N-I

sustain

2011-12-05T22:36:00.003-05:00

a last rushing sound, broken and glued together

the glass i saw you on the other side of

yet, more sediment scraped from its surface

i sing in pain

you sing in laughter.

a gentle hope drifts deeper

than pressing rush of sorrow

you wake me, you wake me early.

I am not ready, I am not ready,

go on without me.

how can i go on with these question,

they bury behind my eyes

they drag my forehead down

until i am crushed against the ground.

broken note fell into my lap

like a wounded bird with a bandaged wing

I sing, I sing, I sing,

for I do not know what else to do,

and you are singing over me.

the goodness of God will break my heart

2011-06-01T09:30:00.003-04:00

sometimes learning is a constant journey of denial and unlearning. i have to admit i know nothing, i can do nothing, to know that absolute anything. (except the uneasily swallowed truth: god is good. god is good. god is good, and i am nothing without his goodness)

sometimes loving is a painful path of admitting defeat and letting go. the more i try to control a relationship, even from a distance, the more i lose the vitality of love and uniqueness. the more i tell god that he is not sovereign over my life, the more i take my loves into my own hands, and so "love" out of a twisted, selfish human nature.

and it is unspeakably hard to live for something that seems so far away and unreal. That's why I need His spirit, to make me see the small things for what they are, not as unimportant, but as pointing to Him, just as much as the big things.

loss

2011-03-19T17:22:00.003-04:00

my will to move: decapitated. too few breaths away from your side, i see myself ascendent, but where i have gone, no one can follow.

Dead Letters

2011-02-25T17:06:00.002-05:00

dear world (namely andrew/avery/rene)

when I die you will open up the little chest on the top of my shelf and you will dust off the letters i should have sent to you. should have, but didn't, i grew too ashamed of my rambling and running-ons and too afraid of people being dead by the time i actually sent it, so what was the point? i'm such a nihilist.

lost long

2010-09-29T01:01:00.002-04:00

I am full up with half-missing,

half-remissal.

I bow with a load inside of me, and

tremble like a tree

under the clench of all four winds.

Where can I place you,

a memory, to not forget you,

On a wooden shelf amongst

a battery of returning anchors;

to weigh down my oft-heavy heart, and

not to lift my eyes from my oft-whelming plight.

I could find you in a morning of plank-thick night,

but leave you for another

when the air is clear as midnight.

life, insidious.

2010-05-03T06:11:00.002-04:00

if I listen, I hear your unknowing, gently lapping breathing in the night. you shatter the winds with your sharp scream. my mind careens from bedside to bedside, finding you, nowhere. what is this mind-hardening, bone-bending sorrow? I stammer my name in place of yours- the sound of human voices is the click-clack of machinery, taking my head in hands.

my breath burns my lungs as I lay, and my limbs tremble at the weight of the atmosphere. the sun rises in glass and blue-hinge. The mouth swallows whole, and I filter like seawater through whalebone. My uselessness is a thing detestable.

So today I may die again. I am a thing frail and awash with white-ness.

2009-10-01T23:51:00.003-04:00

sometimes, I dislike my teacher and think of switching to the blunt, Eastern-European one. Other times i like him so much i think i'll spend the next ten years in this town.

tonight i was sitting in orchestra during a tacit and thought to myself, "classical music is the most BORING thing ever!!". I didn't even correct terminology, for we were playing Dvorak. and besides. he is not particularly boring, but that moment was screaming for Luis

on bad days I think I have a right to miserablities. not smiling. looking at my feet. what is a bad idea is to disacknowledge them. it would actually make me happier if i just accepted these things as part of life and not feel guilt every time i am not "there for someone else".

at the same time i like to rejoice when others rejoice and mourn when they mourn. there is all sorts of reasons to be self-sacrificing, but sometimes it is not in my ability.

i think instead of saying "i have no time" i will say "God, please make my time". i will put God first in all things, and the rest will follow.

frail

2009-08-14T10:00:00.003-04:00

It is so much easier to say "your will be done" when you are young and have no pressing bills or debts outstanding. It is so much easier to say it when you are in the same place as you have always been, and that place is safe and secure and home. It is so much easier to say it when you have no intention of sacrificing your will for His. When it means something completely unsure and unpredicted. It is hardest to say when you saw a road that called itself God's will, and there would be nothing morally wrong with it, but it just.. wasn't, and never was, God's path for you.I long fear that someone will have to change their entire person and jump into a pool of all things uncomfortable when their life is under God's control. I am what I am. Do not try and change that. I grow so tired of excuses.

