During the time of King Donnchadh, son of Domhnall who was the son of Murchadh, there was a bard in Kathlin in Northern Ireland. Her name was Étan and she was the daughter of Buan mac Báin, who was a wise and educated man, and also said to be descended from Amergín himself. Although it was no longer common for women and men to do the same jobs, she was proud and high-minded, and would pay no attention to the words of her neighbors. She was a strong woman in both body and mind, if not very tall and somewhat quick to anger. Her pride and the quickness of her sharp tongue kept her unmarried, but also kept her from regretting this. Neverthele
If we ignore the fact that I have never, ever answered to Scotty,
The names even sound similar.
If only my best theoretical paradigm, my flawless Marxist criticism,
My profession of words would stop getting in my way.
Commodity and commodifier at the same time, that would be
Me. Good 60s girl, right color hair and eyes
And a sense of class; I am also the good but damaged detective,
A scotch and nostalgia my bulletproof vest.
Dressing up my Judy boy, triangular desire a perfect metaphor.
Arcane, but perfect for me, the inarticulate writer,
The immobile hypsophobic cop.
I know I love the signifier rather than the signified.
I am haunted by the ghost of your smile;
Things remembered gone down to the grave.
For words unsaid, I stand on trial.
"Time heals," they say, so I bide a while.
Platitudes a battered wit might crave
I am haunted by the ghost of your smile.
Tossing hollow regrets into a pile,
The absence of sun tempting me to rave.
For words unsaid I stand on trial.
Of grief, I remain in staunch denial
Relying on a tightened grin to save
I am haunted by the ghost of your smile.
Whenever reverie I revile,
Without a steady hand, no longer brave
For words unsaid, I stand on trial.
And you, mysterious, mercurial,
Work with ghost-words the magic I
Slow minuet, a Victorian
Garden party dance affair
A kiss a day,
A wink every two weeks,
A slow giddy wheel every month,
Then an elegant split and
Into new sparkling pairs,
Rotating and dotting the
Parquet in new
The Heathcliff not Orion,
The Bennetts not the Seven Sisters (only three),
The Bronte not Cygnus.
Sparkling smiles, decorum, structure, formality,
And in the middle, the North Star alone,
Or perhaps one of the stars that
Goes down burning through the atmosphere at the
Rightest and most wrong posible
Ephemeron, I stand in the sky,
Some days I
Wonder if this will ever come straight
If the tangled yarn I
Call my head these days
Will ever unravel. The answers
I give myself depend on
The song in my head;
I wear three years' experience on my skin,
Tattooed tire tracks race down my arms
Cranes and berries blanket my shoulders
Sheet music indelible on my lips
Pens for unwilling words on my hands.
I want everyone to see it too,
Because it's beautiful
And we made it together.
What's in it for me? always your first question,
Cannily concealed beneath outrageous shocks
That could still like grenades or wound like kisses.
How could I oppose, refuse a quick-tongued thief
Of cars and bodies? To say no would be lost,
Swallowed by layers of quilts and strange dreams,
The same blankets that absorbed all the salt I
Would ever bleed from all unnatural shocks
Of salad days, appropriately colored
Green. Green like candy bears, green like the pills.
I dreamed in green and woke in blue, cat
On my feet, no longer separating
Mad dreams whispered in my ear, duels unfought
For me, no man at my feet, save one dark
For every Africa I will never recall, every
Lion and mastodon held fixed by a wish
Instead of a spear point. For all the
Loam and dragonflies that have come down to me degraded.
It's no use,
My fingers will always remember
The hardness of plastic keys before
The feel of pebbles.
All the devolution in the world- the
Imaginary pain of exchanging gills for lungs- will not
Make time run backwards.
At night, I will always see
Blinking jet lights, hear
Cars whispering past on the highway, and not one
Bone drum to still it.
the first half-hour after midnight,
lit by a moon or a monitor, showing the
shrunken-head voodoo priestess
(with apologies to grande brigitte and samedi, le baron cimitiere, the
legitimate graveyard denizens),
collecting platitiudes and drawing
figures in makeup like chalk; laying out
all manner of silver-plated platitudes and thin dimes
in front of a many-armed hoodoo figure that-
in the right light, or lack thereof,
might pass for an oracle, if you ignore that
that's not spanish moss, but a
skein of fishnet.
what would ogun have to say to you?
chances are those pretty stylized artistic skulls
would start chatteri
so they say you love me now,
in your own
fumbling kind of way.
