Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Sometimes you
will stay up, at night, and wonder how she is..wonder if her face has changed, if her eyes have kept the laughter between her lashes. You will wonder if her skin still smells like her soul..like pressed flowers, and coffee just when you need it most..if she still seemingly captures the whole world's glow in a rare smile, the way her shutterbug lifestyle propelled her to do so.
You will wonder if anyone else will warm, from the insides out, as her lips pass on old secrets that make hearts skip a beat. And you are convinced that no one else will feel her reason the way you once did. But you, of course, are wrong..because she will have kept forever tucked in, beneath her bottom lip. She will drop lines and beats at the sound of an.."I should tell..", with very little haste, very little carelessness, and all sincerity. She will spin. She will always spin..the colors and words will follow, as she spins. Her shoes will click clack and bring her Home, on an old string balloon. She will sing. She will always sing..there is music in those petals and morning jolts.
Sometimes, you will chance upon scrap, or a picture among albums and memory cards, of her. You will not recognize her shorthand, you will concur that her smiles are no longer rare, but they flicker all the same..she will keep the world's soul in those shutterbug eyes, and be in perfect synch with the cosmos.
Sleep well, with nothing but words..there will be very little kept and left and spilt carelessly for your sake..far too much thrown around, in fact, against it. Then again, we are well aware of this mutual disgrace; the apathy we cling to, for the sake of saving face. She has been made much too much aware of the criminal minds we replace..and she..she says I should stop rhyming, all the tim..ing.
| {9:00 PM}
Jump into
top hats, and satin..sequins and smokescreens..til
mr. Bunny Wabbit kicks me out..onto card hands
..into palms and a lover's old silver rings..til an ace
crumbles and crumples and folds..into dove wings
and sleight of hand..hands that cup beneath white
sheets..with stiffled laughs and blushing cheeks..til
my skin is dirtied and thrown out, along with petals
sprinkled and spun and grown with perfume in rain's
stead..thrown out, onto cobblestones and rusty locks
..shivering, beneath street lamps, pulling out crooked
smiles and cloth cloth cloth..knots and tugs and pulls
of cotton tails and nostalgia..til I am found; bare, with
pockets out, sleeves empty, hands cold..til I am me;
kept, in need, in want, in trust..til I have learned to take
romanticism in, in place of air..til my lungs break, with
very little say..til my lines stop and clock and learn how
to keep themselves from rambling..onto phrases and
phases of nothing..til then, I will keep my second-hand
self..til I find reason to trade the M word in, for an L
mr. Bunny Wabbit kicks me out..onto card hands
..into palms and a lover's old silver rings..til an ace
crumbles and crumples and folds..into dove wings
and sleight of hand..hands that cup beneath white
sheets..with stiffled laughs and blushing cheeks..til
my skin is dirtied and thrown out, along with petals
sprinkled and spun and grown with perfume in rain's
stead..thrown out, onto cobblestones and rusty locks
..shivering, beneath street lamps, pulling out crooked
smiles and cloth cloth cloth..knots and tugs and pulls
of cotton tails and nostalgia..til I am found; bare, with
pockets out, sleeves empty, hands cold..til I am me;
kept, in need, in want, in trust..til I have learned to take
romanticism in, in place of air..til my lungs break, with
very little say..til my lines stop and clock and learn how
to keep themselves from rambling..onto phrases and
phases of nothing..til then, I will keep my second-hand
self..til I find reason to trade the M word in, for an L
| {8:41 PM}
Allow me to
quote Joanna Perez..*coughs and puts on ghetto accent*"Who's the b!tch, now?"
| {8:38 PM}
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Allow me
to pull the linen out from beneath your silverware. Watch me snap my fingers and draw your card. I could pull a royal flush..with enough aces to make you blush. Silly, silly little thing.A bit of smoke'll go off and we'll sink into my top hat..don't let anyone tell you it's anything short of the M word. Allow me to trick you into the M word..don't disappoint mr. Bunny Wabbit =)
And in a crash of fireworks and mirrors, that ol' devil's inched out of her chains, again.
And everyone wonders..M word, S word, L word..
for what would one sell her soul? And at what price would we buy one, second-hand?
And everyone wonders..M word, S word, L word..
for what would one sell her soul? And at what price would we buy one, second-hand?
