art yay

goodbye milk and honey

“Goodbye Milk And Honey.” “How’s Carla?” the solider had been away from home for about a year now. Tamarack looked at the R.A.F uniform that fit like a glove on Spider, and became intimidated. He was always the ‘stronger’ brother; and he was the brains. So it goes. They were sitting in his apartment, drinking tea. The rickety table had been their mother’s. Coffee and cigarette stains were still visible, and Spider smiled down at them, still waiting for an answer. “Tim-tam, how’s Carla?” You’ve been away for fourteen months and you ask that. You could have asked anything but- “Well, how is she?” That. Tamarack took a sip of his tea, stirring in the sugar with a spoon. The clanging metal against china seemed to bounce of walls, and go on forever. He noticed Spider didn’t put anything in his tea anymore. I remember when we were kids. You used to beg Mum for more milk and honey. Then she’d laugh and say ‘Spider, you keep doing that and you’ll be as sweet as milk and honey by the time you’re grown.” Tea’s black. “Are you gonna’ answer me?” I wish I didn’t have to. “She’s dead, Spider.” Spider then laughed, and his gold tooth shined. “Stop fooling around. She’s not dead unless my new boy killed her.” And he laughed again. “No. She is dead. And you never had a son…” “Oh so the little girl killed her then.” I want to laugh with you. Laugh at you for how stupid your laugh sounds. Tamarack placed his tea cup on the table. It landed with a serious ‘thump’. “I’ll just go by the flat and see her then, since you- wait. I got it. You two are planning a surprise party for me and you’re support to keep me here! Gotcha good.” “There is no party. There is no baby, and goddamn it Spider there is no more Carla!” That was the loudest Tamarack ever spoke. Spider looked at him in astonishment, his ebony face, looked coffee colored. Spider grabbed the tea cup, and through it against the wall, and walked out the door. Leaving behind a puddle of darkness, and broken things. And there was no more milk and honey.

Colors

And when colors fade where will that leave you?
 When you are left alone in grays and darker hues,
 Who will you call out to?

 Our love light is fading,
The colors are dying,
 I swore I held you high once,
 Queen of my heart,
 My caverns and crevasses of bone.

Your crown once glittered wholesome gold,
 Now is left, gray and rusted,
 And quickly growing old.

Your army and I,
The captain of the guard,
We were once shining brass and covered,
 In a rainbow of stars.

And when colors fade where will that leave you?
When you are left alone in grays and darker hues,
Who will you call out to?