And that is the predicament- but I am no great speaker, but I cannot lead, but I cannot be sacrificed quietly for Your name, I cannot live alone, I cannot give up a friend- - baggage, baggage, baggage, like Abraham's father dragged half-way around Mesopotamia.

' If I was not so weak, if I was not so cold, If I was not so scared of being broken, and growing old, I would be frail. '

attempt to pull up my analysis socks.

2009-08-11T14:53:00.002-04:00

I am listening to Mahler. He always makes me feel confused-- almost like a Mozart, as if I am stuck between emotions, tumultuous and over-high, enjoyed. Why does a man with so much sorrow write such happy sounding music?

The retrospective parts are pretentious. Cellos wail as if romanticizing themselves.

Ahh, but the bassoons are having a time of it, they seem to fit with this forced-archaic sound of Mahler's. What I like is the sleigh-bells, the eastern european sounding theme in minor which, following a four note so la ti do hoovvveeerrsss... then drops into a major part. Mahler is too confusing to follow! This is post-romantic avant-garde!

(failure)

To do today

2009-08-10T10:52:00.002-04:00

mow the lawn, listen to good music, get rained on.

finish cake.

finish chairs.

start dress.

practice violin.

pine for nieces and nephews.

go to library.

breathe!

ready set go

2009-08-09T03:36:00.002-04:00

I am sitting outside ... 3:36 AM, misting rain; the sky a dark red like the colour of a feverish dream.

Midnight: glasses high and your whappish form bent over a piece of paper in the dark. Paper gone: just you in the bedroom with your shoulders back, feeling watched and felt all over, like a child's hat in a crowd. Sweat starts behind your ear and labours slowly down the back of your neck. From outside, children's noises clank against the window frame and spin inside drunken and staring. The hot Tennessee night rings on. You are the form of a tree, spindling and bending , your head all with worries and higher things. I dispatch a beacon of thoughts spelling disaster upon our heads, we fall down into a wall of grass and tie our hands together with flax. Your eyes are like buckwheat in the falling moon. I am safe in many arms.

thrilled to my senses

2009-06-17T08:13:00.002-04:00

dear jesus christ

i woke up today and greeted you like i do on all days (it is the split in a second "these days", the mysterious word-phrase for those fallen from grace)

all of age seems like an exercise in losing senses. "remember when" i could feel a tingle of being alive, in realizing i was made, i was breathing, i was a gift.. there it is, right there. but faint and more like a shiver, as if my nerves are not used to responding to such expressions of wonderment. and "remember when"

what is sometimes high-frequency suffering about being musician

2009-06-14T15:12:00.003-04:00

I feel as if I should know and recognize all sounds straight-away. This is what I do, this is what I payed to get educated in. It's why I sit, coiled and high-strung, my pencil trembling, during dictations. Why do I have to think about some things so hard before I understand what they are? Why is there so much harmonically and rhythmically that I can't take down in a matter of second, and shouldn't I understand what I hear?

Also, why does something so intellectual also have to be so physical? It's terrible when it feels like your instrument doesn't fit in your body anymore, or your limbs and lungs are crushing the instrument and no sound comes out. It's a terrible dream, that's what. And at least a little dreary.

On that note, to hell with it. I'm going to convince people to watch a movie.

it, this

2009-05-04T23:49:00.004-04:00

I am dismayed these days. I am also experiencing more joy and love than I have in dark ages.

I am going back to work tomorrow, and so this calls for a celebration. I realize that I both love and despise working. I love the people. I despise the people. I am hopelessly flawed.

But You, Christ, You saw a way to love all people, and to serve them in far greater ways than I have ever attempted. I do not understand you capacity to love. What am I but a numb boardwalk; people move on, it seems. I stay the same.

