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Posted on 2009.11.24 at 21:40
Blackbird Pie
by Myrcenary
Posted on 2009.11.04 at 08:30
and, dear gods
when we've made our
beds of the greenest grasses
we could find after field upon
field of patchy bramble and
rocky terrain between
and, no doubt, lain and lied in
accustomed to the thought
that it's the best of it ---
why do we still forage
through endless desert
assuming the next day
won't yield the same and,
kicking the sand thinking,
'i deserve better'
just making a mirage of
the oasis?
Posted on 2009.11.04 at 06:20
it's no sweet misery this
unbelieving
this peeling back the layers
of the mystery
only to hear
ha!
this.
is all
there is.
this.
is all
there ever is.
unbelieving
this peeling back the layers
of the mystery
only to hear
ha!
this.
is all
there is.
this.
is all
there ever is.
where did you go?
the sun went down
and you weren't there in your usual place
moving with me in the half-light
with your half cup
and your half-smile
and now i wonder
whether you were ever here at all
or if that was just hope
or the devil and i never learned
the difference
but the small talk with the walls
didn't seem quite so wrong
or small
and i wish i had thought to ask
you to stay.
the sun went down
and you weren't there in your usual place
moving with me in the half-light
with your half cup
and your half-smile
and now i wonder
whether you were ever here at all
or if that was just hope
or the devil and i never learned
the difference
but the small talk with the walls
didn't seem quite so wrong
or small
and i wish i had thought to ask
you to stay.
i hate you
for not loving me
i disdain you
because i am not worthy
and i treat you badly
because you do not
treat me worse.
i repel you
since it's easier
i ignore you
because i want more
i push you away
because i can't have it.
i scare you
when you see yourself in me
and i'm cold
to deflect that flame
i'm a stone
in a rocked world.
my usual lavations today
and half-dried,
i stood in front of my mirror crying
and watched tears fall from this face
which can't possibly be mine
after all the time i spend chasing
after all the time i wasted
on things that drain and take away
joy and turn laugh lines into just wrinkles
and beauty marks into just moles
and a day or two of too much sun and
a few more nights of too much booze
it's all there in this face
that cries, God, please don't let me get old
as seconds tick away and
those eyes rebuke me for this angst
which will surely show up round the mouth
so don't pout, and don't frown, and
in the name of Ponce de León
get yourself a tissue -- and blot! don't wipe,
it stretches the fragile skin 'round the eyes
and while we're here
may i remind you
that you don't have to be pretty to sing,
or that wisdom doesn't come with youth, or
that you once were gorgeous and didn't know it
(and we still have the questionable photos to prove it)
beholding has never been your strong point
and beauty has never been your strong suit and
the brain plays, my dear . . . the brain plays.
you can't go back even if you want to,
but after all,
that's just one more day on our face than yesterday
. . . and we still look better than we should.
and half-dried,
i stood in front of my mirror crying
and watched tears fall from this face
which can't possibly be mine
after all the time i spend chasing
after all the time i wasted
on things that drain and take away
joy and turn laugh lines into just wrinkles
and beauty marks into just moles
and a day or two of too much sun and
a few more nights of too much booze
it's all there in this face
that cries, God, please don't let me get old
as seconds tick away and
those eyes rebuke me for this angst
which will surely show up round the mouth
so don't pout, and don't frown, and
in the name of Ponce de León
get yourself a tissue -- and blot! don't wipe,
it stretches the fragile skin 'round the eyes
and while we're here
may i remind you
that you don't have to be pretty to sing,
or that wisdom doesn't come with youth, or
that you once were gorgeous and didn't know it
(and we still have the questionable photos to prove it)
beholding has never been your strong point
and beauty has never been your strong suit and
the brain plays, my dear . . . the brain plays.
you can't go back even if you want to,
but after all,
that's just one more day on our face than yesterday
. . . and we still look better than we should.
Posted on 2009.09.15 at 03:02
he shows up on my doorstep
with the smell of winter on him.
cold and numb and distant,
he seems to have just recalled
where the hearth is.
turning embers, he adds more fuel
and with a few lovely words,
sufficiently warmed,
he leaves again.
with the smell of winter on him.
cold and numb and distant,
he seems to have just recalled
where the hearth is.
turning embers, he adds more fuel
and with a few lovely words,
sufficiently warmed,
he leaves again.
i am not my cunt.
which is not to say i am not
a cunt.
simply, there is more to me
than that part of me
which is the only part of me
worthwhile to you
it seems
and i hate you for that.
i won't try to save you
don't save me
just run away with me
on page after page of
unrestrained strains
of this unnamed thing
which delights
despite the shadow
of solidity and
breathes to spite
the dead spots
in destiny
and brings light
to such black spaces
and softness between
the rocks and hard places
where we wouldn't be ...
if we didn't have to sing.
don't save me
just run away with me
on page after page of
unrestrained strains
of this unnamed thing
which delights
despite the shadow
of solidity and
breathes to spite
the dead spots
in destiny
and brings light
to such black spaces
and softness between
the rocks and hard places
where we wouldn't be ...
if we didn't have to sing.
