10 Ways to Annoy Edward Cullen10 Ways to Annoy Edward CullenMore Like This
10. Sing Discovery Channel by the Bloodhound Gang in your head whenever he is near.
9. Hotwire his Volvo and take it on a joyride.
8. Tell him the relationship he is having with Bella is practically paedophilia and he could be sent to jail for it.
7. Ask how Tanya is.
6. End every argument with Bite me, Edward.
5. Call him Romeo both behind his back and to his face.
4. Whenever he complains or argues, reply with What are you gonna do Edward? Go to Italy?
3. Tell him his hair isnt bronze, its ginger, and he should stop denying himself hes a ranga.
2. Whenever he leaves a room or says goodbye, get down on your knees and beg him not to go, not again.
And the Number One way to annoy Edward Cullen?
1. Take his silver cell phone and change the ringtone to Like a Virgin by Madonna.
TruthFrom darkness fall to blazing light ,unravel flesh from burning core .More Like This
To feel the grip of mortal sin and want this life no more.
To find inside the truest path as night envelops soul.
Shed history like reptiles skin and watch your life unfold.
Like particle we float in beam from density were broken.
From quivering lip truths manna flows as prophecy is spoken.
The dreamer finds himself awake as signs and numbers fall in place
And imperfections reign within transforms itself from vile to grace.
Dread the flow of sand and time all you who read my testament.
For Satans rise is coming soon as planets move the firmament.
As water flows from fingertips verdict strips you from your lies.
So choose you well your fellowship or walk eternal fire.
© 2007 Alexandra
time in betweensitting in trafficMore Like This
2 listeners have called into
the radio station
their report was a car
stuck in a tree
the dj's on the air
the callers swore
to the car being
in a tree going
north on highway 94
that particular highway
did not run north
i knew that
the dj's knew that
the reporter who
was sent there
and found nothing
knew that too
2 more listeners
have called in
they are swearing
of the car in the tree
on the highway
that doesn't run
i rolled down the window
to breathe in the fresh air
it could be worse
i could be in a tree
on a road
with no direction
expansionmemories...More Like This
are slightly, (or mightily), built upon as time goes by;
that's what we do with what we did.
whether those recollections have collected
added details along the way,
we often do not know - ourselves.
these things don't make those things less treasured -
no, not less, but more.
tales are told, and in their telling,
(in)advertant lies cause normal swelling.
llp - dec'09 - dA
A moment in timeI do not want to capture the worldMore Like This
In a thick glass snow globe
By crystallising a moment in time
It would distort, it must distort
But so often I am dragged
To that loathsome depth
So often I trap the world
Eyes, brain, fingers, pen
It's unfair, it's so unfair
That I pin it
Sprawled and helpless
Without mercy, I dissect
And it becomes tainted
The whole vast bright world
Reduced to a stuttering rhythm
Anaesthetised with cotton wool
And splinters of ice
Bound to do my bidding,
Tell the story I think it should
I will look back, I must look back
Not with shame but with remorse
At how callously I fouled those worlds
By snaring them in words
Life is for the living
Not for the world
To be road hauled
With shiny string
Behind the lumbering
And her innocent sin
Forgive me for my snapshots
For all the harm they've done
Funeral of misplaced wantAlas my love its come to pass I've tired of our idle song.More Like This
I euthanize my failing hope give it to naught where it belongs.
Thou love me not, we know this truth. I finally acquiesce to fate.
I thousand lies I told myself to ease the bruise I contemplate.
Dust to dust no divine spark to bring the miracle to life.
Ill begotten travesty I see it now from empty height.
Were your silken words of truth, your actions louder they would speak.
I lay to rest my orphaned heart to walk my freedoms lonely street.
© 2009 Alexandra
Ritual Killing of my Child SibRitual killing of my child siblingMore Like This
He charged me like a one-ton bull,
deranged, afraid, eager.
But instead of waving a red gold embroidered capote,
I held a weed-whacker in my dream,
blades whirling full speed.
It was difficult at first to stay still
while metal ground on flesh, then bone,
his blood spurting out covering
my face in warmth as I stood unblinking,
but grew easier until all that was left to cut
For a moment all was still -
the smell of rusted metal fresh
with blood clung to the air,
the sound of gnashing steel and breaking bone
drummed in my ear, and
breath froze in my mouth.
The tool felt weightless in my hands
and effortless to control,
as if this act had been the estocada, death blow,
releasing my tension,
allowing me to slacken my white knuckled grip
on the hilt of my weapon.
