| notice: |
[23 Oct 2005|01:19pm] |
my new username is : paramourr
sorry, i'm not paying 15 dollars to take care of this in a more efficient manner. do what you need to do though.
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[09 Jul 2005|07:11pm] |
ben, can you ask your sister to ask milan's sister where she gets zither lessons from?
or can someone ask dan to ask milan?
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[30 Jun 2005|11:17am] |
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oogie boogie boogie
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| trotting through the dust || cut&paste haiku. |
[15 Apr 2005|05:57pm] |
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his back towards her
limbs, with his head in his hands
the slow tenor that
slump into my bag
and inquire for some middle
ground but ideally
don't think about much
of anything anymore
vague recollections
red and rough and i
lost the directions you gave
me i tried to go
stalling and blocking
the road hello hi sorry
i'm the one playing dead
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| mis-shapes || on thinking and the damning of such. |
[22 Mar 2005|08:05pm] |
there are a lot of things to be sad about. concrete things: broken keyboards, leaves and twigs all over the ground, papercuts, stale mornings, stagnant evenings. cars, television sets, people. and then there are the things you've created and stored in your mind. chopped up flashbacks of cold hands and blank parted mouths. theoretical situations-- now there are two kinds.
pleasant ones- they are wonderful things. but alas, they are not things at all. they are just thoughts that always seem to place themselves somewhere just above your reach. they are both inflating and deflating (first one and then the other). they will make you sad.
terrible ones- they are, as i named, terrible. they will make you feel uncomfortable. they will make you angry, upset, miserable. and now the reader will say to me, ah, but they are not things, they do not exist. this is correct. however, the mere possibility of such; the fact that they are real enough that i may imagine them-- that is reason enough to cry.
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| shivering fast boom bolivia: to nothing. |
[20 Mar 2005|02:28am] |
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the movement and placement of all things in circles and squares, respectively. the image of a woman perched upon a windowsill still runs true. ((i'm still waiting), just whispering through the silk screen, to a different view.) stiff, smooth photographs.
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| they'll push you out and pull you in. |
[10 Mar 2005|12:27pm] |
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mood |
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yawn. |
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music |
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a shake is to a nod as i am to... |
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judgment and the calling forth of such. pointed poignant points and then-- the spitter splatter [anticlimax] of projection.
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[03 Feb 2005|02:03am] |
I’m thinking about splattered guts and blood everywhere. Staring down at the soiled undershirts and you just want so badly to gnaw on that bloodied finger.
Is she as sweet as she looks? Oh, i must have a taste! and then you dive and try and make a fucking run for it before anyone else gets their clumsy sausage hands on her.
(but yellow caution tape.) But navy suits that will hold you by the shoulders and to say, "Have you gone mad!?"
I’m thinking about kidneys and livers, glistening and spilling out into the streets. Crimes scenes without stupid shit like bloody handprints and notes that say, "oh god what have I done!"
You know he really loved his wife and the thought of anyone else even looking at her, no it was too much. "I killed her because I loved her!" He would say after 3 months in a stiff grey suit, mumbling, I didn’t do it I didn’t do it, it wasn’t me.
pale stout reporters will say, ha! give the man what he deserves! Death with death and the women in eyelet drab will moan, "ohh for Love, mercy on his soul!"
Then situating themselves in the cold of his cell: Pet his hair, coo softly in his ear even. Hummm an awful love song about softness and babies. (you wish he was yours)
I really loved her.. (I know…I know..)
they will weep and spit at the bathroom mirror, my husband would never kill me...--
and then there is she, battered and buried underground. If corpses could speak hers would say, he was a spineless bumbling fuck. I used to stare at him. Shake him by the shoulders. Is this thing on? Raise your voice for christ's sake,just fucking blink why don’t you? Are you alive, and now I’m the one playing dead (oh I suppose you think this is funny? i don’t believe in irony) He grabbed me by the wrist.
Harry, is that you?
He pushed me against the wall, he held me there by the neck.
Hold on, let me put on something lacey.
He pulled out a knife.
Wait, wait, something lacey!
He stabbed my right side.
Harold!
He stabbed my stomach, my arms, my chest (all those places he’d never touch). Over and over. All I could do was sigh.
the last 5 minutes I laid breathing, I never loved him more.
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| none of it's worth wasting paper anymore. |
[30 Oct 2004|09:58pm] |
trouble. i have trouble with discerning between the words tiny and teeny. even as i type this, i mix the two up. direction. roaming the town at night, by way of foot, moaning and searching for home. reading textbooks. reading biographies. old letters. stale screened conversations. lentil limbs piled on top one another, papers sprawled on the floor. me, with lake rimmed eyes, poking furiously, punching, crunching all of this into a small calculating machine. yes, fucking reevaulating. fuck you. oh the streets, cherubic faces wrapped in those rainbow knits, paper thin lads plodding through the swelling puddles, oh high boots, oh, taped up sneakers, oh, bloating bags with arab straps. oh! i really do hate everyone!!