Public Reading Idea

The whole world seemed drenched in midnight. He was on the edge of the city. The once packed bars became skeletons in the midst of a winter’s night. He had been walking for several hours. The souls of his pointy boots were grey with years, but he was not an old man. This city did absolutely nothing for him. Streetlights flickered and a wind blew, swirling the fog, making shapes or suggestions. Viktor licked his dry lips. A place to sleep was needed. And a plane ticket, but that would come later. Right now, he needed a ride. Viktor stuck his thumb out, walking along, half heartedly, as if he knew the gesture wouldn’t do any good. There were hardly any cars on the road anyway and it was late and… A car roared up from behind. The lights blinded him for a moment and he saw through the fog to see the world for what it really was; a hellhole. The car kept on going. He stood, dumbfounded, realizing he had seen that car before. “Hey! You!” his accent was thick as his boots scuffed on pavement. The car, slowed, as if the car was a person and this person was vaguely interested in turning around. Viktor caught up with the car, which had stopped, out of mere boredom and curiosity. “I saw you, just outside… the bar, awhile ago, ja?” he stood a good distance away from the car, which was a red convertible. It looked like it had just been washed. The driver turned to look at him. He wore a black hat with a large brim, with reminded Viktor of a painting by Rembrandt he had seen some time ago, of a doctor doing an autopsy. And aviators in the dead of night, driving gloves on the black steering wheel. His man looked like he was meant to be driving a Hurst, rather than a flashy Hollywood car. “I…uh… do you mind giving me a ride out of town? To find somewhere to sleep? The hotels they are too much an-“ The driver opened the door. Viktor zipped up his jacket and slide in. The door shut softly. The interior of the car was a darker red, or so he thought. It was hard to tell. Neither of them, passenger or driver, wore a seatbelt. He smelt rain on the air. The car left the graveyard of skeletal bars, down a hill out towards the country. “Danke.” “Nichts zu danken.” You’re welcome. Viktor almost screamed with delight. A speaker of his native tongue was hard to find in these parts. “You speak German?” he asked, in English, just to be safe. The lights were getting more scarce, and the fog was too thick to see clearly. He wondered why the strange driver of his was wearing sunglasses at night, especially in this fog. He thought to ask, but this man didn’t seem like much of a conversationalist. The driver said nothing, just looking straight ahead; cool, calm, and collected. Viktor’s skin prickled. What exactly had he done? He could have found a nice old lady or something of the like to pick him up and drive him to a motel but he had to pick the man in the flashing warning light red car. He turned around and noticed a sword cane in the back seat of the car, on the driver’s side. The top of the cane had a serpent's head. The head stared back at Viktor, as cool and collected as the driver. For a moment, he thought he could see the snake lick its silver tongue. “You’re being foolish. Stop it.” He turned back around to face the road ahead. The two men drove in darkness and fog in silence for what seemed like an eternity. The only lights now, were the vague hopes of a town’s lights far away. Viktor decided to break the silence. “Are you hungry?” “Yes.” The driver said. He was English. “Find a place, and I will pay for you. You’ve been kind.” The driver smiled. It looked unnatural on him, as if he was always meant to be glaring into the distance. Viktor tried not to gasp at how frightening and overwhelming the situation had become. He was scaring himself. But still he couldn’t help wondering why the lines of rational thought always blurred on late night, rainy drives. Viktor tired to focus on what they might eat. He was getting hungry himself. And as if the driver heard the thought of his hunger, he turned off the main road. “What is this place like, eh?” “Oh...” his voice was low, baritone. “it’s a quiet little place, and near a place for you to rest. That is what you need, isn’t it? A place to sleep?” His voice rattled Viktor’s bones. He pushed back his golden hair from his , now, moon-white face. He was sure this man could feel his terror. “Ye-yeah.” Viktor’s voice was higher than normal. He looked around ,franicatly searching for some sort of building, some sort of safety. But their whole world was the darkness. No lights, save for the moon herself, shone. The car stopped, with a moan of the breaks. into a country road. Viktor gave a nervous barking dog of a laugh. “You must be joking. There are no buildings here, ja?” “You said you were buying me dinner, did you not? You said find a place to eat this so happens to be a place to eat.” He tried to hold back a low moan . His heart beat clamored in his ears as low and as sinister as his voice. Viktor didn’t see the driver reach for his cane; he was too busy staring into the glasses, looking for humanity. “W-we-well, where’s the food?” He croaked. The cane craked hard down upon his head, and crimison rushed forward from Viktor’s brow, like a river in a mountain path. He cried out. and slummped over in the passenger seat. “You’re the food.” he drew the sword from the serpent's head and chuckled. “Please...” “ I give you a ride. You offered to buy me dinner, I accepted. “ He grinned. “I have been rude...” he growled. “I haven’t introduced myself. “ Viktor’s whole world was spinning and his blood was starting to dry. The driver flashed a smile. “They call me The Corinthian. And it just so happens that you offered me my favorite meal.” Images of all the horror movies Viktor had seen flashed through his mind. Did he want the heart, or the lungs? The brain or the kidneys? As if the Corinthian had heard his thoughts again, he placed a gloved hand behind Viktor’s head, lifting it up closer to his face. The sword slid into the eye socket like butter. “The trick,” he said over his curdling screams “is to cut around the eye.” The Corinthian said this so nonchalantly, as if he was talking about the weather or a particular boring piece of mail. And through it all Viktor wept. He was going to die. “Why won’t you just kill me!?” he howled, as the sword slipped into his other eye like Cinderella’s glass slipper. His vision was going. The world around him was fading. “Because,” The Corthian licked his lips, laughed, and took off his glasses. The eyes in the sockets were rotted, and old, but they smiled. Tiny teeth in the socket, the cages, for the rotten jewels finished his sentence. “I am a visionary.”

Hello

Been awhile. Miss me? Yes? No? Maybe so? Probably not. Can't believe its August. I go back to school soon. I got my classes. They all look oaky. Going to volenteer at the hospital eventually. Maybe I'll work in morge.

I'm Sorry

I thought about you for a long, long time. And I listened to Ceremony, And I cried again. Your voice rising and falling like waves of sound or stars out in deep space, Echoing off into unknown heights, bodies, and oceans. Ian I’m really sorry I cried again, I just get lonely without you.

Goodnight, Mr. Bradbury.
Goodnight,
Goodnight,
Goodnight.

