loose lips sink ships.

you poise just on the edge of understanding, you grip hopelessly at coat-tails, you whisper finite...

Wed, 19 Jan 2011 02:16:51 -0500

you poise

just on the edge of understanding, you grip

hopelessly at coat-tails, you whisper

finite details of men who can’t quite recall your name

though you could describe the texture

of their sarcastic laugh;

the shoots of color in their roaming eyes.

you cry out

for deliverance, you crave

to be recognized, you obesess

over the moments that

jump and flicker on grainy film-screens.

you want

with veins that are always empty

with a devouring desire that may never quite

be sated.

tumblr fucks up stanzas.

it happens.

enjoy my shit poetry

it’ll be clogging up your dash all night ~

the heartbreak song of j. alfred prufrock.

Sat, 08 Jan 2011 14:05:29 -0500

let us go then you and i

when the evening touches the sky

let us walk then you and i

with our heads stuffed full of high.

down sepia avenues,

the mournful grayscale rues.

do not let yourself be brought

to where answers must be bought

do not pause to ask what is it.

let us walk on;

and make our visit.

there will be time there will be time

for cups of tea and sugar cubes

for comfortable topics worn down into grooves.

there will be time to murder and create;

to burn a soul alive, to kiss and gently sedate.

but now as the stars sigh

as we move on, you and i

as our feet ache

as we discuss our former heartbreak…

and before the question can even touch your lips

as the talk becomes of literature and clever quips:

a single look

will be all it took

to steal the inquiry from your mind.

to thieve a question with elegant design.

we will live morning, evening, and night

we will speak of country darkness and city light.

until there has been nothing our conversation excludes:

we shall measure out our lives with coffee spoons.

we shall sit on the sand as the sun kisses the beach.

and watch the mermaids singing each to each.

your eyes are troubled as they look to east:

i do not think they will sing to me.

if you’re thinking plaigirism: good for you! you know your good poetry. the love song of j. alfred prufrock has always been one of my favorite works and it inspired me to this. so. don’t hate.

the numbers of followers i have is equal to the number of posts i have.

Sat, 08 Jan 2011 14:03:59 -0500

when i had one post, i had one follower.

when i had six posts, i had six followers.

now that i have nine posts, i have nine followers.

prepare for me to go into a posting frenzy. :]

the devil fell in love with me once. he fashioned for me a hell that was almost like heaven. he gave...

Sun, 26 Dec 2010 00:15:11 -0500

the devil fell in love with me once.

he fashioned for me a hell that was almost like heaven. he gave me green pastures, and verse finer than golden thread. he kept my eyes from the damned, as if i were a child who couldn’t bear to see the tears of the wicked. he built a palace, for that was what i expected to see: he, who did not sleep and did not eat. he had no need for beds or tables or ripe, red, apples, lay beside me on cool sheets and watched me doze in silence, and he stained my lips with the sweet nectar of fruits he never touched.

he offered me a blood-red bloom from a flourishing garden, but i turned my eyes away. he crushed it in his palm, the silken petals bleeding silently on fingertips that were no more than illusion and pretense to hold an idea, to give a face to the notoriety.

“i only want to make you smile,” he said, catching my chin. his eyes burned like the hellfire he thought me too delicate to witness.

he could never make me smile. he could never bring joy to my heart. and it occured to me why heaven had seemed so very cold. why i had voluntarily come to hell, why i had let satan hold me closely and call me his sweeting.

god had loved lucifer as a man loved a woman. it was obvious; painfully so.

he was bright, and beautiful, and burned with a hate that was mesmirizing to the almighty. who could not feel loathing, who could not be stung by selfish, burning passion. and lucifer had turned on him, as lovers are wont to do, and god had felt all too much of the fire of lucifers’ heart. it was as simple as quarrel, love that had never truly been anything more than disappointed wishing and an aching emptiness. and god, the spurned passion, the wounded soul, had cast lucifer from heaven. he did not speak and he did not feel, and he thought of the sweat on lucifers’ golden skin as he forged a hell to rival paradise. wondered how it might taste. knowing that he would never find out.

yin must have its yang, balance must be wrought. whether satan ever wished for a luminescent touch that would sear his very soul was very much debatable, but gods hate for the devil was borne of jealousy and longing and fear. he cursed the very name he had whispered into broken silences in a cold heaven, and wept to know that he would never, not in eternity, feel the touch of lucifers’ lips. it was god, really, that drove satan to his fall, it was the ardent passion of the almighty that had brought a vibrant archangel to his fall.

the love of heaven or hell corrupts everything that it may touch.

get high.

Sun, 26 Dec 2010 00:14:49 -0500

write about heaven and hell.

okay, go.

DIRTY.

Wed, 15 Dec 2010 19:30:46 -0500

okay, so, this is a snippet from a novel that i’m trying really hard to write, and i personally like it a lot - though as always constructive criticism / blatant cut-downs are welcome. my ego needs to be deflated every now and again…ha.

basically: anne-marie = protagonists bff, who the protagonist has a really odd bff crush on

eliot = protagonists boyfriend

they’re in an old carriage-house that’s sort of like a clubhouse for their circle of friends.