Posted on 2009.09.06 at 04:27
you ever feel it like a dog
teeth bared
coming at you
teeth in you
you're a rag doll
bled dry
so still
yet it comes back
for more
and finds it?
teeth bared
deep within you
on your last leg
only instinct
on your ninth life
{fuck go gentle!}
with your last claw
put its eye out.
teeth bared
coming at you
teeth in you
you're a rag doll
bled dry
so still
yet it comes back
for more
and finds it?
teeth bared
deep within you
on your last leg
only instinct
on your ninth life
{fuck go gentle!}
with your last claw
put its eye out.
Posted on 2009.08.19 at 23:45
when the colder winds come
again, the feel of your skin
the warmth under the chill
in your own landscape
within the landscape of southern
industrial steel lined with smoke-tipped
siennas and old-blood soaked hues
you, like the stowaway,
flesh past-life-presence
your flannel, faint coffee,
old soap-leather smell
and the scratch of you
the salt of you
the low, thrumming heart of you
drifts the short distance
unquestioned and welcomed
the pauses, restraints,
the clean, guarded posts
the contrarily, passively noting-all codes
you, like the ghost of
the best things remembered
we wait for october, november,
december and things that
cannot be and still are not
possibly,
given the movements of mountains,
and seas with your tidings, my tidings
surviving the summers 'til
colder winds come with
the feel of your skin and
the feel of your will
reaching out, holding in
those calloused hands kept in check
likewise revealing
the dark of you
light of you
the silent-fought war in you
holds the short distance
a close-captioned sequence
the torture of knowing the songs of
the cages, the hard-time arrangements
the lionhearts waiting
to drink of strange hopes which no sun will allow
the strains of our sanctuary,
half-built by now.
- É08.19.09.1135pm
again, the feel of your skin
the warmth under the chill
in your own landscape
within the landscape of southern
industrial steel lined with smoke-tipped
siennas and old-blood soaked hues
you, like the stowaway,
flesh past-life-presence
your flannel, faint coffee,
old soap-leather smell
and the scratch of you
the salt of you
the low, thrumming heart of you
drifts the short distance
unquestioned and welcomed
the pauses, restraints,
the clean, guarded posts
the contrarily, passively noting-all codes
you, like the ghost of
the best things remembered
we wait for october, november,
december and things that
cannot be and still are not
possibly,
given the movements of mountains,
and seas with your tidings, my tidings
surviving the summers 'til
colder winds come with
the feel of your skin and
the feel of your will
reaching out, holding in
those calloused hands kept in check
likewise revealing
the dark of you
light of you
the silent-fought war in you
holds the short distance
a close-captioned sequence
the torture of knowing the songs of
the cages, the hard-time arrangements
the lionhearts waiting
to drink of strange hopes which no sun will allow
the strains of our sanctuary,
half-built by now.
- É08.19.09.1135pm
reaching for a stir of musical melancholy, i come up empty.
i'm listening again and it's still too fast and i think,
i'm still right about no drums making it better.
i'm listening again and it's still too fast and i think,
i'm still right about no drums making it better.
'During the fin de siecle women were sometimes portrayed as weightless and floating, held aloft by invisible forces that freed their feet from the earth and directed their paths...
'Walking was too deliberate an act ... but to float was to surrender, to release your fate to something stronger...To hover above the ground is to admit that you are without will.'
'And a star could very well slice through any earthly obstacle or inflame a field of dry grass and eventually find repose on the ground; sharp, unapproachable and basically intact.'
*quotations from the book Now You See Her by Whitney Otto.
no love lost on that temporary thing. that momentary distraction they get by on while continuing their endless quest for whatever it is they search for, having implied "it" is bigger, better -- while this is smaller, lesser. like a pause at an appointed sherpa stop up the icy mountain, one has neither intentions of taking much more than a breath and a glimpse, nor of leaving any part of him or herself behind. just ashes, holes where the tents were staked in, and apportioned spots of yellow snow.
sometimes i feel like a
paranormal researcher
having caught an EVP
of some spirit reading me
before denying his own
existence upon playback.