Making My Own Fight Club

Margaret Middlebrooks Draft 3 Making My Own Fight Club There is something horribly wrong and beautiful about punching someone in the face. Maybe its that cliché of the skin on skin, bone on bone, knuckle to knuckle feeling. The electricity and power that builds up in your fist and is suddenly sent, hurdling off into another person’s orbit. Whatever the reason, it’s a primal craving that humans, animals, have had since the beginning of time. I know there is never a ‘good’ reason to hit someone. Its, in an ideal society, unacceptable but it still goes on, most just turning a blind eye. I believe that we all want that sort of violence, a sort of harsh physicality to shake up and bring some chaos into our ordered life’s. It’s human nature. If we remembered that then there would be less violence in the world. I’ve never considered myself a fighter. Sure, I’m pretty rebellious when it comes to authority but its more verbal than anything else. I could think about hitting someone all the time, but never actually go through with it. I even told myself that. But then middle school happened. Middle school age is a rough time on everyone. Everything changes, it feels like, for no reason at all. It changes so fast that I hardly had time to catch up. So I got angry at the world. I needed to lash out. Everything was bottled up inside of me; all that anger and fear. It was only a matter of time before I would explode. There was a kid who used to jeer at me and point and laugh. One day, he got really close to me on my walk home. Back then, I considered twenty feet away ‘too close.’ He was laughing and calling me a cutter, seeing that I had marks on my arms. I remember turning to him, slowly, glaring in his face. At this point, my hand had magically turned into a fist and it ‘accidently’ went flying straight into his jaw. He fell to the ground, bleeding. His blood was on my hand. He called me a few names and ran away, never to bother me again. I remember going home to an empty house that day. My mom was out of town. I sat on the couch the rest of the day, looking at this other person’s blood in grim fascination of what I had just done. It felt like Fight Club. I was Jack’s Smirking Revenge. And what’s the first rule about Fight Club? You don’t talk about it. I didn’t. I never said anything about. I never said how good it felt. I just washed my hands and went on with my day. Looking back on it now, I regret it. I wish I knew where he was now. I’d tell him I was sorry and explain to him that “You’ve met me at a very strange time in my life.”

Untitled

We're close. Like best friends. I'm tired. Its one AM. I wonder if he's here. Or if he thinks about me as much as I do.
The story teller.
I saw him when I was born... for a moment. I almost met Death... almost.
He saved me, I think. Or so I believe.
Someone told me today he was, at one point and perhaps and I hope still in love with me.
I cannont tell. I haven't seen him in a month.
I am called The Moon. I am only now just starting to believe them.
Its a lovely thought... for someone to be in love with the moon, or an embodiment of the moon anyway.
I write him letters sometimes and leave them at my window...
I don't know why.
I hope he comes back again soon.
The last time he left I waited seven years.

I watch the moon, or maybe a reflection of myself.
I cannot be... that beautiful...

Something is pulling me into a dream...

Happy Birthday I'm Sorry For Your Loss

It was December 30th, 2009. The familiar, always out-of-tune chimes of Happy Birthday filled the room. The notes, if you could call them notes, bounced off walls. I was fifteen and, fairly happy because all I could think about was “I’m going to be done with middle school!” I was surrounded by my friends and family. Each and every one of them wishing me happiness.
At the same time, practically on the other side of the world, Rowland S. Howard died. “So what?” you may ask. I would have asked myself that, too, if I knew who he was back then.
Two weeks ago, Monday February 27th 2012. The day had gone, more or less, like it was supposed to. I kept my head up as high as any head could go with that little sleep. I did what I had to do, and went home. I was laying on the cool gray sheets of my bed staring out the window. I had the radio on. The songs played one after the other. I watched the clock tick in time with some punk song I really liked at the time, bored of it all. Then another song came on.
“I’ve been contemplating suicide,
Though it doesn’t really suit my style,
So I think I’ll just act bored instead,
And contain the blood I would have shed. “

In that moment my head popped up like a hungry meerkat from the hole that was my mundane life. That voice was singing out to me, telling me to come closer, telling me to find it. So naturally, I did what I always do during a time of exploration and discovery. I read.
I read how he wrote the song I had just heard, “Shivers”, when he was only seventeen. And how he toured with Nick Cave and The Birthday Party all over the world but above all, I read that he died on December 30th, 2009.
My entire fifteenth birthday flashed before my eyes again. Everyone was there, everything was normal expect for the fact, I saw Rowland Howard standing outside the window looking in. He seemed so far away and yet, so close. He smiled that silly, smokers teeth crooked half smile and waved. I guess that’s how the dead say Happy Birthday.
After learning when he died, I realized that every moment that we have means something. Everything that we do, in joy and in sorrow, is important because most of us aren’t sure when our it’s our time. Howard made me realize that better than anyone could.
So, thank you Rowland. Thank you for the music and the sudden realizations
This post was published in the spring edition of a literary magazine at my high school called Elan.

I'm not really sure what to title this. In fact, this post is lucky if it gets a title. I'm going out of town tomorrow. I don't know why I'm telling you. My brother is going to be a doctor in marine science and my sister just got accepted into the PHD for public health. So, yay for them. I guess I just wanted to brag a little. See you around I guess.

