Archive for January, 2012

(Fear) or Watershed Moments

Diving right in. . . 

The moments when everything changes, when things are irrevocably new and returning to the way things were is an impossibility, that is what I fear most.

I dread the realization that everything I knew is no longer valid, and my world is no longer what it once was. . .

More than any creepy crawly, than movement in the dark, than heights great, or vivid dreams of the walking dead, watershed moments fill me with a quiet terror and a disquieting sense of loss.

Maybe it is childish, immature (a fear of change lingering from adolescence), but it travels with me always.

It isn’t as if I am unable to function, to cope.  I oft times am able to wade crises with something like grace.  It’s the luxury of worry that trips me up, not the moments themselves.

The knowledge of how very fragile things can be is a difficult concept for me to leave be.  In a twisted way it is thrilling, to feel as if you are always walking next to a precipice.  It makes one feel alive, the adrenaline flowing through veins.  One cannot live like that always however, as one becomes frayed and worn with too much worry.

So I clutch depserately to the NOW as those drowning will clung to that which floats, and I covet those moments when I can pretend I reside immutable, amarthine and safe.

I wrap myself in a cloak of deliberate amnesia against the things I cannot control and hold my breath; my spirit sending up silent pleas to the universe to please, please, leave me at peace for just little longer.

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A taste for the taste

This is one of many attempts to write some lyrics for a friend of mine.  For some reason it’s really been a bear.  This is the closest I’ve come to something I can work with.  It’s rather heavy for a song, so I’m currently working on paring it down.  Comments/ advice would be appreciated.  (I’ve really very little experience with lyric format.)
___________________
A taste for the taste
I belong in these woods
Fog-ridden and wan,
Lost amidst the limbs of night come and gone.
So alone the trees sway, creaking
But not speaking, not speaking to me.
No, It’s the liquid that burns,
Turns heads and loosens tongues,
Cleaves skin to skin
Abhors the sun above.
A taste for the taste,
a desire the craving that won’t fade,
Walking with the dark side of me.
So often this situation commences
with unassuming innocent intents
but it takes a turn, slip-shod and fuzzy,
while busy saying no regrets.
My breath a plume of narcotic stale cigarettes
I’m watching the world dance drunken minuets.

I can’t remember what I ingested but
I find my mind infested
with half-formed conversations,
Cloying sweet temptations,
consummated with indolent gyrations.

Sometimes there’s blood,
or a fire, or a flood-
A deluge of drink to wallow in.
To drown, forget and flounder,
All those nights I can’t remember
Bordered by a stark wood and choppy sea,
Kept in company with the dark side of me

Dancing through the dusk, stumbling through the dawn
These woods I travel through and beyond
I leave you amidst the remnants of revelry
On lips a taste not so easy to forget
The breath on my cheek a burning caress.

In these woods I belong,
Fuzzy-headed, fog-ridden and wan
Lost amidst the limbs of night come and gone.
So alone these trees sway, creaking
But not speaking, not speaking to me.
No, It’s the liquid that burns,
Turns heads and loosens tongues,
Cleaves skin to skin
Abhors the sun above.
A taste for the taste,
a desire the craving that won’t fade.

I’m left walking with the dark side of me.

Good company

I don’t want to call you mine

I just want to spend a little time

With you,

Oh with you.

We can find something to amuse ourselves

If only for a spell.

‘Cause I’m not talking forever here,

(No strings waiting to ensnare)

Just a little attention to spare,

So darling don’t you fear.

I don’t want anything more than your company

On occasion to keep me from getting lonely.

A little warmth for the bones in winter,

A little thrill to keep me from growing too bitter

I don’t need you baby,

Nor you me,

But gee, you make such great company.

I don’t want to call you mine

I just want to spend a little time

With you,

Oh with you.

I don’t want anything more than to have you with me

On occasion to remind me how comfy living can be.

A little tenderness for us to conjure,

A little surrender to help me see clearer.

We can find a way to bemuse ourselves

If only for a spell.

Since I’m not talking forever here,

There are no strings waiting to ensnare.

I just want a little attention to spare,

So relax my darling, don’t you fear.

I don’t want to call you mine

I just want to spend a little time

With you,

Oh with you.

I don’t need you baby,

Nor you me,

But gee, you make such great company.

Goodness me

Mushrooms, garlic, pepper and cream. It lingers on the breath and dances on the tongue, all sweet and savory.  A guilty little pleasure for me to enjoy. The soft clicking of teeth, the gentle blushing of cheeks, a shy grin to follow.  So rich, and in it I wallow.  Worth every moment spent, and every daydream of its taste on my lips.

