missing in action

lay lady lay

maybe, this time.

There is little to be said about the beginning of the summer or the opening of the mouth. With little victories and failures, quiet kisses saying I am sorry for me. Molecules, begging for some forgiveness, and all the blood in the veins, reaching out for some kind of contact, something. The way clothes fit against the body, the way memory sticks out. Like a belief in something worth forgetting, this skin, soft oil and skimpy scent of peach, this body swallowed whole, in no time at all. Maybe all this lightening in our palms, with you so close now. The softness of open-eyed dreams, running against the thunderstorms of our lives. Every so often, I’d like to have my own funeral, just to see who would show up.

It’s so nice to wake up in the morning, all alone and not have to tell somebody you love them, when you don’t anymore.

I do my thing, and you do your thing. I am not in this world to live up to your expectations and you are not in this world to live up to mine. You are you, and I am I, and if by chance we find each other, it’s beautiful. – Frederick S. Pertz

Just because you feel it, doesn’t mean it’s there – Radiohead.

I am poppies in the field, red and cold. I am sleeping alone, and I am light. I am light. I am light.

Our life is one catastrophe after another. Disaster dogs us. I’m the luckiest man alive, and you know what that means. Earthquakes, landslides, falling trees. Wind and rain and rising waters. What the hell, we survive. The coyotes are screaming on the other side of the field; it’s a strange music. The stars are out. It’s lovely here, and like the world, I marry you every day.

There ought to be a place to go when you can’t sleep, or you’re tired of getting drunk, and the grass doesn’t work anymore and I don’t mean to go on to hash or cocaine, I mean a place to go besides a death that’s waiting and a love that doesn’t work anymore.

Some days you wake up and immediately start to worry. Nothing in particular is wrong, it’s just the suspicion that forces are aligning quietly and there will be trouble.

Lying to ourselves is more deeply ingrained than lying to others.

Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints in the snow, I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning’s hush, I am the swift uplifting rush of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry – I am not there; I did not die.

And in case you were wondering, you are like a hurricane to me, your violence is beautiful and your centre sweet. And in case you were wondering, you are everything to me.

Nothing is static, everything is evolving, everything is falling apart.

Heaven knows where I’ll be in six months, maybe you’ll know the solution to life, maybe I’ll be published, maybe you’ll be so happy, maybe I’ll be insane and gripping cigarette butts, maybe you’ll hate silences and pennies, maybe I’ll be living alone.

Started out lonely and hungry, fat, made some moves early, many wires, awkward years, this is not an apology, light came through when least expected, things meant so much more before the drugs kicked in, saw everything that flew in the sky, one day I’ll be there too, unknowingly I lied, got on stage, and there were so many lights, close my eyes, try to remember the feeling of it all. Took that bus straight through heaven and hell, old now, but wrinkles just forming, I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve beat this game.

Move on. It’s just a chapter in the past. But don’t close the book; just turn the page

this makes sense to me / i like words. they are like someone who knows exactly what to do with their hands. it feels so good / it hurts a little. outside there is a pool / i could go swimming / the way a body moves underwater, i want to tell you everything.

linger

tears of rage, of self loathing, of hatred, of anger, of fear.
we should take to love when ready, not when forced.
raped by your hand and your mouth, raped and pillaged of a feeling of safety and hope.
she lives on love street, lingers long on love street.
no energy, can’t keep up, light is fading.
sadness, inexplicable, craving touch. sensuality.
big girls don’t cry, they have stiff upper lips and starched skirts.
we leave, like a harpoon in my heart.
alley ways in the darkness, click of my boots, puddles and my handbag swinging.
leaving you behind, leaving the bottles behind, the hurt, the jazz and the smell of smoke.
kissing you and not looking forward, leaving you and not looking back.
swallows, and music notes, goodbye to a life of running.
you can’t keep running, you’ll only ever meet up with yourself.
chet baker, sounds a lot like billie holiday.
don’t give me that shit.
fuck you.

pure morning

All the books you started reading, all the boys you started seeing, every half completed sentiment that you always meant to say gets stuck inside a memory like a miracle unfinished and you only feel like going back to where there's no place to stay.

Your face is pasty because you've gone and got so wasted, what a surprise.

It's a broken house, bloody handprints on the wall, ghosts out in the hall. That's where mamma lives. I still hear her calling out my name, singing I'm sorry now, I didn't mean to hurt you like I did. I always wanted to make a change. I always offer the worst in me, all of my hate, all my anger, all of my self-loathing. You can't go wrong if you bring love. I'm a broken man, blood on my hands, ghosts out in the hall. Just ignore them all, but I still hear them. I can't hear her, I won't die here. Time to fly, time to fight, time to be a better man.

