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Friday, May 27, 2011
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Eleven
Eleven was my first time.
No its not what you think.
Eleven is the year I began the endless waiting. Or. It feels endless, to a point. True. They are another band in my ever going lists of bands but they mean something more than that.
Love.
Hate.
Sadness.
All of these things, the core of everyone I found within their words.
And such pretty words they are at that.
And no. I haven't seen them. But I've felt them inside of me. In my head. Making noises. Pretty noises.
Pretty pretty thoughtful noise and something of a first crush, too!
Thank you Robert and Simon and Porl and Jason. My hearts yours.
No its not what you think.
Eleven is the year I began the endless waiting. Or. It feels endless, to a point. True. They are another band in my ever going lists of bands but they mean something more than that.
Love.
Hate.
Sadness.
All of these things, the core of everyone I found within their words.
And such pretty words they are at that.
And no. I haven't seen them. But I've felt them inside of me. In my head. Making noises. Pretty noises.
Pretty pretty thoughtful noise and something of a first crush, too!
Thank you Robert and Simon and Porl and Jason. My hearts yours.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Grown Up
Does Peter Pan EVER grow up?
Do we ever grow up?
Or is our youth pulled down like a sinking boat in a stormy sea?
Youth slips away.
Like a melting sand castle.
Except just a few memories.
A few grains of sand.
Only the lucky ones can row their boat gracefully into the sea of adulthood.
Just like Captain Hook.
But he was a pirate, a master of the seas.
Maybe its true.
Maybe we never grow up.
Maybe we just skate forever on a frozen lake.
Making imprints of memories with the blades of our skates.
Until the ice breaks.
We killed our own youth.
We’re forced to grow up.
With a first kiss.
A first dance.
First time.
For everything.
We all grow up,
Don’t we Peter?
Do we ever grow up?
Or is our youth pulled down like a sinking boat in a stormy sea?
Youth slips away.
Like a melting sand castle.
Except just a few memories.
A few grains of sand.
Only the lucky ones can row their boat gracefully into the sea of adulthood.
Just like Captain Hook.
But he was a pirate, a master of the seas.
Maybe its true.
Maybe we never grow up.
Maybe we just skate forever on a frozen lake.
Making imprints of memories with the blades of our skates.
Until the ice breaks.
We killed our own youth.
We’re forced to grow up.
With a first kiss.
A first dance.
First time.
For everything.
We all grow up,
Don’t we Peter?
One Of The Boys
Her eyes poised dreamily in the mirror.
Hands combing hair.
A small, simple effort,
To look like one of the boys.
One of The Beatles.
Oh, anyone will do.
As she thought this she realized it was vanity.
Her lips turned sour.
“God I want to be a boy. One of the boys. One of The Beatles.”
She could sing, twist, and shout when she tried. But nothing could hide her red lips and a curving frame.
She would have fit right in.
On a poster with The Fab Four.
No one would ever know.
Why God, couldn’t she be a boy?
One of the boys?
Hands combing hair.
A small, simple effort,
To look like one of the boys.
One of The Beatles.
Oh, anyone will do.
As she thought this she realized it was vanity.
Her lips turned sour.
“God I want to be a boy. One of the boys. One of The Beatles.”
She could sing, twist, and shout when she tried. But nothing could hide her red lips and a curving frame.
She would have fit right in.
On a poster with The Fab Four.
No one would ever know.
Why God, couldn’t she be a boy?
One of the boys?
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
The Reflection and Realization of a Detective.
The detective sat with brier pipe.
Brooding over the denouement that he himself had so recently solved… with the Doctor’s help of course.
Ah yes. Ah yes.
How he had with chatoyant eye, discovered the hidden knife the Doctor had stepped on.
“How simple a knife really is. How something that glitters so brightly can be used for such a dark deed like murder, for example.” He mused as smoke swirled in an evanescent above his head.
He remembered it all, sitting there in heavy oak chair.
How the Doctor and he had walked in the petrichor of the slippery streets they had stalked for a man, only to find a knife glimmering with blood newly drawn.
Tretiorous city.
A pastiche he mused once more.
Big Ben chimed with lassitude.
He looked down now at the killers blade tightly in his grip.
The knife gleamed smugly up at him, as if surreptitiously saying “There’s more than meets the eye.”
He had said that time and time again, with woebegone air only to himself.
Then he stood with knife in hand and brier pipe clentched between his teeth.