7:50pm
paranormal researcher
having caught an EVP
of some spirit reading me
before denying his own
existence upon playback.
7:50pm
all these tests.
the answer sheets determining
if i'm right or wrong or
just not quite right enough.
saving time, i'll say
i'm not perfect for you.
i'm not perfect.
i just make better guesses
than most.
7:15pm
if i'm right or wrong or
just not quite right enough.
saving time, i'll say
i'm not perfect for you.
i'm not perfect.
i just make better guesses
than most.
7:15pm
we held mirrors up to hide our own faces reflecting some
fragment of soul we hold onto the last rope
one frayed and one broke and
so easy to step back
than around or straight through
like we'd otherwise do and
i'll say you abandoned me
you'll say i abandoned you
we'll say there was nothing
and we're so convincing
turning out mirrors to conceal the mammoth
a thing not to see if one doesn't look for it
some prop or some obvious strings like the last rope
we hung on but somehow our necks never broke and
it's still too damn simple to call it a trick
instead of just truce
like we'd usually do
and you'll think i was phony
i'll think you were too, and
we'll forego the instant
connection for distance
our endless reflection
of nothing
in nothing.
600am
i sensed the beginnings of disinterest.
i cannot glamour you from this remove.
so i fade away on the same wind
which held sweetness brief
still unwelcome.
uninvited.
330am
still,
i breathe
while i lie in wait
my face turned toward the wall
i've already heard what's coming
no need to see another one passing by
no need to offend my eyes with
what cannot touch my soul
when they take me
for granted
with the grain
for proverbial rides
to no new heights
when they take me
off their minds
out of circulation
off a list
out of the question
into their personal oblivions
of passing fancies
passing my panties around
(stolen from the laundry)
with further claims
to some infamy untrue
some pain i never felt
but i am despite them
and to spite them
quite
here
still.
i breathe
while i lie in wait
my face turned toward the wall
i've already heard what's coming
no need to see another one passing by
no need to offend my eyes with
what cannot touch my soul
when they take me
for granted
with the grain
for proverbial rides
to no new heights
when they take me
off their minds
out of circulation
off a list
out of the question
into their personal oblivions
of passing fancies
passing my panties around
(stolen from the laundry)
with further claims
to some infamy untrue
some pain i never felt
but i am despite them
and to spite them
quite
here
still.
like a desert weeks after a surprise rain
i no longer miss the feeling
i am as i was and as you see
desolate, silent, empty
and buzzards follow footprints
and i wish them luck in
finding that thing that had
traipsed through the heart
carelessly, indifferently
bringing another mirage
and i hope they find him weak
and scavenge that which i cannot.
550pm
i no longer miss the feeling
i am as i was and as you see
desolate, silent, empty
and buzzards follow footprints
and i wish them luck in
finding that thing that had
traipsed through the heart
carelessly, indifferently
bringing another mirage
and i hope they find him weak
and scavenge that which i cannot.
550pm
occasionally one will send out the dots and dashes relevant to deeper understanding and listen to her heart pound in her ears as frequencies meet and contact is within reach from a series of simple sounds that turn out to be static from a passing commercial cassanova satellite sputtering out his memory drive as he burns up in his own oblivious orbit never noticing the notice posted:
you have been the vacuum.
crumbs of half-interest, reduced trust, cut-rate devotion
remain behind, haphazardly lining the aisles of the stores
of mankind where no sales are final without the hidden fees:
regret, foolishness, waste of time and there seem to be
no returns on decency, always in short supply,
with a surplus on pre-fabricated sentiments,
i will go without before i buy.
- 530pm
not for me,
i think.
that sugar on
the rim of
my bitter
cup of tea.
it's there
and sweet,
i think,
but it's
not meant
for me.
-1005pm
i think.
that sugar on
the rim of
my bitter
cup of tea.
it's there
and sweet,
i think,
but it's
not meant
for me.
-1005pm
i tiptoe around it
i know how things flee
when approached too closely.
if i stood very still and
reached my hand out slowly
head and eyes down, quiet
"i am not a threat"
it might show interest
in contact of my kind
before recalling other hands
which smelled of harm
and deception, meaning
to take it down,
hold it down,
take the life from it.
i know those hands.
so i tiptoe around it
leave it in peace
and, respectfully,
offer nothing.
822pm
i know how things flee
when approached too closely.
if i stood very still and
reached my hand out slowly
head and eyes down, quiet
"i am not a threat"
it might show interest
in contact of my kind
before recalling other hands
which smelled of harm
and deception, meaning
to take it down,
hold it down,
take the life from it.
i know those hands.
so i tiptoe around it
leave it in peace
and, respectfully,
offer nothing.