Mmm..
And in a flash of mirrorworks and fire, she slinks into your system..parts of her feel
like snow on your freckles, or rain on your lips.
She shoots up, into you..she finds her way into the edge of that mind you call reason..and it's a slow, burning sort of death. the only delectable way to forget.
Who remembers, who wants to, that is..who wants to remember forever?
Who wants to remember, forever?
This one..this this this, she with her wonder eyes, could trick you into the M word
like snow on your freckles, or rain on your lips.
She shoots up, into you..she finds her way into the edge of that mind you call reason..and it's a slow, burning sort of death. the only delectable way to forget.
Who remembers, who wants to, that is..who wants to remember forever?
Who wants to remember, forever?
This one..this this this, she with her wonder eyes, could trick you into the M word
..wah.
| {10:56 AM}
Saturday, August 26, 2006
A rush of
emotions and events..til the brilliance our fifteen year old minds keep, unravels. We are an innovation; a novel sensation, exclamation sans hesitation. Thinking, clicking, churning, as lids drop and beats fall into place..as ideas slip onto table napkins. I have little room for sentiment. I am here and I am now, now, now; lest history repeats its bullshit. Let's not let it. Green means go. Green means singout loud. Green means sugod, mga kapatidMake something out of it. Make it an explosion. Make it surreal, and cause a commotion..one of bright white motion, on this strobe light ocean.
| {4:35 PM}
Monday, August 21, 2006
Shoot your
mouth off..and allow me to jump the gun. Do what you do best, and leave.People say there are some promises
that you just can't keep;
but they forget to mention that there are
some people you can't keep, either,
once you reason with such a pathetic excuse.
that you just can't keep;
but they forget to mention that there are
some people you can't keep, either,
once you reason with such a pathetic excuse.
Watch me make no sense..can't rush it; don't rush it. Lock, and load. And lock.
| {10:02 AM}
Friday, August 18, 2006
I don't
know where it's safe to..be. There are expectations and cautionary tape; reputations and courtesy. And, no, she'll never run out of smiles or words or thoughts..just places to let loose.There are odd breakage points, and the slipping urge to ignore them.
I am afraid to compromise; I am unable to rock your boat..I should learn from those awkward nights, those tear stained sheets. I wish to be a radical, the better part of me slits the truths formed at her lips.
I should learn to stop saying
shut the fcuk up.
There seems to be an air
about me that I can't shake off
shut the fcuk up.
There seems to be an air
about me that I can't shake off
Something's happening and I'm not sure where this skin'll touch down, anymore. The view from here's a resemblence of..
I hate you, disappear.
It's sleepy and the coasters are lying around..I'm here and people abandon ground. It's paranoia, nausea, it reminds you that things are not yesterday and yesterweek and yestermonth and yesteryear. Thank God. This and you and we are not even just today..we are now; beyond minute, more defined than millisecond..there is nothing to be but the moment. No pasts no reputations no silk sheets.
It's hilarious to have to hide and twist and realize,
in the mess of you,
that it is anything but safe out there.
in the mess of you,
that it is anything but safe out there.
| {10:29 PM}
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Wake me,
shake me, make me, up. I've got all the time, in the world..let me let youooh;
a wild, rash, crash into
who?
Fake me, make me, take me, out. Til I scream Rent out loud,
you.
Es. Cap. Eh.
| {5:09 PM}
Monday, August 14, 2006
I'm getting
tired, of trying to be strong; or look strong, or sound contrary to the state of which the Wind leaves me, at night..define strong; relentless? Impenetrable? Strength is often considered synonymous to..endurance, I suppose?I always run out of breath..I knew I would, when I flipped the coin and ran.
Or, perhaps, able to pass through and surpass waves of emotion..able to dive into, unto and against. To experience, and live..I remember something about that in Tuesdays with Morrie.
Ever had the kind of morning you know ought to drown in your coffee cup?
Sometimes you run and you realize that, ten, twenty minutes later..your heart'll jumpstart and your chest will tighten; but, just as it doesn't get any easier til the checkered flag, it's the same heart, in the same chest, feeling the same pain, living the same life.
Sometimes thoughts are too much to be sent into my domain unrebukable.