You have placed in me that capacity to love all people. The people who betray me without thinking. The people who scoff at my Lord. At work it is much smaller, but these things get blown out of proportion. How long, Lord, until I am made perfect?

Father, you see the deepest parts of me. Do not let me remain in this way.

2009-01-10T18:58:00.002-05:00

i utterly absolutely despise schooling right now. i could die. i can't focus. it keeps haunting me and what good is a perfect mark? i should walk. it's freezing cold and i should walk. i want to leave. i want to go somewhere warm where water moves instead of building up bricks around you. why? the cold is beautiful. sometimes it is so so ugly. the heat is beautiful. and sometimes it has a hideousness about it. no matter what i eat, i still feel hungry. no matter how i focus i can't perform. no matter how much i think or write i always end up in this same chair on the glass floor.

lost words

2008-12-25T21:11:00.002-05:00

what instincts that men and women cannot adapt?

the woman with the frame-work child

spitting at the feet of passengers

remember when we had principles,

like red and yellow air balloons

rippling and filling the sky

well we were green

bamboo sprouts upside down

drip, feed, water.

i had drunk my fill,

i had had the water of all the rivers

the lakes, the streams.

and then, where are you now,

when the body ruptures

and the streams are split over the earth.

mother, mother stirs the ground.

2008-12-09T21:41:00.001-05:00

after my walk with Sam through the city, this came to mind:

road chalk water and powdery caffeine on my lips,

he dressed up to leave.

I want to create two-liners for all my friends over Christmas break.

to you, my beloved

2008-11-21T22:31:00.003-05:00

i need to do something with myself

do something that i do not understand

when your scent comes over like a lost bird

over the pages which shrivel in my fingers

at the beauty of small.

my hands are tired of tied knots

and scratching depths out of tiny crevices

when i hear a song of you,

will it set my feet to singing,

and my lips to dancing?

with this crucible in my clutches,

what methods will i devise?

i'll build a bridge to castlebride

and watch you span it with your fingertips

my tower will be a tipping paper-roll

your wallpaper-steady hands will make it stand

i shall dig a whole in the sky

and bathe in the vinegar of your commands

after which,

when i wrap my birdlike body

in your giant's hands,

i still know you more than any man.

100-mile laurier week

2008-09-30T22:36:00.003-04:00

where we eat as much fresh ontario produce. i have a butternut squash sitting on my windowsill, and I wanted to ask the Market people, "doest any of thee knowest how to cleavest yon squash?" but no, that is a question to ask Laurier Medieval Student's society... or the lecture this friday on Medieval cuisine.

Anyways, I am mostly cheating, because I still am eating meat from ... probably a few thousand miles away, but I can waste Hanson's food! But I try to get local produce whenever it's in season. See? aren't I perfect? Hm.

I don't know if I'll be able to sleep tonight because tomorrow morning I get to try my organic cereal mix which has about 7 grains. 7 different grains. I was not hyperbolizing.

I think I like a violist but I don't. I've not liked lots of people here.

And this cereal will be divine, I have decided, even though it smells and tastes like dirt.

"Dirt? Really?? Must be organic!"

but i definitely feel lost in this city, despite all the people i know, and all the things there are to do. there are too many things.

hm

2008-09-28T19:20:00.002-04:00

beethoven isn't such an ass. of course, i haven't picked up the symphony since.

i miss home already. i wasn't expecting it to be such a heaven of autumn and haven of wetness, where summer could close it's eyes and sleep sweet at last. that's why heaven created this time of year, which while i admit i don't subscribe to a favourite season, seems to make my skin jump with excitement, more than any other.

i miss the red-and-green christmas coloured leaves and the spiced apple candle.

it's like the year is cut into two halves: spices and flowers.

rage

2008-09-27T18:02:00.001-04:00

i don't want to learn

i don't want to be challenged.

Beethoven was an ASS. He and his 8th symphony can go straight to hell.

fear of the rack

2008-09-24T23:38:00.002-04:00

I have absorbed some condensedly-absurd facts in this past week. Almost demonically-absurd. Considering the topic: witch-craft: that's not surprising. There is constant battle being waged on this torn-up ground and one side is near-sighted: mercenaries are doing us unbelievable damage.

