonight I want to become the light under the lamps in the streets,
I guess they're street lamps.

I guess those are streets.
There are images between the cracks of the side walks.

They conjure up Howl, Wolfe and Jazz, Nakedness, my first time alone with Jack Keuorac and Lou Reed on some souls door step.
The era I wish I could breathe in for myself,
take it in and make love to it.

Exist.

Light the streets,
Workmen woke me up.

Oh Harlequin, Oh Harlequin! (Part Two)

So he left, gone. Out of my life like everything else. How could he just… I swung my arm out in frustration, only to hit the little glass Japanese flowered lamp. It shattered into billions and billions of stars on my floor, beautifully and painfully spread out for me.

I never thought I would miss the harlequin. He came so quickly, as quick as the winds, as bright as my dreams, as soft as my bed sheets. The trickster should mean absolutely nothing but he has left a stain. A stain of blush, as red as his diamond covered costume, on my cheeks.

And then I felt it. One single solitary tear, trailed down my cheek, to my nose and then… plop. Right on my little finger. I didn’t want to get rid of it, not yet. I almost spoke to it. The tear seemed to be the only other thing with… a certain amount of life in sudden isolation.

“Oh Harlequin! Harlequin it is not Saint Valentines anymore! You need no columbine!” I cried, aloud to no one save my tear. I flung the water from me and I fell back on my bed. The cool sheets took me in their arms but there was no love in those arms. There was only emptiness in that bed. There always has been emptiness. I had never taken anyone, or considered taking anyone to that bed, save of course my dreams.

Perhaps all he was, was a dream indeed. I am to young, too unwomanly, to be a harlequin’s columbine. I let the tears fall then as I did the glass. The tears did not glitter or shine for me. They shown for no one.

I begged Lord Of Dreams to calm me, because I told myself I loved him and him alone, and not some sudden clown. The walls began to melt and the glass on the floor turned into oceans and the sheets became a forest and I was thrown into a dream once more.

Somewhere

An Untilted Observation On The Jesus And Mary Chain And Whatever Else.

The song "Happy When It Rains" by The Jesus And Mary Chain makes me really weak in the knees. I don't know why. It just fills me up with something good I guess til I'm overflowing with whatever it is.

I haven't met someone, well, expect one person very near and dear to me who is probably the only one reading this, who actually likes them. I mean, genuinely likes them. I guess they're not that big of a band or I live in the wrong part of the world... probably a little bit of both.

The point is, I want to sing that song to someone, even though my voice isn't the greatest. I just want to hold him or her and just exsit in them for a little bit, not be come them, but, influence and be influcened. I guess I just expect too much out of someone now a days to know a band like that, I mean really know them; understand the words, or feel something from them.

Maybe I came a little late on that scene, or maybe no one really likes The Jesus And Mary Chain anymore and I'm having a false hope.

Despite all that, though, I'll always keep that song close to my heart in hopes that one day, I can share it with the right person, if he or she ever comes along.

to my dead lover rowland

Apparently, you're my lover.
So, come here.
I don't need to talk to you and you don't look like the talking type.
Shh.
Sing to me and we'll look out the window.
Ill pretend the pillow is your stomach agaisnt mine.
And maybe I'll kiss you.

Happy International Woman's Day! :)

Not to be a downer, but do women really need their own day? Men don't have one, do they? I think personally having your own day because you're one gender is a little silly but that's just how it goes and goes and goes...

Frazzled and Flusterd.

I don't like people very much.
Rant over.

A Short Poem

To get away from here would be something.
Something I've always wanted, but I've never seemed to grab at.

Stars aren't alined yet.
That's okay.

This is, the only home I've ever, or never, known.

haaaair

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