I've never wanted to be around someone or something as much as I have them. this group of people. These, things i view as one thing. Parts making a whole. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. And I don't even care right now because it just doesn't matter, in the end. We all die anyway. So no matter how far anyone goes, we all end up the same. Right now the thing I want and feel that I need is far away... really far away. I'm caught in this web of going back and forth and doing this and doing that when I just want to scream to the rest of the world "Hey. I'm done." and then lay down and sleep for a million and so on years but I can't. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I can't stop. I have work to do.

Bird Soul

Barren rock, Snow as wild as his hair, The Quest For Knowledge In Frozen Earth. He seeks not the voice of man to guide him, But the calling of the wilderness. It gnaws inside of his rib cage, And his heart, Like a pack of infinate Northern birds. Swooping, Diving, Pecking at bone, Sending bird calls to the brain. They caw and coo for him to tear at the fabric of his fake furs, And expose skin to ice, Expose birds to sky. His soul birds are screaming to the wild, And his body is tired, Seen as useless, He doesn’t need it anymore. So he opens his shirt, And lets the birds out.

Under The Moon

I have walked in the light of the moon, To expose myself to dreams, I lost myself in his starry gaze. And then we danced. On glittering roads of sand and stardust, We danced by the light of Her Grace. By the light of truth, By the light of the moon. Our bodies turned, Twisted, And then became one. A burning flame of love and desire, Like a forest fire. We walk the moon road as lovers, Him and I. We waltzed and walk under the light of hopes and lovers and truth, We waltzed and walked in the light of the moon.

Untitled Dream Poem

It was dark where he rested, Save for purple flickering candles. “burning fairies,” he chuckled like a little boy. I giggled, he makes me giggle, and placed them on the floor. The candles made us swim in pools of soft light, but they weren’t as soft as his lips against my shoulder. Or the words he whispered, the poetry that came like rain in the summer. Or his fingers like frantic birds making nest in my hair. The light will never be that soft, or that wonderful, his heart beat is gentle as is mine and in this ocean of cotton and smoke and shadow we are one. Until I wake up.

I feel pretty

Hair cut... or... shave. Whatever suits yer fancy.

Margaret by Aleister Crowley.

The moon spans Heaven's architrave;
Stars in the deep are set;
Written in gold on the day's grave,
"To love, and to forget:"
And sea-winds whisper o'er the wave
The name of Margaret.

A heart of gold, a flower of white.
A blushing flame of snow,
She moves like latticed moons of light--
And O! her voice is low
Shell-murmurs born to Amphitrite,
Exulting as they go.

Her stature waves, as if a flower
Forgot the evening breeze,
But heard the charioted hour
Sweep from the farther seas,
And kept sweet time within her bower,
And hushed mild melodies.

So grave and delicate and tall--
Shall laughter never sweep
Like a moss-guarded waterfall
Across her ivory sleep?
A tender laugh most musical?
A sigh serenely deep?

She laughs in wordless swift desire
A soft Thalassian tune;
Here eyelids glimmer with the fire
That animates the moon;
Her chaste lips flame, as flames aspire
Of poppies in mid-june.

She lifts the eyelid-amethyst,
And looks from half-shut eyes,
Gleaming with miracles of mist,
Gray shadows on blue skies:
And on her whole face sunrise-kissed,
Child wonderment most wise.

The whitest arms in all the earth
Blush from the lilac bed
Like a young star even at its birth
Shines out the golden head
Sad violets are the maiden mirth
Pale flames night-canopied.

O gentlest lady! Lift those eyes,
And curl those lips to kiss!
Melt my young boyhood in thy sighs.
A subtler Salmacis!
Hide, in that peace, these ecstasies
In that fair fountain, this!

She fades as starlight on the stream,
As dewfall in the dell;
All life and love, one ravishing gleam
Stolen from sleep's crucible;
That kiss, that vision is a dream:--
And I--most miserable!

Still Echo wails upon the steep,
"To love--and to forget!"
Still sombre whispers from the deep
Sob through Night's golden net,
And waft upon the wings of sleep
The name of Margaret.


My friend showed this to me. I thought it was cute. And hey, maybe it fits me.

It's Going To Be Okay

I had a dream where I was watching my friend, you could even call him a step father, dying. Everything in the room felt tense, everyone was sad.

Then David Byrne walked in, wearing all white.
He hugged be from behind and said

"It's going to be okay." And we both twitched.

I have to believe him. He's David Byrne. He wouldn't lie to me.

We twtiched again, and we both walked out together.

"It's going to be okay."