822pm
Posted on 2008.09.15 at 04:00
all alone.
you hold me --
holding a maelstrom
within
whipping
through silent embraces
me
hiding in my storm cellar
dark,
down
inside twister
touching
down
annihilates the house
i hide my spirit in
all alone.
you hold me --
apocalypse
under my skin, are you
untouched?
wrapped around
desperate fury
while
i'm swept in
and
under
the ruins of me
again.
-2003
you hold me --
holding a maelstrom
within
whipping
through silent embraces
me
hiding in my storm cellar
dark,
down
inside twister
touching
down
annihilates the house
i hide my spirit in
all alone.
you hold me --
apocalypse
under my skin, are you
untouched?
wrapped around
desperate fury
while
i'm swept in
and
under
the ruins of me
again.
-2003
i don't have any money
and i'm ugly
and really unlucky
so why can't
i just get gravy
on my chicken
i paid ten bucks
i don't have
for this entrée, and
it's never right
you always
fuck me out of
my one good
meal a year
damn you
and i'm ugly
and really unlucky
so why can't
i just get gravy
on my chicken
i paid ten bucks
i don't have
for this entrée, and
it's never right
you always
fuck me out of
my one good
meal a year
damn you
the too-clean tablecloth
s t r e t c h e s
between me and
the sea of people
who have come to eat
their chewing
like Liliputian marching in
my dieting ears
i long for persimmons and a
pair of jeans for
cold knees
this dress doesn't sit well alone.
- 2004
trusting
in the idea
that someone might
speak my language
and actually dare
to be honoured
desired
regal
and fitting
is my achilles' heel.
-850pm
i spend years with
my ear
to the ground
in the air
listening for
things i rarely hear
signals from otherspace
"are you out there?"
"are you with me?"
"am i deaf?"
- 845pm
i'm cool
like you
an autonomous thing
i stay frosty and clean
and deal with it
damper and hide
a furnace inside
you seem to know
how to ignite.
i'm smooth
like you
they won't see a twitch
as my thoughts race like
ants 'round their
stepped-on mound
always building
back up that which
always comes down.
i'm full
like you
having consumed the
usual, settled-for gruel
i'm fed up
there's no room...
but i'm starved
for whatever it is
that you do.
1am
(possibly...)
this, too, shall pass
and i will mourn the loss
of words
words turned to someone
who makes more sense to
your sensibilities.
she may not
crave, save, and venerate
every phrase.
without shame
i assume and presume to
mean something.
- 1130pm
this, too, shall pass
and i will mourn the loss
of words
words turned to someone
who makes more sense to
your sensibilities.
she may not
crave, save, and venerate
every phrase.
without shame
i assume and presume to
mean something.
- 1130pm
do you know
i can
write a song
without
sleep
and i can
dance enough
to keep up
i can
make a mean
chili and
a lot of other things
like little boxes
for friends
i stow magics in
i know
some kenpo
and spanish
i can sing ave maria
in latin
and i'm not
even catholic
i can drink
my coffee black
or honeyed
or with sugar and
cream
i don't care
if the
bean is sweet
and i smell
it brewing
ten houses
away
somedays
i can
hardly stand to sit
i have fits of
busyness and
sometimes i
fight like a man
silent and
patient and
cruel
i've been told
by some folks
i can
swim upstream
make it look easy
and then
take ten
roll my own
smoke
and look
different every
time you
look my way
i can
show you a spot
in my scheme
and if you
follow
i'll lead or
i can watch
your back if you
can't do that
i can
be anything
which is required
of me
but no one cares
unless
i do all these things
naked.
- 1:40am
if wishes were horses, we'd be halfway to Laredo by now. - 1:10am
everyone is out to "have a good time" and
not just to have. a. good. time.
i want wine without
fingers on my spine as if they ease the tension.
that shudder is my revulsion.
- 2:15am
cherries
black cherries which
taste of perfume and pits
i puke like Felicia in
"Witches of Eastwick"
what a mess
life.
- 12:50am
i prefer the woods to myself.
the boys assume i take them there to make out.
the girls, to do some ritual magic.
but there is no ritual to my magic and
i'm trying to breathe.
- 1:05am
i will disappear to a place where i don't have to think in shouts.
here, between the airports, expressways, and industry
the brown noise is killing me.
i am a dryad in plastic bag in a vacuum in a landfill.
white noise lulls into detached oblivion.
i heart my computer, don't get me wrong,
but i long for the comfort of a weeping willow
and a notebook ... college-ruled, blue pen.
and the knowledge that nothing on two feet
will sneak up on me.