LET ME KNOW YOUR THOUGHTS~

i don’t do this just to show off, i really want to improve. <3

Their legs were tangled, her head tipped back, her skirt hiked, his pants around his ankles. It was base, animal, crude, and evidently blinding., as I stood for a moment, wondering if I’d looked as trashy and lost in ecstacy as Anne-Marie did.

“Isabella!” Eliot yelled when he caught sight of me, and dropped my best friend like the one-time slut she was.

Eliot left soon after, yanking his jeans over his hips, spilling admissions of regret. He apologized only because he felt he should, and I stopped him at the door to quietly tell him that it was at it’s close.

“I wish it wouldn’t be,” he said with a good imitation of sincerity.

“No, you don’t,” I murmured, and kissed him good-bye.

Anne-Marie sat cross-legged on the floor, smoke curling from her lips.

“Cigarette after sex, how classic.”

“I’m a sucker for a romantic cliché,” she replied, unsmiling. Her eyes wandered from me, fingertips reaching up to change the pattern of the threads of smoke.

“Why, Annie?”

She took her time in responding, the cigarette flaring savagely red as she took a drag.

“Eliot’s got HIV.”

My poetic cool was lost, and my shriek shook the silence.

“What?” My hand strayed to my stomach, where even now an infection might be growing. My head swam. “How do you even know that?”

“He made it with Josie last month. Her mother was furious her baby girl had an S-T-D.” She stressed each letter, making them bend in her mouth. “The tests haven’t come back yet, but they’re pretty sure it’s HIV.”

“You whore,” I said, a thread of passion in the deflated words. I sank down beside her, hollow, sad. “Why would you want that?”

“I want to be sick,” she said, seeming to relish the words. I realized for the first time she was very, very drunk, her breath reeking, a bottle broken and glittering on the packed-soil floor.

“Why?”

“Why?” she echoed, and her voice because tender as she turned to me, a hand slipping behind my hair, lingering at the back of my neck and pulling me close as if she was going to kiss me. Her breath hushed against my cheek.

“Because sometime; maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, or maybe next week—papa Phillips will come home very drunk. And he’ll realize that his wife left him years ago for the piece of shit loser he is, but she was kind enough to leave him a daughter. Pretty little thing, and he’ll sneak quietly into her room. He’ll throw back her covers and he won’t hear her beg him to leave, because he doesn’t want to.”

Her voice was loving, caressing, and as she spoke, her unnoticed hand spread across my stomach, reaching up and brushing the underwire of my bra. My breath caught, my hear raced, but Anne went ruthlessly onward.

“And he’ll keep her up late, late, ignoring her screams, touching her, hurting her, and drive her to school hungover and ashamed, with his little girl still smelling like sex, so the boys will call her a slut and ask her blow-jobs in the bathroom even though she—didn’t—ask—for—this—”

Her fingernails dug into my stomach, breaking the skin, drawing blood, and I gasped as I leaned forward, kissing her strongly, tasting her, and she fell limp in my arms. I wanted nothing more than to kiss her forever, but I thought of her father, mercilessly taking a girl who had exhausted her screams, and lay still upon a sweet-drenched bed. I let go of her, shuddering.

“And this time, she won’t be so powerless,” Anne-Marie whispered, and smiled as she stood shakily. “It would be easier if I loved you, Bella.”

She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, and left me shivering on the cold dirt floor.

goodbye.

Wed, 15 Dec 2010 19:13:15 -0500

I’m sorry. I know it doesn’t seem like much, and it probably never will, but at least I said it; better than nothing at all, a silence that would sting and fester in both of us.

Humans by nature are such opportunistic things, taking what we can by luck and declaring it fate, holding whatever we find so close, eventually it suffocates. The confession that you loved me, spoken softly as a sin admitted in a confessional, was an offer. I took it, and despite what you may think I have never regretted a thing.

It’s not hate or even dislike; simply that your heartbeat was better than a dead silence, and having you to hold me was better than being frozen and alone. I didn’t want you, at least not with a firey teenaged cliche. You were the product of opportunism, an alternative I consigned myself to willingly.

I don’t think less of you for hating me any more than I belittled you for falling in love. I would have liked to part on good terms in a strange, tenuous friendship that would never grow strong. But your violent emotions kept that from me; you feel nothing in halves.

I want so badly to have some bigoted, flowery words that would put the entity of us to bed with roses, but all we can do is the best we can do. My words fall like stones into your silence:

I’m sorry.

Goodbye.

meaningless little trifles.

Wed, 15 Dec 2010 19:13:01 -0500

no rhyme or reason in these. not a bit.

i was sitting in geometry and the first thing i saw, i used as inspiration for a little blurb. utterly without structure or any semblance of plot.

lulz haters gonna hate.

meow.