but i'm afraid of,
years from now, when you've forgotten their names,
waking up next to you
with that bike of yours turned into an acura sedan in the driveway,
and your face,
once defined by ivory-soap angles and steel rings,
now defined by weekends spent wallpapering.
and maybe the odd
suit-related food thing, here and there (of course costing
more than the clothes we used to wear)
and your hands that are now white and thin
have become the new face of company loyalty, unlike my grandfather's,
hale and hearty and altogether himself,
very much 20 at 82.
i won't say
ideally- and this is to say
that this is never going to happen-
i'd have a nicer machine,
and i'd paint it pretty with
fleshplants (isn't that
a nice word there?)
so you could watch them, largely unaware that
they have been known to feed on
star-crossed clerks and english majors.
they're carnivorous largely by accident,
which is what's going to happen
if i don't learn to stop watching smoke in mirrors
and keep my eye (also
carnivorous, and guiltily so)
on the tire-treads i need to be following.
ideally, you would not
think that's kind of charming.
I'm sorry you saw that. Ragged bone, forests of needles bristling up around mirror-lakes dotted with bleached-bone-white islands. Colors were there, terrifying in their intensity. What did they do to you? Could I make it better could I could I. Machete my way through forests hydroponically thick with poisonous plants, always green, bloody poppy smiles grinning at me like death's heads. They've woven their way into you, vinous viscous poison carried through tendrils into the base of your brain, your spine. Break the bones break the bones break the bones. Progeny of chemical misery, let me make something go right? Blood is thicker than
Screaming silently into a slick reflective void. What have you done for me? Bristle with needles at my touch, hurl a shout jagged with sweet crystallized anger when I ask What's wrong what's wrong what's wrong. Your propensity shattered the wrong thing. I can't hack my way through your poisonous jungle to voice my concerns anymore. I just stumble now, tendrils of futility and abandonment catching my ankles, dragging me down down down down to you. My hands are stained lurid brokenheart colors by your family tree's falling leaves. The vines finally choked it off. I can feel the tip of an angel's wing brush my tongue, leaving behind the sweetest
I wish I could block out the sound of you two
The same damn fight you've been having every day since you met.
I feel bad for you.
He's pushing you too hard, and in all the wrong places.
Hearing you argue sends chills up my spine
Today you bicker,
In three days you'll scream at him, call him a liar
In a week, drunk, stoned, you'll throw things at him
Your purse, an ashtray, the lit end of your cigarette
And in ten days, he'll ruin you.
And come back the next morning, eyes as blue as your bruises, saying
Baby I'm sorry, but
You're too sensitive,
It wasn't that bad, really.
I don't get along wit
I feel ridiculous,
To even think I deserved
To be part of this unconscious elite.
To think I was worthy of
Holding myself to the standards you measure yourselves with.
Knowledge is nothing if left to decay.
Who takes small bites around quality, as if afraid the core has seeds.
If I rely on deception
To replace invention
It further proves my disconnection with the Way Things Are.
I'm sick of being
Lied to like a child
You wear your intolerance as a badge
An insignia of your own secret society,
Separating you from the "mindless masses."
You're like a banker with his Klan title on his business card,
And for that reason you sicken me.
Feeding on your own ego.
Subtle as a sledgehammer
Not all your slings and arrows hurtle harmlessly over the heads of the innocent.
In fact, you're a lousy archer.
Although in the stagnant reflecting pool you use to
Avoid looking directly at the world,
I'm sure that's just my denial
Making up for my inadequacy
In your brilliant Atlantic City light.
Child of self-love
I'll brook no assumption as to mys
Knit me a basket from shining sunbeams so I can hold the stars. Don't yell when I try and catch a leaf, sometimes it's not catching it but following it that gets you there. Let me be a flower for today, small and white and moss-shrouded and reclusive. Make me a palace of crystalline snow. I'll ride a reindeer there. Glean from what's left a sparkling purple piece of what was. We can make it into something. Just not a jewel, cut down into a tidy shape, metal-cased and chained about my neck like a reproach. Do that and I'll throw it into the sea where it will become gently washed seagreen. I can see the same arc in a glacial circ or th
You walking corpse,
You McGoth shell of a boy
No one understands you,
Appreciates your god-like insight,
Is capable of discourse on your level.