So you keep running, and some people will think you weak as you stumble and refuse to look back..sometimes you will question the strength you claim. But you keep running..and they'll figure out that your soles are up against everything ahead; you seize the pain, but the rush of release reminds you so much of life..in no sense the masochist.
And it's a pain in itself to sort these cut roses, out in the open, momentarily
..but old sores find cures; white washed flesh rots from within. It is enough, to recut and reveal and rest..to pull and spin and breathe. There is no other breath to live by, than that given..by circumstance, this skin heaves and weaves til memory is crystal, pouring out red wine.
Honestly, I do think I've forgotten how to make sense, much too often, and
I don't know.
I don't know.
| {3:46 PM}
Sunday, August 13, 2006
A bit
of breathing time, to write. To type, as my chest heaves, bringing back neon memory..we don't breathe oxygen; we inhale sentiment, and aircon.
How Assumptionista.
A little flashback, to breathe in. To recall, as the motion ceased to be involuntary, requiring the strength of will to bite back emotion..til my cheeks fell against embraces that calmed my chest; up against others', that my highschool heart would ease as it listened to another's metronome.
I wanted to tell you it felt a little bit like Home.
Or a little bit more than the Home I assumed I had known.
Do anything. One night, to dance away weeks..hours to drink off lifetimes. A night can be a lifetime. A night can string together lifetimes. Fifteen..that's nothing. 12:01..a minute strung life lines together, and exploded in Happy Birthday to youuu's.
Or a little bit more than the Home I assumed I had known.
Do anything. One night, to dance away weeks..hours to drink off lifetimes. A night can be a lifetime. A night can string together lifetimes. Fifteen..that's nothing. 12:01..a minute strung life lines together, and exploded in Happy Birthday to youuu's.
No..no shyness
:-)
What did it feel like, to dance people away? What was it like, to move spin and never stop for cameras..cameras that clicked and whirled away blurs. Pink blurs. Shadowed eyes.
:-)
What did it feel like, to dance people away? What was it like, to move spin and never stop for cameras..cameras that clicked and whirled away blurs. Pink blurs. Shadowed eyes.
Did it feel like fifteen?
No, it felt like forever...or better.
No, it felt like forever...or better.
It felt like me.
It felt like..liquid light, or air shot through a hip. It felt like rain sinking into skin, and skin across lips. Constant motion, strobe light ocean. It felt like silk tearing into bloodstreams, and ripping up butterfly wings. It felt like tequila, rewiring my intestines, and sneaking into my subconscious.
I felt like me.
I remembered what it was like to need oxygen, and forget words..to enjoy sleep, but crave the waking. It is something else, entirely, to feel the sheets after the tightness in your heartstrings unravels. It is quite like the rush of roses you smell, with no haste; the flow of whispers you sink into, post-waterfall.
Who would've figured that the world could should and would be your World?
| {12:41 PM}
Saturday, August 12, 2006
15, and sober
..how 'bout you?| {10:42 AM}
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Grammar period
I seep through skin; like whispers and ghosts. My words, soft spoken, as dreams haunt pasts. I pass through lips; seamlessly, with silk sheets. My flow, the projections that thread together old tieswith fingers spinning
reeling Time in, beyond
Distance.
I contain much more than the breeze against a cheek; the least of me does so with ease. These sighs breathe a soul's kiss..hushed and floating through; like whispers and ghosts.reeling Time in, beyond
Distance.
| {8:20 PM}
Histo period
Sleepy Flipe.Running random daydreams.
Dreaming as rushes of words,
of images,
of sensations,
blush on lips and rouge.of sensations,
Sleep, Flipe.
Riding dragonback on a silver tooth.
Wishing as lucid nothings,
somethings,
Nothing,
write paraphrased emotion.Nothing,
See Flipe.
Make no sense. Make very little.
Eyes half open. Mind wide shut,
learned,
and grown,
makes very little sense, to ignorantsand grown,
and innocents.
| {8:09 PM}
Lit period
These hallways hold secrets that slip from our lips; they hear with old floorboards that silence their squeaks as one speaks, dropping names, in a mess of fallen school supplies.One block watches steadily to the less subtle clock's tick tick tick tock..as two hands take hold of the other's caramel skin. Another sinks into the wall crevise, as voices rise and emotions blare into crimson red scandals and modern propaganda.