I ached. Every square inch of muscle throbbed, every movement burned. I curled up under my childhood blanket, listening to Barry Manilow songs on loop. I wondered what the first realization of healing would be, how it would feel for the skin to begin to knit together, how I would know when the stregnth overcame the pain, the first chapter of my bodys response.

I certainly could use a bit of healing. The bullet wound in my leg hurt like a bitch.

I surrounded myself with comforting things, childhood acquaintences, whose surfaces still smelled of talc and whose topography was my second nature.

John Lennon sang of strawberry feilds while I clutched mememtos of a dead childhood, crying sometimes, sleeping others, waiting for time to work its magic and heal all of my wounds.

this is a new story now lulz.

I must confess, I’ve been smitten by your dress.

Red is, really, your color. You look exquisite in scarlet silk, and sneaking peeks at the knowing smile on your lips, I can see you are aware. No false modesty for you, you who are unblinded by a humility you would only pretend to feel. I love that about you. The knowing.

The song ends, our eyes catch. I move like a spectre through the dancing couples. My unfortunate prom date waits somewhere else, her beauty nothing compared to yours. And as soon as I can blink, you disappear into the crowd.

Ah. L’amour. The lady love is cruel.

All is fair. A goddess in green satin takes your place in my eyes. My imagination buys her flowers, in my minds eye we honeymoon in Paris and shake the very foundations of our historic hotel.

I must confess…

Unseen, red silk smirks at green satin.

“Creepy Ben is staring at you.”

“Alls’ fair. He just finished ogling you.”

“Wonder what I’m like in the sack. You know, in his dreams.”

“He probably blows it before you even get his pants off.”

“Even in his dreams?”

“You can only imagine so much.”

Ben twirls imperiously with his pimply prom date, creating love stories in his mind. The girls he has married, fucked, and loved in his lofty imagination giggle behind punch glasses and pretenes.

Ah, he thinks, spying a vision in sky blue, l’amour.

this is a new story now lulz.

You were little more than a vessel for an insatiable need.Your fingers were always stretched out in supplication—whether for nicotine, alcohol, or affection, it varied. You were a gaping abyss of selfloathing and fear with a pretty smile and a lighter handy. Before you’d be through with me, you would have eaten me alive.

a pirouette through a homeless life.

Wed, 15 Dec 2010 19:12:40 -0500

The city was cold at night. In my Suburbia naivete I’d thought the towering buildings and thousands of people would form some sort of wall against the frost; would kindle some sort of warmth, that New York would be spared winters fiercest lashes. That a skin of comfort would ensconce the town.

Of course, I had been wrong.

There was no membrane of warmth and kindness here; everyone hated everyone else with a passionate fire that, also, failed to cut the chill. Or perhaps that derision was reserved for the homeless; I had no other eyes to see the world. I could only assume from my position bundled up in Goodwill blankets, squatting in abandoned buildings.

I only saw the grimy, urbane beauty of New York when my stomach was full. When it was empty, the place was hell. My personality had split like a schizophrenics into the worlds of full and the realms of empty. Everything changed when I could beg a dollar or two.

When luck was good; it was quite fine. I got enough for a few hot meals and a pack of cigarettes, even a cheap bottle if I was lucky. Good company appeared out of thin air; we sat in the warmth of good fortune, sharing cigarettes and laughter.

Somehow the bad luck was always worse. WHen money ran out, the company had places to go, friends to stay with, and there was never a place for me. I became a piteous thing again, begging nickles, hollow-eyed and filthy.

My homeless compatriots laughed at notions of consistency and predictability; a beggars life was played with dice. A steady stream of income was for subdivisions, and we’d left that far behind for better things, some one would half-joke.

And though I laughed with everyone else, I burned alive for the comfortable life I had idiotically left behind.

For better things.

decomposition of a dream.

Wed, 15 Dec 2010 19:12:22 -0500

our shadows made geometric shapes on the sand. when i kissed you, you tasted of saltwater. the white rush of crashing waves washed the grime from our feet, but our efforts were wasted. we ran on the beach time after time just to feel the sand between our toes.

we grabbed that summer by the neck of it’s shirt, and eventually our holds became too tight: it sputtered and gasped and in time it suffocated.

the decomposing body of so many starlit evenings became winter.

the magic was broken.

we parted ways with cold kisses that held nothing of those days near the ocean.

the amorphous "you".

Wed, 15 Dec 2010 19:11:58 -0500

i love you, i hate you, i write your name when i can’t bear to speak it.

you are everything, you are nothing.

maybe without that three-letter pronoun i could be brave. in a fantasy world, you is gone and i am confident; i say your name and something as insignificant as a brushing of hands changes everything.

you destroy me.

you destroys me.

fuck the english language.

do you believe—could you ever? could you throw yourself into a place where nothing really...

Wed, 15 Dec 2010 19:11:20 -0500

do you believe—could you ever?

could you throw yourself into a place where nothing really matters?

could you stop caring and start feeling, to use a tired cliche of hedonists and worshipers of the daily sins?

cast away the shell and; pink and ugly, blind and mewling, touch your hands to earth.

reconnect.

we are savages.