- 1:35am
from slothful silences to
the assaults with arsenals of movie sounds
there is no ground between and screams seem
the only logical response
but i bring blood to my tongue with repression of
words that would only be wasted on ears which
never hear me
a young painting, still mostly faded from
the weathering one wears when she is buried behind
blank basement walls, tears in the canvas from the
wandering hands
seeking treasures inside, hidden with some intention of
better things, better days, a better man who'll lay eyes
on and see
if i were a starving whore, perhaps, i'd be happy
with these touches which render me anonymous i could be
anyone at anytime, so long as i am open and the least i can
do is pretend
i am not sad, i am loved, not trapped, and happy
to be of service with a smile ... and they wonder why
i do not kiss
i do not tell.
- 4:15am
wish you could have seen me before the shine wore
off from my past life
before i lost myself off track and nowhere to stow all this baggage...
there was this little dance i had on
it was the colour of thanksgiving and i would shake my feathers
and dare them to douse my bonfire with their small cups of regret...
i hadn't any yet.
- 4:35am
i remember that.
when they said, "take only what will fit in one bag,"
and i chose carefully.
if you were to come today and say the same
i would jump up and run for my small one
how i do love to carry-on.
if you were to come for me today, i'd jump
before recalling in shame the impossible
there's. just. too. much.
i want to go without thought, without measure, but
the trunks are heavy and need care and
my hope chest is hopeless.
(and for all that i am, i'm just not sure i'm worth the ticket or the trouble).
i remember that.
when they said, "take only what will fit in one bag,"
and i chose carefully.
- 5:00am
they don't want the details...
unless it's on their own haute couture profile spaces
places with ego-centric orbits
where the size and weight of the dumps they take matter
even only so much to their own selves.
the swivelnecks for wrecks survey the damage as
the blue tooth blinks on ... something about the latest blackberry
patches of interruptions as ambulances "butt in"
with coordinates to try and save a life
while simpletons bitch and honk and sip starbucks.
and i want the backstory and the afterwords and
to send flowers as i 'Godspeed' the bus and driver
and once again pray for a decrease in suffering if
just. for. one. person. just. for. one. day. and i fight
the urge to flip the bird to the asshole behind me who is still honking.
make the show pretty, and dazzle them, because
they don't give a damn who cleans up the confetti
or that three hours after they've stumbled home, the band stays
still rolling cords, hauling amps, and waiting for the manager to
quit sexually harassing the singer and and just hand over the check already.
no excuses. we're all the same here and must have the
same documents, and the same answers, the same attitude, and
the same service provider provided you are entitled to service at all,
and that means self-service and bad service and forget service with a smile
or service with a brain, we're all the same and therefore there are no details to consider.
biographies are only written for pop stars now and only with pictures and it
doesn't matter where anyone else came from or how they came up or what they came
through or even what they do, and legacies are out like cutting your own xmas tree
because those things have details, and we live in a dullocracy where the soylent green
is causing mad-man disease which feeds the zombie fad to just buy the story in flashing capsules.
an ounce of NEW! REFORMULATED! EXCLUSIVE! CONCENTRATED! and FDA APPROVED!!!
it must be good for you and the half-nude wholly-airbrushed girl-not-next-door sells it well
so hell, let's buy it let's buy it let's buy it let's buy it all to spite those savages in their straw
huts thinking three-day dances are fun and how dare they still trade in chickens when the
Colonel has the secret recipe, YUM! doesn't even respond to customer complaints.
an extra sneeze and sniffle every summer doesn't merit a raised eyebrow at all the extra planes
at all the progress, all the industry, and they have a 'scrip for everything anyway
to take your house if not your pain away, and the rich get richer while the sick get sicker...
you're crazy if you say it, but, bygod, if they aren't gathering statistics while the
plebes stand by and make way and beat feet to the waiting rooms to mull the walls, but not the...pieces.
pieces are wholes now, and portions are cut, and what's left is right, and, *grin*, "it's not even wrong."
and i'm still going to wonder what the actor really thinks of when he's crying, and not just the scene.
and i'm going to continue to over-tip and over-thank and over-wait and over-turn un-civilities
because people have bad hair days and sick kids and deaths in the family and phobias and hard jobs
and unique thought processes and histories, and, you bet,
i care about the details.
from my Space
from my Place
somewhere between
Above and Beyond
i silently condemn you
to patiently await your punishment,
yet not really see it coming
since you believe,
you all believe,
i am as aimless and
act-less as others
i am not.
~