You realize that the world is not against you, when you figure out that none of us are alone.
Old school rythm is one of mixed beats, and deceit; replayed and revised into new times and lives..released from old lies. And if we drank to drama, there'd be very little interval time to be hungover.
| {8:09 PM}
Monday, August 07, 2006
Tell the
world, in bright white light and pink rainbow dots..that the end is here and the sandman is queer. Though not to he point of checkered ties and well creased suits; more of to the annex of his mind being churned and burned with thoughts of mocha latte on the edge of some ex lover's French balcony.Old hands hold wrinkled sin..the type that burns with the smell of cigarette on grey moustaches. Poker faces, and droll voices; to what do I owe this old time rhyme? To you, the thoughts that disintegrate UV ray shields. To who, the epitome of highlighted lists, the cream of course of the crop.
To the skin that never settles..for more, for less, or down.
He has the courtesy to leave her old linen sheets bare, spotless after the old maid tidies them off at mr. Ching's. Drycleaners are efficient, whistlers are endearing.
No poetry leaves the soul stained with red wine..red wine is taken and licked and swept off by the fingers' tips, onto dry lips and fueled souls..all the while with hungry hands on nimble hips. A glass lies sleepily, on the windowsill.
To who does this last drop come Home? Watching, slowly, as the Sky laughs white wine..hopefully, as they fall onto the white washed walls, onto oak doors and chalky asphalt. How lazy, the sound of white wine..unfinished, yet so completely absolute.
Remind me, again, of how it should be caked and topped off..with chocolate fountain lips. You, not you..and never you. Though, quite possibly, you?
Remind me, again, of how it is to make sense..though the rush of random keys keys keys and words that stick to your skin and fill your blood..mmm
runaway.
| {8:08 PM}
Saturday, August 05, 2006
What would
it be like, to run away? Not to get anywhere..just to run; to run red lights and see crimson, goldenrod and teal. To run..across Water, and Air; to smile, and wave (or wink) and fly.And to not need to be caught.
To run across different streets and area codes and continents and timezones..to zones where Time heals, in the stead of pressuring One to do so. It might be nice, to get away.
And what would we be, then?
Who would I be, leaving behind scars and bruises and..people. People? People..'s words and laughter and smiles. Who would I be, amidst and within completely new skin?
Would it be nice to get away?
..escapism fails to cover up sentimentality.
| {10:02 AM}
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Mister Dream
is playing some pretty mean tricks.| {5:57 AM}
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
It's a
crying shame that such a dear wingmaker chose to love a silly promisebreaker. The secretkeeper thinks his are not worth speaking. The truthseeker agrees that they have little worth reaping. Ask the rosereaper, and she'll nod at novelty seeking; nothing keeping. And the butterflyspeaker refuses to persuade Dream, or bring him any amount of afternoon ice cream.Soon, friend, you will spin the most perfectly timed wings that will loop roots onto heartstrings..wings that will find the shirtholes they need to stay; wings that are enough to fly you both out of here.
"If the right girl comes at the wrong time, she's still the wrong girl"
But people who leave things up to Fate bank on very little more than a little girl spinning together coincidence and dumb luck. Although there is some truth to Time..and Change and Distance. Time, Change and Distance, antagonized by Patience, Truth and Trust..bowled over by Love.
Love, and chick lit shit. Despite barriers and doubts, questions, pasts..beyond and about. *Dies* of too many songs.
I wish we could go back, to the beginnning.
Coz there's something missing from your eyes.
We lost a lifetime when I disappeared
now I am coming back to you.
I wish I could fly, I know I can save us somehow.
You thought you were safe and sound,
but you need a hero now.
You gotta believe; even with broken wings,
I'll come to your rescue and you can rescue me.
My hand, in yours, would hold a single midnight wish. Our lips would reveal one secret..a secret locked and withheld in our souls, til 12:01 slipped onto our wrists and wrote Tomorrows across our skin.. Let's not play with seconds, like this..let's not toss and turn, wondering. Ah, the royal pluralization, just maybe..I hope to be proven of otherwise.
When did I lose you?
I need you to pull through
the weight of the world never felt so alive.
*The Rescue-American Hi-Fi
| {5:00 PM}