The detective adjusts his cap and cape.
Peering over the city.
There is more work to be done, he knew.
He always knew.
The game is a-foot.
Brooding over the denouement that he himself had so recently solved… with the Doctor’s help of course.
Ah yes. Ah yes.
How he had with chatoyant eye, discovered the hidden knife the Doctor had stepped on.
“How simple a knife really is. How something that glitters so brightly can be used for such a dark deed like murder, for example.” He mused as smoke swirled in an evanescent above his head.
He remembered it all, sitting there in heavy oak chair.
How the Doctor and he had walked in the petrichor of the slippery streets they had stalked for a man, only to find a knife glimmering with blood newly drawn.
Tretiorous city.
A pastiche he mused once more.
Big Ben chimed with lassitude.
He looked down now at the killers blade tightly in his grip.
The knife gleamed smugly up at him, as if surreptitiously saying “There’s more than meets the eye.”
He had said that time and time again, with woebegone air only to himself.
Then he stood with knife in hand and brier pipe clentched between his teeth.
The detective adjusts his cap and cape.
Peering over the city.
There is more work to be done, he knew.
He always knew.
The game is a-foot.
Friday, April 22, 2011
What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up?
I looked down at the jelly babies in my hand and wondered why. They were a sharp contast to how I was feeling. It feels like I've lost someone very close when in reality we never saw each other. Never talked. Never called, yet somehow, we got along. Sometimes like sisters, or the best of friends. I eat one jelly baby. I laugh about how someone asked what I wanted to do when I grow up. I was about four. I raised my shaggy head of hair proudly, standing as tall as I could on my tip toes with jelly babies even then still in my head and said "I want to be just like Sarah Jane."
Monday, April 4, 2011
For Teenagers
I collapsed in a blur of Mellon Collie and The Infinite Sadness.... again. And again. Smashing Pumpkins seemed to challenge my angst to its highest high and my sadness to the deepest deaths. These are the days that blur the most. These are the days where I don't have a body until I am forced to look into a mirror while "Zero" is played constantly as something of an outcry of "Look what you're doing to me, MOM! Look at all of YOU! Living down right LIES! I hate you! I hate all of you!" And mentally I kick and I scream and I cuss and cut at everything and anything that crosses my path.
This is for us teenagers. We are tired, driven to sadness saying that this is just a phase, this is just a normal thing. What do they know? Our parents? When they say they've fucking been there have they really been there before? Or had they just seen it on TV. They expect us to be perfect all the time when its not possible. "Make good grades!" When they themselves did not make good grades in high school. Hypocrites. I'm sick of them.
I'm sick of everything. If I dropped off the face of the earth I probably wouldn't care. My life isn't bad. My life isn't awful as some poor souls are, no. This problem of normal teenage angst (please.) is all on the inside.
"1979" and the rage is cooled down to an icy stare into emptiness. The fingers that strangled my insides let go, leaving sad caresses and then I almost miss them. Almost. Now my only function seems to be to wither away in the room that I made dark, to fit for my mood. Just laying on the floor, curled up in a ball, the same sad song of the day stuck on repeat as if it shows us no end.
Parents say we "grow out of it." This rage and sadness. But do we really? Or are we just digging a pit deeper and deeper? The days bluer now as Summer takes her sweet time in coming. The days blur into Mellon Collie And The Infinite Sadness.
This is for us teenagers. We are tired, driven to sadness saying that this is just a phase, this is just a normal thing. What do they know? Our parents? When they say they've fucking been there have they really been there before? Or had they just seen it on TV. They expect us to be perfect all the time when its not possible. "Make good grades!" When they themselves did not make good grades in high school. Hypocrites. I'm sick of them.
I'm sick of everything. If I dropped off the face of the earth I probably wouldn't care. My life isn't bad. My life isn't awful as some poor souls are, no. This problem of normal teenage angst (please.) is all on the inside.
"1979" and the rage is cooled down to an icy stare into emptiness. The fingers that strangled my insides let go, leaving sad caresses and then I almost miss them. Almost. Now my only function seems to be to wither away in the room that I made dark, to fit for my mood. Just laying on the floor, curled up in a ball, the same sad song of the day stuck on repeat as if it shows us no end.
Parents say we "grow out of it." This rage and sadness. But do we really? Or are we just digging a pit deeper and deeper? The days bluer now as Summer takes her sweet time in coming. The days blur into Mellon Collie And The Infinite Sadness.
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