I woke up with a headache from the night before,
cause sometimes I drink. I spent my night with my
head in a toilet bowl, it's where I like to think.

hands shaking like milk, my thoughts turn to you again – a jealousy over a typewriter. and over your ability to be free, my ability to stay grounded has left me alone again. Robert smith in my head phones as I sit in my car, in the freezing cold, because its the only place I can smoke and type/write at the same time. a desperate desire to not be alone has ultimately backfired. the people I place on a pedestal only to have them fall down around my ears. the ones you least expect, are the ones who give the best advice. its cold, I’m cold, the blood in my viens has curdled again and no one can tip out this sour milk stained by thoughts so decrepit that my heart trembles. this car seat is numb, my ass will fall through it and I will fall away and there will be nothing left but ash. those meant to miss me wont, and the others will. the ones who whisper my name before they sleep and the ones I throw away like used sanitary pads. I’m sorry, more sorry than you could ever imagine. but I will never back down – this brick is slowly drowning, just like a smashing pumpkins song. a stencil for the 90’s. he broke down, I broke down coz I was tired, of lying. ive fought this battle to get sober, now I can’t play the blissful game of ignorance anymore. the guilt, the guilt is consuming. its whole, in its entirety, my fear of everything. my fear is debilitating.

a disgusting anecdote of fear, of novels read under covers, of bukowski and tea and sympathy. of love, of hate, of deep sadness, of delight, of vulnerability. I wilted, you grew – you never knew, you never will. no one knows, except those queens of the night, the ones who wear white. oh I love a little poetry, I know you do. I’m a writer, not a duke – she said, she whispered in my ear. I felt my toes crunch and my heart creep inside my chest, only to spasm and not regain its dignity and composure. its all gone, its disappeared, like alice did, only to emerge corrupted and raped of her innocence. dreadlocks and cobwebs, intertwined, a love that endures all things, or a love of ignorance, of bliss, of a nirvana that only exists in the brain. a clinical orgasm and two blankets, its cold she said, too cold. dreams of a sexual revolution, or a revolution from your bed. it always begins, it never changes, things never grew, I never knew. I stood tall, through it all – perhaps I even did it my way. sitting on my ass, in my car – what to do, where to go from here?

"I hate to be the one to break it to you, but rock and roll can't actually save the world."
"See, I disagree. Walk into any club on the strip tonight, and just look at the kids. Look into their eyes. I mean they're all looking for something to believe in, and I think that music can be the thing to change the world."

I want to share my tin man heart with you – or the scarecrows nonexistent brain – you can be Judy garland and I can dance in the rain.

robert frost is incredible

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair;
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, And I-
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.

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Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

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Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

my sweet prince - ramblings from a back seat.

you smell like leather.

like jean paul, rolled cigarettes, old music sheets and silver.

until I leave the sun behind me, you are there.

you remind me of an old banjo, of Dylan on a rainy afternoon, of good weed.

the kinks and strangers on a train. the Darjeeling limited.

I am a broken knitting needle, not much use yet.

broken tiles and a kingdom up for sale.

nail polish and eyeliner. lashes dark and supple. a waterloo sunset.

searching for a familiar face, some recognition.

corsets, Marlboro reds and dark chocolate. you are these things.

chain-smoking, god-fearing, sinning.

poems written on a Sunday, bourbon drank on a Monday.

boy – I want to be with you, all day and all of the night.

ex-boyfriends, no faith.

underwear mothers don’t want to know about.

here’s wishing you the bluest skies and hoping better comes tomorrow.

it’s really nice to see you smile.

I’m ok.

so you found me. I was hiding, you with your Hemmingway and me with my lost notions of baffling, powerful and cunning delight.

my vulnerability and your cocky self-assuredness. your asshole boundaries and my willingness to chase you around the country side.

you are not here to make me happy. I know I can only do that now. friendships created in dark underground bars.

friendships created for life but relationships that are like the wings of a moth – they fade and die when faced with daylight. my anger and rage, compounded by a self loathing that never dissipates. a problem I want you to fix. but you can’t give me anything but heartache.

I know, doubt. doubt makes me run, a fear of losing control. friends who seemed strong but wilted in the heat of an alcoholic blaze. you are clinging to my brain like the way clothes do after you’ve been skinny dipping.

that made no sense. you’ve done nothing but piss me off. made me feel inadequate in my fears, my naivety and vulnerability. you haven’t made my cunt feel like my heart does, but you promised you would. my scars and my stories of heartache. you with your grandiose ideas of love and being a writer. you have no idea.

You were just a boy on a bed in a room, like a kaleidoscope is a tube full of bits of broken glass. But the way I saw you was pieces refracting the light, shifting into an infinite universe of flowers and rainbows and insects and planets, magical dividing cells, pictures no one else knew.

I smoke another cigarette with
no consequence, and no conclusion.
Only wasting my body heat in the cold,
only wasting my breath on tar and nicotine;
one heavy breath closer to the last.

All your friends and sedatives mean well but make it worse.
Every reassurance just magnifies the doubt.
Better find yourself a place to level out.