And that's just it: do they realize the cost of forsaking belief?

I almost wish I could say I were intimately acquainted with it, so I could be more repulsed at the mention of it.

Why don't they believe in demons?

Why do they want to think WE don't believe in demons?

At a place like this, where people are eating and drinking stale thoughts and stale ideas, Satan has a field day. And in a place like this, where people are eating and drinking new thoughts- to them- and maybe drawing closer to the ever-real God, Satan can lose a foothold.

No: I haven't argued my faith in class.

No: I haven't shared that I am a follower of Christ, with the vast majority of people I've met.

I've been generally perfect; not swearing, not being selfish, washing my roommates dishes, not judging my roommates for their lifestyle, not judging in general and being incredibly open, by all appearances.

Is this healthy for your cause, My Christ? Is this what you had in mind, that we wouldn't stand against the tide of culture, but meekly fit in, like a like a pushpin in a sea of thumbtacks?

I am not content with this. My soul is virulent at the concept, but at the practice, I let it slide. I should watch carefully or I could let my faith slide as well.

If one day it isn't so easy to be a disciple of the Beloved Son, it's going to be a lot harder to act. When we do act, then the others will know. God, I don't know how to act. I pray. I pray.

no sah, not a bit

2008-09-22T10:44:00.003-04:00

i don't have time to write real posts, or rather, i would have more time if i wasn't doing social networking on facebook. see, tala? see what the result of facebooking is??

Ok, can I just mildly intone/bemoan that there are NO amazing males on campus. No, the ones that would be amazing suddenly aren't because they may be involved with amazing stuff, but they sure as heck aren't breathtaking and then you realize, "that stuff wasn't that amazing.". I don't want the guy, but I just want to see ONE guy... ONE guy who is perfect. ... ok. so. you know what i mean.

I took some notes on George Crumb's Music for a Summer Evening that I got so frustrated with trying to interpret, a whole page of my notes came out like this:

NEER NEER NEER NEER

sounds like an old fire-trolly with all it's bells and whistles out

csssszzzzzhhh

bzzzhzhhhhhhh

CRASH CRASH CRASH CRASH

CRAFDSLSDNSLGKNSLKNSDDSLKNLKSFCRASH!

CHSSSSSSSSS!!!

bzzz!!

rummmmmmmmbllllleee..

kkkzzzzthoooooooorrrr..

kkkzzzthooooooorrr...

kkkktttthhuuuummmmm...

you get the idea.

ticket mania

2008-09-19T08:01:00.004-04:00

i realized: i am officially a music student. no more waffling. no more, 'I'll learn that...one day.' what was I before? ... probably just a musician enjoying herself. Can I still enjoy myself? Yes... "yes, technically, yes..."

but i'm not here to rapidly alter myself, and the conglomeration of all my courses isn't going to stew and result into some creative inspiration that takes over. Permanently! You're either born with it or it comes subtly. And I say born with it because there is always those creative genius people who vaguely resemble Mozartian fame.

I shall pray every day that my life will be filled with game.s

Even when I have dreams about Louise Brooks and her German lover dancing blissfully on a deserted pier by the city docks all lit with the swinging moon, and piano dolce plays silent-film style in the background-- she falls in and drowns out of sheer whim of misery. I certainly know where she's coming from, all this living with very little loving makes for... just whims of misery.

I have decided to be happy as a music student. It doesn't matter what I'm taking anyways. It doesn't matter if I only last 2.5 years or 7... as I am leaning towards both at the same, it seems.

And why do all my colleagues in 2nd and 3rd year seem generally depressed about what they're doing? It doesn't take very long to catch the same apathetic fever. I want to find joy in whatever I'm doing, even if I'm here to do an entire degree on "Evil and it's Symbols"... you could probably not get away with that anyway, there's only one class in the entire course-load with that prescription. It doesn't matter so much about me, anyways, I think it matters so much more about You.

I'm not wanting to be self-righteous, but I do hope I don't sink the same way they do, and I hope they can rise up out of it in Christ.

