| to avoid confusion. |
[07 Mar 2004|04:37pm] |
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if i have taken you off my list, it is because you've added the new journal, NOT because i hate you, or anything. yes.
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| the the thethe the the t he the. |
[10 Feb 2004|10:23pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
feverish. |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
the shins- pink bullets. |
] |
how did i
end up here,
after all the years i've piled
between myself
and that time of my life
now filed under your name,
they stretch on
toward the horizon, like a line
of dead boys in uniform,
marching still, reaching out towards
what they could not attain, well
there you are
your image filtered through pixels
three inches deep in the screen,
a plate of glass separating
the past from reality. (this. this here. this is reality, this is, this is
really happening.)
you always were
a technological love,
your words, shining with brilliance,
tripping from the tips of your full lips
and into blips of zeros and ones
that could not conceive of a two
it was always
only you.
or nothing at all.
your hands, your skin
white lightning.
tracing the outline
and dripping trace amounts of water,
your touch crackling, flashing
in the circuitry of my spine,
frying all the nerves straight to my brain
that must be why
it told my heart it was okay,
but you left these charred remains
unable to grow again, left me
to handle the aftershock,
heavy rocks thrown at an incalculable speed
and from unknown direction, over unspoken distance,
shaking me
from the only place i've ever stood,
knocked off this little piece of earth,
broke my bones and on my knees i'm screaming "love?"
fast-foward through the memories, every note you ever wrote to me
soggy with tears, it's over.
now i think of
all the men, boys
who must know you now,
or who saw you once
in the window of your favorite coffeehouse
or maybe just
brushed against you in a crowd
now, at this very second,
in their dorms or pitiable apartments
rotting through with food and money overdue because
they think it's more important,
prostrating themselves
in front of your electric temple in worship,
time and piece of mind as a sacrifice
skin stretched over this pain, taut and about to break,
i remember when you came,
you slept in my bed for a week
then left. that's the focal point of my story
which i'm sure is written down in one of your notebooks,
in a box somewhere, the bottom of the closet in your parent's house
collecting dust and shedding relevance.
i retrace these footsteps,
delete the evidence wedged between your teeth,
erase the paper trail
that led me
back to the empty chambers of your eyes,
sent into sentient space over wire
then multiplied.
you will not strike
the same life twice.
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| mary est très excitante! |
[10 Feb 2004|07:49pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
dead. or achey. either/or. |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
the laugh track. |
] |
recommend to me...
1. a movie
2. a book
3. a musical artist, song, or album
4. an lj user not on my friend's list
and put it in a comment and then put this in your journal (if you want, or haven't done it already.)
GO!!!
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| death to the dolly shot. |
[02 Feb 2004|11:52pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 blah |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
my tape. |
] |
i've been writing this story, in invisible ink,
with no soul, no body,
just a ghost, drifting around
down city streets, through alleys
getting caught in the tops of suburban trees,
only to be peeled off, piece by piece,
the layers spinning free,
the diaphanous shreds of a spider web,
a crumbling wedding veil, well anything
transparent that's made to conceal,
the spit hanging on the edge of your curled lip
behind which your teeth gleam like stockpiles
of shiny new artillery, polished insults
you can't wait to throw at me, yes i know
what that warehouse mouth of yours is for,
that what lies behind the bolted door
could burn up every chapter in my history,
a hundred times over, leaving only
an outline of ash, perhaps some
faintly throbbing
memory.
and still it would be better than this,
passionless hands franticly impressing themselves
inside cold, malleable flesh,
looking for some source of warmth inside a corpse,
meaning inside printed word
(i guess this is why i keep writing).
i shouldn't be surprised that it has come to
watching each cruelty and kindness
dribble out, slow and red,
waltzing through sedated water
dissolving all relevance, absolving
every contention of its context. (it means nothing.)
now my breath, it's
tied up inside these narrow lines,
looking at my wrist as if telling the time,
once it heals, it will pass,
-i keep telling myself-
overgrown with time. and forgetfulness.
but no skin can erase this, can protect us from
this cold that drills down inside our bones,
metallic winter nights when stars clink
like ice in drinks, the wind
whistling through my cavities, all my fillings singing
in tinny voices, in bells and chimes
from a distant, blinking satellite
whose ringing tugs at the live wire, strung with tiny lights,
that i've got coiled behind my eyes.
(leaves the color of dried blood,
reminders of some other season
fall from the binding of a borrowed book on funeral rites.
i'm overdue, and you do not remember.)
that's why i'm up scratching until morning
over words you'll never see, that are nonetheless
addressed to you. i am ulysses' wife,
weaving all day only to unravel by night,
hoping only that this cloudy liquid spilling from my pen
will fill the space separating you and i- you and them-
us and the rest of the world. i've kept this letter out of the light,
because i've always known
that, with a comfortable lie,
a smokescreen between us
is the only way
we'd be all right.
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eveafterthefall's journal