(it's good to be self-absorbed because nobody else will care. oh no, not angst dear father. simply concern, simply affection. pressing my body firmly against a wall, whispering secrets and lies that float up back from the plaster, sinking back into me.)
nevermind. just pretend i'm really drunk. i really dont like people. i mean really, truly. they're no good. sometimes they tell a decent joke or do a handstand, but they arent good for much else. lots of people are mean. it's not good to hang around these people, but you know that you do, because everyone has some friends, unless you're ugly. that's a whole other different problem with society, that i dont have the time or money to address or fix. anyway, so some of these people act like they're real nice, you got it? you meet and they tell you you look really nice or that your dad is really rich or whatever. and then you exchange numbers (uh, screennames i guess also work in this digital age we live in) and then maybe the next day or a few days later they contact you, oh you're so cool, come on, let's hang out. oh i know this great new restaurant or oh my friend's having this.. blah blah whatever, i'm already bored at this point and really starting to regret having ever met this guy, i mean, person. anyway, then you finally meet up after this really long drawn out, "oopsies, didn't get your number right", "oh, that's a zero in your screenname, i thought it was an o hahahahlolzzz." god and dont have anyone meet you at your house, for several reasons. half of the time, new friends turn out to be stalkers. now they don't really mean to, it just sort of turns out that way. you know you dont want to hang out with them anymore, and that would work out really great if they werent completely addicted to the scent of your hair. so anyway, right, other reasons, sorry. okay, so LIKE most people are really, LIKE, stupid. and you give them directions to your house but the fucking dopes still dont get it. so you're dressed and they're half an hour late you get a call, "oooh, in the neighborhood but i'm a little lost." this actually means, "i just left my house and i lost the directions you gave me, i tried to mapquest your address but i cant spell." so for 10-20 minutes you are trying to explain everything again, really slowly, and you have to repeat everything because they have cingular and cant get any reception within a 5000 mile radius, then they call you over and over again because, "gee, did you say catwell st or was that swell st?" oh...definitely NOT swell. so they finally get there and you open the door and theyre a lot stranger looking than you remembered(or in the case that you made the wise decision to meet them somewhere public, you're having problem spotting them out of the crowd). hey are you still fixed on that slip i made earlier? i'm talking in general: girls, boys, friends, family, they dont look they way you remembered and are strangely shorter and stouter somehow. anyway, you cant decide what to do because they asked you to hang out and made no plans(or worse, they made very grand, elaborate plans that fell through). so you walk around for 5 hours "talking" and "getting to know" one another. 5 minutes in you really want to go home and make some top ramen but you cant. you have to be polite. polite? you dont even know this girl! i mean, person. so anyway and then dan, i mean sue, i mean this person really starts to get on your nerves. at first you were bored but now you're really annoyed. you think to yourself, "when will this end?", "where are we going?", "why is his-- her-- that person's ankles so small?" yes, this is all very stressful. so you finally are able to go home. if you're lucky you get a ride but then you have to listen to their reggae or jam music all the way back. you bid your awkward partings, carefully to avoid alluding to any progressive tenses in sentences involving you and this other person. "i'm going to move far away" (good, good). "we should do this ag--"(ah, bad bad). so you think the feeling is mutual, we are just not compatible people, you said. we cannot be friends, we will not be lovers. this is okay. you go home. you make a sandwich. you go to bed. you wake up to the alarming ring that alerts you of a new phone text/im message: "great time last night. hope we can hang out again sometime this week =)!" no, no, no..
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| we'll kill the fatted calf tonight |
[07 Oct 2004|04:26pm] |
| [ |
music |
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Pulp - Pencil Skirt |
] |
my lips are stained some cheap tangerine like a dried up orange marker or the nectar that flows from my mother's carmelized apricots. even worse, they're peeling and cracking at the edges and all i can do is keep licking. my dress is worn and worn and torn along the threads that meet the wind to whisper softly before settling back against my skin. the sky is red and rough and i don't brush my hair anymore. and all of this is too bright or dark, too thick or thin, too strong or bland and i wish i had that grey mass to engulf myself in. we're vacillating back and forth between black and white.
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| groceries, jewelry, hairspray... |
[25 Aug 2004|10:57pm] |
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I’ve been here before, but I still can’t tell the difference and it’s hard to put my finger on it all and point it in one direction or the other. Should it be a want or a need? It’s all an aching feeling, but to be honest, I can’t discern between the two. And I want to just give it all up and get married, but I can’t because things like glitter in nail polish still fascinate me.
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| we ran out of instruments so i had to play the guitar case |
[02 Aug 2004|03:13pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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ahh |
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music |
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magnapop- this family |
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Mi Lagarto Come Su Helado(My Lizard Ate Your Ice Cream)
Yo Quiero su tobillo(I want you ankle)
Yo tengo el novio (I have a boyfriend)
El tiene muchos huesos.(He has a lot of bones)
¡Yo Quiero mucho queso!(I want a lot of cheese!)