PS. our Kitchener-Waterloo orchestra is doing a Canadian premier of a Johnny Greenwood piece, Popcorn Superhet Receiver, and the tickets are 20 dollars for a starving student who can't afford to buy new underclothes. Maybe I could stand outside the door with my ear to the ground.

the idealific church

2008-09-07T13:01:00.005-04:00

I went to a church today where the pastor didn't even open up the Bible to make a two-line quote. He decided, instead, to "paraphrase". I don't mean they spoke the passage from memory or off of a power point or printer paper, there -was- no passage. This disturbing fact left me critical of what little teaching there was. (Not little as in short, but little as in diminuitive in thinking). I haven't been to a lot of churches where I disagree entirely with their teaching, and I don't want to look at my works as if they were perfect and their works, utterly disgusting, merely because of my Body-of-Christ-idealism. On the other hand, I don't think it's idealism, because idealism is a place in the mind, and no one has ever reached idealism (else it would not be ideal, it would be ...iReal). It does serve as a put-down, though, and I've used it on myself quite frequently when coming down hard on my church body. Then again, it sure is a good way to stop the church from striving towards perfection in Christ , if they are told countless times that their Christ is just an extension of idealism.
Perhaps this church doesn't teach like that every Sunday. And no church is ever perfect, but I think that at the very least, I should like my church to teach me and guide me and council me and pray for me. These are all recommendations made in the church. I also feel a need to love fellow Christians and live in community with them, not just for my own gain either, I want to pray for them and council them when the time comes. I want to be there for my friends at this church, but I am pretty desperately sure that kind of church is not my ideal, and not Christ's either. No church IS Christ's ideal, but I feel called to stand for certain aspects over others, and one of them would be teaching from Christ's word, which before hither I had thought was a done deal, except in esoteric churches... hm. I think I am done here.

throw it down

2008-08-28T22:43:00.003-04:00

today i was given push-pencils with a lifetime warranty. no papers. how and where do i go for a lifetime warranty on this push pencil? is mito. I just felt like... typing that.

and here the countdown begins. countdown to when i throw the dirt and soil into the pot of wonderment and think to myself, "i do not know! i do not!" but it will turn out; one hopes it does, and does not turn in. That is not generally considered a good growth.

but maybe i will stop saying things that i am not prepared to explain? And maybe not. Maybe I will listen to things and ask that they be explained.

tease

2008-08-23T10:20:00.005-04:00

in the language of invertibre

chemical thinkers often sift their thoughts

past in ineffable motion

in the seat of a whirling; twisting ocean

thoughts sent out to an inedible space

space; odiferous poisons imbibed

by the spade

and loose our minds asymmetrical lace

woven through as fingers lack-grace

chemical children, chemical children

brought about by lengths of legs and

dangerous to brothers and kind-red

wishing they were children

with chemical minds

misc.

2008-08-21T10:06:00.003-04:00

it's so frustrating when you're a spectator in your own game

and you can't do a thing.

everything you do could push someone over,

god forbid. and you are were a bad investment

if all you did was fall and simper.

and place your hands under your

thighs rigid and instrumental. if you don't splinter..

if you don't unwedge then i'll take your

hands like a sledgehammer and nail them to your sides.

xie xiu

2008-08-17T08:44:00.002-04:00

i lied.

i didn't catch the cholera.

she did.

we simply swapped beds.

-and yet, farthest father-i

2008-08-10T15:11:00.002-04:00

i am scrabbling out something other,

other than the vague, smart pain

i've already tasted the roaring,

rushing kind, the kind that comes

from the knowing of sweet wet clothes

in the soul's shame

The inevitable.