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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Feeling My Home: An Observation

This is something you might take for granted. This is something you probably haven’t thought about. When you get out of bed in the morning, and your feet touch the ground, do you think about what it feels like? Do you think about the texture of the wood, carpet, or tile, beneath your feet? You probably don’t. I don’t blame you. A lot of people don’t. But think about this…

Picture me, Margaret, Margar, at eight years old. I was a long lanky awkward freckled face who never brushed her hair. And I walked a lot, or rather, I clumped a lot. My feet made this hard clumping sound when I walked. I had to wear braces inside my shoes to hold my feet in place. My feet had a mind of their own. They would both turn outwards. This was too much for me and my mother, bless her for putting on the braces almost every morning, to handle. So I went in for surgery.

The doctors cut my heal chords, made me flat, and I was on my way back home in a wheel chair with cast. I had the cast on for a long time. Too long, so long, in fact that I actually stuck a light bright down the cast so they could cut it so I could itch my leg. They came off eventually. I was ecstatic. I was going to get my first pair of real shoes! They were Buzz Light-year and they light up when I walked.

The shoes were quickly cast aside however. I remember I was walking into the living room, bare footed. I sat down on the step to slide down into the room. I wasn’t very good at stairs yet. Then the magic happened. “Mommy! Mommy! I can feel the carpet! I can feel the carpet!” I was lost in a different world. I was feeling the Earth; I was feeling my home for the first time. The fibers tickled my feet. They were the softest things in the world. I was so happy to be alive. Everything made sense now because everything had a touch to it. I could understand everything. My fifth sense was finally in play. I was finally, complete as a person. From then on, and even now, I would go barefoot everywhere I possibly could.
They say it’s the little things. Waking up in the morning, and touching the floor, touching the Earth, is my little thing.

Oh Harlequin, Oh Harlequin (To be continued... maybe.)

Late night and I still don't feel like sleeping. The Sandman won't come to me and there is nothing on T.V. I creep, my sock covered feet, to my room. White walls, minus a few, some would say Gothic ordimants hanging on the wall.

I laid in bed and covered my head and heard about a harlequin who loved a girl, some valentine's ago. I got jealous. I wanted a heart nailed to my door, and a cane that went ratta-tat-tat. I had, none of those things. I wallowed for a moment. then I heard the same ratta-tat-tat-ing on my window.

It was dark, and any normal girl would have been worried and ran to mommy. But I'm no normal girl. I'm not scared of the dark. I like the dark actually. In any case, I lifted up the window. And lo! What did I see? Harlequin had come for me!

"Do you come to all the sleepless ladies or am I lucky?" I inquired with a whisper. He said nothing. Instead, he leapt about my room with the grace of birds in flight, smooth and easy. Red and yellow ribbons flashed, and he laughed. He did a handstand on my table and looked at me upside down. "My life, my columbine." he said, did a flip, and a bow with a flourish. "I would curtsy, but I wear no dress."

I rubbed my sleep-less eyes and, mocked a bow instead. "You have poor taste in women, Harlequin." "Do I?" he sat on the table, cross legged. "I think so. There are plenty of other women, willing to give them self's up easy." "I don't like easy things to get. They're boring. You're not so quick to give your heart and I enjoy the chance to hunt it from you under this February moon. Now, lay back in bed. I have a gift for you." I can assure you now, that it was not as perverted as it sounded. I did as I was told. With a wave of hands he made butterflies dance.

In truth, I was in awe but... I was not yet willing. "I thank you Harlequin but... I am not willing." He sat on the edge of my bed. "I know." a smile spread across his face. "You can always try again!" I said, laughing slightly at my state. "I will time and time again. True love," he stood and balanced on my head board with his dimond covered shoes "Cannot be rushed." Then I was given a kiss and just as quickly as he came, he was gone.

Three People.

On the night, last night, I heard of their deaths. I don't know them. But I met one.
I painted my face like The Crow, and I slipped on my coat. I walked out into the night, the road in the suburb where my mom lived. I walked endlessly with no purpose. I wanted it to rain desperately. To pour down on me, drown me even.

But the sky is not in my favor tonight. Not at all. I couldn't even see the moon. As to why I did what I just did, I offer no explination because, I don't know either. Kids I wish I could be your messenger of death and take you in my wings, and take you to a place where you are never hurt. To where you can both just be kids for the rest of your life and not have to live in a cruel grown up world.

I paint my face for you. And I...pray... for an easy afterlife for the three of you.
I cut into my skin for three people. I watch the lines blur into a stocking of red down my leg, staining the tub. Blood and paint blur.

If I could be your messenger of death, if I could be your justice, I would. But I can't. I'm sorry. I'll wear these scars for you instead.