Delicious.

 

Birthday Wishes

 December 19, 2011 

I keep looking towards the future, and I keep not seeing myself in it.  I am not sure where I ought to fit into this cacophony.  Constantly befuddled, very little seems to make sense to me; I start to wonder if I am the one with the faulty logic.  My goals are small, my desires modest and manageable, yet somehow I feel as if they do not suffice.  As if they will not propel me forward and I will always be left behind to cough on the dust raised by the more fleet.  I struggle, crippled by anxieties and hobbled by not bearing with me an overinflated idea of my own importance.  I’m not insulated by the archaic notion that there is a purpose to this experiment, that my mistakes will be forgiven, that there is anything beyond life.  I am not comforted with the support of a community.  I keep myself separate, afraid others will sense these things and turn on me like a pack of dogs driving away the ill.  We as a species do not embrace difference. We fear it, just as I fear the mythos those around me seem to labor under.  It stifles me, raises the hair on the back of my neck, forces me to my books, daydreams, and cheap titillations. It drives me to distraction, to compulsory actions. Constantly I wait for a shoe to drop, the floor to fall away below my feet, and I tremble.  There is no safety net waiting for me and mine and I can’t pretend otherwise.  So, I do my best to keep myself occupied, amused, satisfied in body if not in mind. And all the while I wonder how long it can last.  Another twenty-five years?  Another twenty-five years of alienation with only a deep appreciation of irony, sarcasm, and humor to take the sting away? Another twenty-five years of dubious successes and little disappointments, only to have all fall apart in middle age, just as my parents? If I’ve one birthday wish this year, let it be that I find some lasting comfort.  And If I’m not to be comfortable, at least let me find some purpose.

Let me get over myself, before myself gets one over on me.

lovely day to be sure

Dec 8, 2008

Going out for a drink because it’s so damn nice out for a December day. You got off work too early again. Figure, what the hell. Who needs these fancy things money can buy? You pay for your drafty rooms, sweep the scuffed floor with a cheap broom, eat simple food made in your tiny kitchen, and you’re mostly content. There are things more important than an extra nine dollars everyday. . . sure. And after these hours with people you would never spend ten minutes with you are so threadbare, you need a reward. Pants are changed into a second-hand skirt that is falling apart at the seams, the sauce-splattered shoes with holes are changed out for two year old boots. Pull on a nice black sweater, this was owned once before as well, but you sure can’t tell. Walking outside with the sun in your eyes, graffiti on the walls and leaves crumbling in the gutters, you try to keep your heels from getting caught in the cracks of the brick-worked streets. This a just a life you live, three blocks away from your childhood home, thinking your thoughts and reading your stories between lying in bed with someone you love and cooking for strangers. So you deserve a nice cool glass of amber liquid to celebrate what is probably the last nice day before the robins come back. A short drive. You squeeze your lemon and watch the tangy acid seep it’s way down the glass. The place is full of people you will never get to know. So many hands you will never hold, lips that will never be kissed, beards and glasses and toes so foreign. I can’t help but create narcissistic monologues for these people, a poor excuse, but an excuse nonetheless. This is no respite. You got to watch the sun set and the night stealthily caress the asphalt, but there is just so much left that you will never experience. You wish for a good book, or a thoughtful tale. Something with, not a moral, but some sort of lesson, something that will make sense of the dreariness of everyday disappointments. But you know that it will all be okay, it always turns out that way. Even the worst of things fade into a tasteless monotony, and this is not bad. Uncomfortable most of the time, yes, but you have your lonely celebrations and sweet caresses to look forward to. You have your cigarettes and your beer, your soft bed and bound sheets, you have food and love and life and health. Every moment may not be a dream, but every moment is yours, no matter where you are stuck. At least these are the words to repeat when you stare about yourself, with these eyes in your head that you can only see in a mirror. A second glass drained, and my bladder is feeling strained.

Lovely day to be sure, with wind in my hair and snow in the forecast.

unintentional poetry

as of now this is how it is

singing softly sad songs of nonsense,

cant stop the incessant movement of lips.

hoping that somehow i will find

the words that will ease my wandering mind.

cant go outside anymore tonight,

im tired of darkness and missing moonlight.

i hope you are drinking and will rest quite soon.

i hope you are happy in a crowded room.

as for me i am smoking butts in broken ashtrays,

slowly breathing my life away.

so what do i have to regret

when it’s what i do to forget.

there is no poetry here that will compare,

nothing but pursuits to replace, manipulate, ensnare,

nothing but the shaking-hand movements of misplaced thread,

nothing but the self-centered monologues flitting about the head.