Little brother's face was contorted in pain but also
in relief as though he simultaneously feared and craved
this end, as if it were his own release
or escape from whatever anxieti
the line to read and travelTo live is to travel. To let go of the known in search of one's true home.More Like This
Most of the time I see my home in open spaces, only for a moment or two at a time, but long enough to believe it exists. A glimpse of pale creamy sky punched by a slow sun above the oily waterfront, the moon coming out of the clouds just above the top of mountain in a moment before the scene shifts, the sunset above a thick hunter green forest where you can smell the chill in the air through the window glass. There is always a promise of familiarity and there is always a promise of losing the ambiguity of spaces and distances. The only way to find your home is to lose one.
The language works in the same way.
Before the Greek alphabet there were no vowels. The words were almost mysteries offering only a possibility of a meaning. They were a sacrament for themselves. The meaning was out there. They held the power of transformation, making the alchemy alive in the mind of the reader, calling for taking chances whil
van Gogh, the Orient: A LamentMore Like This
When van Gogh lost his soul
'twas no bushy-eyed barbarian
babbling about bushido
that enthralled him, but
a docile geisha's pallid wrist,
in his whisky
of cherry blossom
in his soul.
when van Gogh lost his mind
to a gunshot,
'twas no starry-eyed samurai
supplicating for seppuku
that pulled the trigger, but
a dying puppy's whimper,
storms of samsara hanging
by a whisker
of dead sunflowers
in his mind.
in this space I knowRecords should be keptMore Like This
of ghastly forms, pixelized
a painting in our digital museum
of everyday life
Paintings and dolls come alive at midnight
ghastly forms come alive when they like
and they die when they like and resurrect
sometimes in illicit tryst with a stranger
who might be a savior or more likely not.
I may not have fallen in love
cause I find rising in love more appealing
but some of us do fall, with no love
and that well of self-pity is deep.
You may not have understood
it's a trial by fire
but wet nevertheless
not because of the rain
I have witnessed fiery angels
climbing up my spinal stairway
many of them fell
and now when the earth is still dry
in the tonal heat of october's end
I see I have failed, too.
Fallen like the shadows
closely tied to ground
I may not deserve anything more
ignored the auspices, ignored the forebodings
erecting pyramids of stern illusions
predicting all facets of ifs and if anys
in vain, as in vein
The Marble and The EdgeAt three, my wide eyes watchedMore Like This
as a marble rolled across the table,
its path illuminated by the light
from the window -
(light still entered that house then)
rolled and eventually lost
its grounding, fell like a misguided Columbus
off the edge, rolled under the radiator,
hot to touch and growling.
Then Christmas and the wrapping paper
strewn about the apartment, blood on the carpet.
I never could remember what happened
between the before and after,
but I remember the dark, frantic motion,
the lullaby siren.
While they methodically separated
shirt from body, bone from flesh,
my hand remained in hers.
We rolled steadily forward, away from the edge,
that precarious edge that my mother fell off of, and my father,
the man she rolled under.
50/50, the professionals say, my prophesy.
DNA-crossed, predisposed to insanity: a father
on the edge of schizophrenia and a great
grandmother who was in constant fear of the rabbits.
(They listened to her every word.)
Oh, and any moment I could st
Amorous TranscendenceYes, yes, I know you will believe me when I sayMore Like This
the dandelions will soon explode
and all the little girls will attack the sun
and, most importantly, that my fingers
will soon become dizzy from running in circles over your skin.
All the experts agree
it is quite possible that every citys
newspaper will scream at the top of its lungs
and decree a war on words,
but thank goodness we dont need those.
Surely it is only time until all the walls disintegrate
and reveal the vacuous voluptuaries,
and us, wide-eyed and bending
to the will of each others desire.
Dont breathe in
the wind carries the noxious scent of sweatshop romance.
Join me in the shelter of our bed,
let the air be filtered sweet with these twisted sheets.
Once the world is arrested by the universe
and charged with Grand Treason,
we will be left as testaments to amorous transcendence.
musings from a dark roomOne thing I've discovered lately is how bright the sky becomes after the sun goes down. It's as if the sun, that fleeting giver of warmth and luminence, isn't shining as much as transplanting itself into a comatose patient. The sky and all beneath her lies open on the operating table of the universe as Sol opens an incision. She lies, patiently waiting, as the gleaming golden surgeon cuts her in two, pushing aside her shimmering insides and coating them with a false veneer of flesh. She remains passive as the golden brilliance of the scalpel envelops her very core, expanding to push aside the glittering amulet of the moon. The famous blue raincoat of dusk and dimness and sweet, quiet solitude lies crumpled in a corner. Eventually the effervescent operator grows weary of his own exsanguinating presence, and the time-keepers scratch off another day. The wound in the sky slowly heals. Silence reigns.More Like This