A girl laughed in a bar. It wasn't much, but it was something.

doodles.

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Pictures I've been meaning to show you.

So here's some people in my family...

My dad is the one holding a fish. These two are my grand parents, Mel and Zeda, and my sister, Jenna. And this last one is myself age five with my brother and sister. They came home from college on my favorite holiday to suprise me.

I couldn't find one of my mom. She hates pictures.

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Dear Jeff

Dear Jeff,

Funny. Real funny. I don't really know you, and yet, I know you well enough to call you husband. I've seen you, but I haven't really seen you. I get exicted when I come home from school, knowing that I'll talk to you soon. Knowing that you'll listen and make my day a lot better by making me laugh at myself and the adventures I tell you, small adventures though. But, adventures, none the less.

This is really hard to write. I thought about something funny, but then it would seem like I'm trying too hard and you appreciate honesty more than a half ass attempt at something clever. So, here it is.

It's valentines day here, as you know. Today is your yesterday, as you also know. Sometimes I feel like I bother you... talking to you all the time. I keep at it anyway, though. I don't think you mind now since it's been around two years. It feels a lot longer then that!

When I'm away from mothers nest I will send you all the things I mean to send you. I'll wrap them up as best I can and tie it with a red ribbion best I can and send it on it's way. I have a feeling, though, you'll end up liking this more. To me, this little letter dosn't do our friendship any sort of justice. It dosn't mean much to be at all and I feel like I should do more and I will do more when the time comes. But I feel like you'll like this.

I remember when I first met you. I made a little film, it wasn't much but you liked it. Naturally, being much too curious, I proded. I wanted to know who the person was to like what I was saying... or trying to say. I thought "Who in the world could So the minitues became hours and hours became days.

And through that, we became friends. And even beyond that, a terrible excuse of mock lovers! But, I like none the less.

Well, that's all I can think of. Thank you for all the listenings you gave, the good and bad (mostly the latter!) influences, the thoughts, the music, the ponderings. You are, and always will be, one of my closest friends.

Love always,
Margaret.

A Lifetime

It was dark.

She thought she could do more instead of waiting,
but she had to be paient for her.

... she loved her after all.

It's funny how those things work out.

Wanting what you can't have,
Wanting something you've never wanted before,
Wanting a woman when all she's had were men.

It was dark.
And cold.
And down right miserable.

Is she miserable?
Is THIS what it is?

Suddenly there was panic but the lady in question is used to panic.
They hate her at first,
Then they can't live without her,
Then they move on.

So it goes,
she is still waiting.

Scared,
Hungry for her.

Death enters.
The sound of wings.

"Is it...?"
"Time?" Death smiles. Death smiles? What? "Yes. It is."
"But... you shouldn't I've been here for so long and I haven't got-"
"You get what every one gets. You get a lifetime."
... The sound of wings.

Hard Rain

One day the Lord Of Dreams was sad. He was sad because a Goddess chose not to love him anymore. So Dream tip-toed away from the Lords and Ladies, all the way up to the highest point in the castle. This was his thinking place.

He sat there, head in hand for awhile. This was an emotion he had felt before. The tightness in his chest, the sharp pain, the empty stomach… it’s all been there. But something was different this time. Dream gazed across the fields. He saw the Raven Woman in her cave. He saw Cane and Abel in their House Of Mystery. And, when he squinted, he saw Nothing. The realm of Despair. The nothingness felt awfully close that day, even though it was, distance wise far away.

Dream felt her flesh, still, on his skin. So soft and almost… unworldly. To him that was a big word to say since he, was the master of unworldly. He touched his cheek. His hand slowly worked down to his chest. Each finger feeling the finer points of him. Feeling where she had been…

A gasp came from his throat. He couldn’t breathe for a moment. The clouds became as black as his eyes, and his feelings. They gathered in great numbers. Across the fields the clouds spread. They were waiting. They held their breath, along with him. Waiting to exhale.

Sudden rage; a crack of thunder. Worlds above and below, looked around in fear. Fear was the key element of thunder. He looked to the darkness of his world, in utter and pure agony. In the realm of Despair, the Lady calmly watched. It was another day for her… they all looked the same, after all.
Lord placed his head in lily white hands and…
It rained.
Some saw it as a blessing. Some saw it as a curse. Some saw it as another day.
The deserts became oceans, puddles became floods, and a heart, became pieces.
Through heart break came the rain.
Through loss came pain.
And when the battle was over and done,
All Dream got was hard rain.

Guilty Pleasure.

So through constant nagging of my best friend, I broke down and listened to more Christian Death. The result? Several hours later I was still listening to Romeo's Distress. I have mixed feelings.