Let the worms feed on your
At least then you'll have
Gotten what you
No one ever had the chance to
Mull over your points,
Speak without fear of your processed deprecation,
Open their mouth and prove that we're not all
You say you're depressed,
But you're just depressing
A farce draped in black prefab "Army" jeans
Imagining himself to be
Deus ex machina
Cast down into the seething pit
To illuminate the jeerin
Most people, I start out thinking they're assholes too and they have to prove otherwise. Very few get a clean slate, fewer still get carte blanche. Just by breathing, you understand me. Not-hatred is a valuable commodity in my world, and I respect you for it. Morbid curiosity. Answers to amazement to respect to feigned childishness to. I'm worried; a total stranger screaming hatred to the molecules responsible for the world's lack of motion. I defy them. Don't do this to yourself. For what? Two vague chemical ghosts, a shrew preserved for the ages in brandy, an almighty hypocrite? They. Are. Not. Worth. Your. Ruin. I'd slap you if I could rea
We're lined up
Like preserves at a backwater fair
Awaiting the judge and the multicolored ribbons
This one is too astringent,
Not the strawberry preserve
That you want it to be.
A black ribbon for you.
That one a rice pudding, no right to be here outside the confines of your categories
A good rice pudding,
But because it's out of your classification,
A stained white ribbon for it, dipped in the beetjuice blood of a martyr.
The first and final one black cherries
Candied and set with gelatin.
Finally, something that meets the requirements.
A blue ribbon for it, bec
Straight-backed and eager for abasement
You glide forward with the other
Writhing pilgrims, crawling toward the body of the martyr
Even now leaving bloodstains on the white sheet.
Bloodstains on the sleeve of the habit,
Blood trickling down onto the hand
Trailing off the bier like an unfinished sentence
Blood dripping from waxen fingertips
And sinful as chocolate.
You crave it as you crave absolution, and
Glide regally over the backs of the struggling faithful at your feet.
Clasp that hand, feel that
Rich as your reward
Drip through a shard of eternity to your eager waiting lips.
Licking up humiliation like a
crossed my road today.
and he hissed the sweetest psalm
of lovers in the hay;
of halos in the way;
of hearts spent
with irregular beats,
and of the masterful feats
that i were to accomplish...
if i could only find my feet!
mistakes have been made
fences built upon my thoughts.
your juiceless viscera
was once desired --
i now desire only wine...
and i say to thee:
thy love was a mistake,
so let us pass by.
when it came time...
to pluck the blossom from the vine...
And I'll just
Trace your bright scars with my tongue
And with my teeth spell out
On your collarbone where it's almost unseen
At the smooth joining of muscle,
That I love you
In spite of/Because of the fact that you're the
Antithesis of innocent and
Legally dead in someone's mind.
And those fingers that braid me bits of string
Are also used to
Spin about me words that end up
Stretching everything to the point that I'm a
Piano tuned too tight
Ready to fly completely apart if
The wrong finger
(That being anybody else's)
Hits the wrong note
(That being anything less than your lips)
At the wrong time.
And when I can erase a st
Current Residence: 805 Favourite genre of music: most Favourite photographer: shootingstar Operating System: windows 7 MP3 player of choice: iTunes (baww) Shell of choice: crunchy oo; Wallpaper of choice: domo-kun by diane Favourite cartoon character: ren & stimpy, spider jerusalem Personal Quote: oh, the sharks and the jets are having a kilt fight.
Favourite Visual Artist
jason khan, yan-zhou xu
the people under the stairs
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
anything but country and most rap.
william gibson, t.s. eliot, norman maclean, chaucer, dylan thomas
Holy crap, I am never on here anymore. I suppose that's what happens when all your words and energy are used writing term papers on subjects no one actually cares about, but that's almost over. I'd like to be able to upload new things, but that doesn't seem likely as my focus shifts. That's okay, though, I can use this to see pretty pictures and pretty words, assuming I remember to sign in and, y'know, check things.
so things might be looking up for this place, this page. i've moved, and while a very enigmatic new neighbor has been altering my perceptions of everything almost daily, this means something good for my art. for the first time, i feel on kind of okay footing about calling it that, like it might actually be. after a very intense and weird and lonely walk this morning, i came to a novel point. during the walk, i unfolded a new concept for what i want to do. i intend to make art with my words and my hands, using what i have to cobble together a visual/written piece. this means i get to take a lot more pictures than i have been lately, and
it's late here, or rather early, and i'm an insomniac who doesn't have classes tomorrow, so here i am on da. i submitted something, the first thing i felt like saying in a very long time (the rest is just me versus writer's block). and i started to look through my gallery. i can't pinpoint the exact moment in time where it fell apart, but it doesn't really matter. this is probably the least appropriate place to be discussing genuine anything, or epiphanies, or the kind of stuff that would make a middle-schooler say "deep." but hey, fuck that; there's my customary eloquence. anyway, my old comments blew my mind. people said all kinds of