El tiene las patillas. (He has sideburns)
¡Yo quiero sus rodillas! (I want your knees!)
Eres una maravilla (You’re a wonder)
Yo robo sus pastillas. (I stole your pills)
Ellas comen la sopa. (They ate the soup)
Mi gato quierre tus ropas.(My cat wants your clothes)
Ella compra el sello. (She bought a stamp)
Yo peino su pelo (I comb your hair)
Mi madre compra la mantequilla.(My mother bought butter)
Yo lo vi en la ventanilla. (I saw you in the window)
Pero tu saliste. (But you left)
Porque yo estoy triste. (That’s why I’m sad).
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| good bye alex. |
[31 Jul 2004|12:41am] |
i left my digital camera at the restaurant. and of course, what night would be complete without all the contents of my bag falling on the street and into the gutter?
terrible time, thanks anyway.
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[28 Jul 2004|07:41pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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dismantled |
] |
| [ |
music |
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some droning buzzing chord |
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exhaustion of all sorts and a general feeling of unhappiness. stained wine glasses, stale clothes, crumpled up letters and 4X5's. lists of plans to throw myself into: books, chewing gum, old records, cars, stuffed messenger bags, and furniture shopping. i've given up the ideal for the tangible, but now i still don't know what's real; and i'm so sick of guitars.
i want to go home, but i haven't decided what that is yet.
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| and what the hell is going on with all these goddamn flowers? |
[24 Jul 2004|12:24pm] |
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mood |
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stung |
] |
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music |
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nico- these days |
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i don't think about much of anything anymore. vague recollections of a spoon, a knife, a rare shade of pink. cold drinks, warm skin. i like my friends, but they come and go. i wear my dresses, but they get old.
crumbs resting on the fold of my skirt. crumbs. and crumbs. and cru--
i told bishmer i was getting my life together.
i just don't know what to do with myself and today charlie told me i look like a bee.
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| this is no middleground. |
[17 Jul 2004|03:24am] |
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mood |
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night |
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music |
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shadowboxer |
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It was long ago that I figured the trouble of young swelling girls; the decrepit paper bag women. Never mind the year of made, it’s all a stiff drink to me. They want the foaming beers in old frosted mugs, the rough hands, the smoke filled v-neck undershirts, the roaming eyes, the firm grasps that ring around their slender necks down to the small of their backs-inhale- and then up again, the skeleton at the edge of the bed with his back towards her limbs with his head in his hands, the slow tenor that whispers through the darkness, “baby, you don’t know where I’ve been.” They want the worn in leather, the smell of burnt rubber, the fast cars with jet-black polish and in those cars between the ashtrays, the beat up 8-tracks, they want their safety belts, their air conditioning, their cushioned chairs, their cup holders, and their fucking baby seats. Gas stove, embroidered aprons, pancakes for breakfast, cigarettes for dessert, candles in the bedroom, sleep on a flat floor mattress. They want the flowers, the unspeakable scars, electric razor, but stubble to the face, soft lips, crooked teeth, lipstick on his collar, all eyes on her, he won’t let no one touch you. Loves little children, father won’t speak to you. Diamond bracelet, bruised up cheek, pink bow, black lace. Knife in one hand, cake in the next. Butts put out on white picket fences, the holes burning through this crooked painting.
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| comakazi. |
[06 Jul 2004|09:17am] |
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peering, ghoulish faces. unpunctual shopping bags and stiff limbs. they all whispered and echoed, "close your eyes and think about god. he will carry you and take you away quickly." her body trembled and her eyes slit shut. she shook her head with fervor, fever that resounded against the plaster walls. oh her small 10 year old body.
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| please help. |
[19 Jun 2004|10:59pm] |
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my body aches. i can't sleep. i'm hot. i'm cold. i throw up everything i eat. i'm dizzy. it's difficult to stay standing and take breaths. everything is painful. how long do stomach flus last?
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| and still a softer hand keeps extending itself. it's gone past my hand and towards my neck. |
[12 Jun 2004|01:17am] |
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music |
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what am i doing here |
] |
rotcetorptekcop: where will you be living ?
rotcetorptekcop: and can i live there too?
rotcetorptekcop: i want to be a girls choufer
rotcetorptekcop: and buy necklaces and such
a warm, nearly boiling, overcast of doting and loitering and on the other end of the spectrum a frigid grey void that engulfs you all the same. now, one can say he will settle for some middle ground, but ideally that's not settling at all. still, it's a large gap and you never seem find yourself in the right slot.
jon yeh doesn't want to hear me whine anymore. and so when i say pillow chat, i really mean to speak softly to my mattress. love songs and poems that arent written about you are stupid.
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