They're not actually Christian, I don't think. Not that it matters but it is interesting what a subculture has with it. So many different little things, once you take igorance away.

In closing, Christian Death is a gulity pleasure.

Super Twitch!

Worn

Do you remember?
The hush of fire flies as they kissed your palms,
Or the cool water on your face in summer’s eve?

No.
How could you?
How can you remember the beauty and pain of youth.
I know why you don’t remember.

You don’t remember because you have grown old,
And sleepy and tired.
Just…drawn out.

Didn’t Oscar Wilde whisper to you…
“I am not yet young enough to know everything.”?
Didn’t you believe in that a young time ago?
Didn’t you care before I was born?

Horribly ashamed,
Here you are.

Polluted your lungs with tar and nicotine,
And let your skin become haggard and brown,
The luster and life is gone.

And the kisses of fire flies and young girlfriends no longer stain your cheeks,
And the cool water that once soothed only stings,
I feel sorry for you,
So sorry indeed.

Saying Goodbye

I had fallen, more or less, maybe even up into a field between some mountains. And it was dark.

I felt grass on my legs. I guess I was laying down. Little things like this didn't matter right then. There wasn't a star in the sky or anything just... black.

And suddenly something came falling towards where I was. And it painted the sky. Painted it purple and blues and reds and hushed tones of silver.

I followed the path it made in the sky. Through the trees, and the tiny rivers, and more trees, I followed. I could have looked back if I wanted to, but the falling was the only thing that was giving off light. So like a moth to flame, I ran.

The Falling became Fallen and then Crash. Trees exploded and I was thrown back into bushes and bushes of thorns. Blood and the elements seem to always collided in my dreams.

Dream is the keyword, here.

The explosion wasn't loud... I wish it would have been. No sound is worse.

I laid there for a few minutes. I was uncaring. Shaken? Yes. But caring? No.

Perhaps I would have been content laying in these tangled bits of whatever these thorns were supposed to mean. Just dying slowly and easily. Que The Radiohead! "How To Disappear Completely." swimming inside my head like tiny fishes. And I thought "This is nice."

But the thought was short lived. And I was plucked from thorns by my wrist, by bones. Taken up by a slender hand, marble white...

"You're dead!" I cried in sheer disbelief. I saw him die. I was there. I couldn't do a thing... although I wanted to.

"Am I dead to you?" Prince Of Stories, gallant as ever, asked.
"N-no."
"Then, miss, I am not dead."
"I watched you die..."
"You watched a part of me die."
"Oh..."

The worst sound is no noise. The worst sound is no sound. He was bleeding, and I tried to wash it off, but all I had were dusty hands. And he was much too tall.

"It won't do any good. I stop bleeding when I wish to stop." he said, sitting down now. The thorns had somehow gone and grass was in its place. He sat cross legged, shirt and pants. Looking much younger now... my age, you could say.

Blood-like substance dripped down from his face. I hurt but I sat across from him. Arm on knee, chin in palm, starring. Probably blushing. He was giving off the light.

The worst sound is no sound. So I foolishly made my own.

"Do you...love?" a small child inside me crept up, but not too small.
"You?"
"Mmmhmm."

And he thought for a moment. His eyes sort of... far off.

"I could."
"Can you...now?"
"Patience."

I grunted in disappointment and embarrassment, mostly the latter.

"Why are you here?"
"To say goodbye."

Goodbye? No. No no no. It wasn't supposed to work like that. This isn't right. Stop it. Stop.

"Save your tears."
"No." Bite my lip, small child again.

He stood, looking slightly older. "Kiss me goodbye like a woman, not a little girl."
Blink. Blink. Blink. Deer in headlight eyes.

I did as I was told... and I would do a thousand times more.

"Goodbye isn't forever, right?" I called, as he was walking away. Voice was begging not to be left alone in darkness.

"Right."

"Can I come?"

He turned around. "No. But you can't stay here."

"I ought to go with you."

"Not now."

"When?"

"Soon."

I ran. He just stood there, peering down at me, making me feel small. I embrace him, clingling.

"Goodbye isn't forever right?"
"Right." Perhabps he was loosing paients.

"Soon?"
"Soon enough."

Gently pushed away, and made to lay down again. A kiss on the cheek.

Goodbye Dream.

something my baby bat drew for me.

http://www.tumblr.com/photo/1280/yaoilover1997/16889265210/1/tumblr_lyqnyyCesN1r4wxwp

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The Killing Moon

I am a pale dancer dancing through forest and time.

He has no name or age. He is just himself. He is whatever I want him to be, but he always turns out the same. Always slender, always pale. Always gentle yet unafraid. Always my hunter, as I am always his prey. True, at first, I was terrified. So I ran from the ocean to stardusty hills till I could run no more. And then I was fallen prey. He did not use a bow, a sword, an axe, a knife to slay me. He merely gazed into my eyes and thus my soul. And here he saw, my hunter saw, the frightened doe and the wild huntress all inside me. All present and accounted for, always living and dying.

We dance under the killing moon. We swim in stars. We both are waiting for the day I never leave him. We are waiting for the day when we can slay the wolves that keep us apart. Hungry beasts in my head. They howl and claw at us when we kiss. But my hunter is a stubborn one. He pulls me close, and the wolves howler louder and bite harder. He pulls me closer still because he knows I can stand the pain of tooth and claw, because I am always his huntress.

If we run hand in hand and fast enough we can evade the wolves for a little while. That is when we love and dance, lay in each others spaces and hold close the whispered terms of endearment. But it is not long before a howl breaks the sky and barks of fire shatter our glass courting.

The moon turns red and all lay still, save our beating hearts. Save my trembling hands and his words of hush to try and sooth the doe inside me.

Moon drips of blood, blood of huntress, blood of hunter, blood of doe and wolf. Shattered cries and whispered words, a dream broken and glued together and broken again; a cycle as frequent as the moon herself.

One day the wolves will be slain and the blood will drip no more. And hunter and I will love. But the killing moon still rises, and all the woods grow dark and still. Expect for beating hearts and teeth; that gnaw and gash at pale flesh.

Killing moon rises and we kiss.
Killing moon falls and we kiss still.

We kiss until the wolves call.

Playing Destiny.

I play Destiny now-a-days.

It’s something I’ve gotten pretty good at.

I turn my book and lay bones,
My fingers,
I mistake them for bones sometimes,
Across these pages.

Soft,
Silk,
Cool,
And occasionally gentle…

Sort of like how you are.

I don’t like this part.

Blood for blood.

He died a long time ago and yet…
You still feel loss.

Wash your hands.
Wash your face with your tears.

I’m right here, Dream.
If you just looked up you could see someone that loves you…

But I am Destiny and you won’t look up.
You won’t see me cry even though, I am.
And little tiny dreams and desires fall from my eyes; gateways to the truth.

I whisper to you. Lips pressed against paper bodies hoping for a glance,
Or change.
But I won’t change you.


Because I am Destiny and you won’t look up.

A reflection

I've been waiting six years. This makes me sound old... maybe I am. I don't know. I'm listening to The Love Cats now with the biggest smile on my face. It's strange to get a peice of paper and suddenly everything that happened today becomes a blur. My mom knocked on the door. I stood up and opened it. And she smiled and held them out. I looked at her, then her hands, then her, then her hands again.

"Well?"

I held them tight and spun around in circles.

Failure

You taste failure on your tongue. It's a little bitter but you don't care anymore. Across the hall someone blast West End Girls and you want to punch them. You want the perverted physical contact of nuckle on cheek. I don't blame you. It's normal. You go back to your thoughts like the rest of them. But all that you can think of, a good excuse is that you hate the Pet Shop Boys.

Low lifes.

Dogs.

But you'd rather have a date with failure. Because failure is the common, almost, homely comfort of your generation! ... Or so you write, ever so boldy. Success is a whore, but not a trashy one. She is a...a... a well paied hooker. More like a call girl.

And what is failure?

Failure could be your mother or someone hopelessly in love with you and you can stand them. It's not what you want, but it's alright. It's routine you are used to it you know its embrace and the human mind enjoys familiarity.

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i love my art friends.

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Plainsong

Every time I listen to Plainsong by The Cure I feel so… warm. It’s like I’m being held again or kissed. But it also feels like there is nothing around me, and I’m alone again. These two feelings at once are draining me, maybe even hurting me. But I keep going back and I cling to the first one as much as I can but it always fades away.

Swimming in the sky,
Twirling by the touch of your hands.

Laying in stars,
The few that I can actually reach.

I only see two,
and they're in your face.

So is another day.

In Another Place

My dad is not here now.

He is in some other place,

Another river in the ocean of time.

He is not here.

He is not in 2012 on 7:09 P.M.

Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young flood our ears.

And I glance over.

I wish I had his eyes.

Blue and watery like the ocean he adores so much.

We listen to Helpless.

I hear his Southern accent come out in his off key voice

But its hard to keep in time with Young.

So it is forgiven.

But he isn't Helpless.

Or here right now.

He's in another place,

Somewhere before I was born,

Waltzing with the Country Girl.

And, I love to watch him dream.

Although it saddens me to know,

That he will be thrown back into reality.

Back into the cold country road we travel to go home. And though your confidence may be shattered... What does it matter?

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Myself.

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Dream

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