If you are a rushing wave,

pain is an after-tide

(the only thing that will pull

my stubborn face back to yours)

When I cannot hear,

it is only because I cannot see you

and your voice was all there was

(in moments of super-clarity,

the dirt cleansed from the eyes of my ears)

; yes. That is when I see your voice

far

2008-07-19T22:47:00.004-04:00

oh fire that you would burn and waste me to the sky.
the words swing pendulums no one seems to hearken,
but waste me in fire-hard-shafts,
take me far away and forget.
..can't you sleep in sound, grandfather, and tear me off a wall of boulder trees?
i am dancing with knees of granite stone
and you a lamb in my little eyes.
i am the parchment hands, that wrap the folds
around the spoken old. i am the parchment hands,
that march and fold and particalate the old.
grandfather, forget what they have told
what you've been told
wrap yourself in paper folds and make yourself old.

eurica: betwixt-sides

2008-07-17T21:23:00.003-04:00

why the parcel hands?
that wrap and twist your body
into uniform packages
and giraffe-neck shapes
she would rather sleep with a rifle

her love is a distant colony
of lost letters and never-written
slips of wood-cut and broken ships predicting
sail power to gun powder in seconds
in split seconds of sleep
you are too soft and
your love is too amphetamine

gypsy paper

2008-06-30T11:35:00.003-04:00

[when i was young:
there was treasure under our feet
we never touched nor held]

walking in my sleep i see things forever hidden
only the mortal will see
and hidden from forever
but we see with the lids
over the eye-jar
with a mind not tainted
by the water-colour of reality

in the foundations are great things disclosed
like hidden stories and invisible clothes
strings spanning wooden tools
spinning dust and silent muse
into the dusk-coloured air
that is the half-eyed unreal
that i choose to inhabit

[because i left you in that half-room, i have only half of you. that trap door on my mind has cut off your upper body and left me wholly-alone]

under the accordion
which speaks of a childhood i never knew
i wrapped her up in gypsy paper
and let her drift her merry way
until the basement collapsed on itself
i found myself reading the very same paper
where the words change near every day

i am sick and tired of leaving you,

D. Frank

2008-06-20T09:29:00.002-04:00

i once held an electric switch that mastered your smile
it sent your lips dancing in every direction
like electric sparks
like airplane formations
of course, jewel boxes are dirty tools
not to keep thieves out, but to keep thieves in
There are thieves of smiles and Orphic eyes
that would take the love of you
too far away
so i think,
anyway

i like most of all

2008-06-05T15:38:00.006-04:00

the threat of impending loss. without it.. i wouldn't look twice at trees, or the grass, or the rainstorm, or the Robin tree. the whoosh of his face, whisking by of bliss, in a second after my fingers closed on it's pipe-cleaner tail. my little fascist thoughts:
extremism turning down sentences over a period of time
i can't lose him- i don't even have him. the threat of impending loss doesn't apply to us.

it's kind of like taxes

2008-05-28T19:08:00.002-04:00

i am working. i am working lots more than i used to but not more than i am now used to. i do not keep track of my money, but my bank eats it up: ravenous hounds that they are: i should work on some loss prevention plan.

today i decided to vault, handless, onto the trampoline: just to make sure I still could. work makes less limber, after all. and i made it, but not without punching a hole in my work pants. freudly speaking, what made me want to put a hole in my pants?

i think it has everything to do with the fact that .i am. working. i would not have had to test my ability if i were not working, i would have known, deep down, i can vault onto this trampoline without my hands. (or i would have just resorted to vaulting onto my bed without my hands)... (here's a thought: next time, i shall vault without my legs. i will call the paramedics first though, to put my legs back on afterwards)

so i am making all that money in order to buy new work pants which i will consequently damage asap. i have damaged two other garments of clothing related to work, all bought recently for full-time hours. so i look at it this way: it is all a government conspiracy to manage our money. income tax, so to speak. i feign to think what the clothing companies must suffer from all the money i put into their business.

cosette

2008-05-19T15:28:00.005-04:00

i once had a window that owned the room
we stole pensive glances at you; asleep
what is that to me? when all that i own is
loving you
on clamouring cliffsides we bespoake
in between faces of glass and smoke
but what does it matter? now I have
let you; now I have let you

I can't keep on loving you any more
It gets too dang'rously close to suicide
I can't keep on loving you any more
I'd let my heart hemorrhage instead
I can't keep on loving you any more
I'd write in letters: but letters are smoke

I remember in former days
walking into the park
you'd let me hold your hand,
it was only natural
the young men would
stop and stare

You accuse me rightly: I never knew you
I simply found you
She was my angel
But I never loved her like you,
There's nothing left of you
except pieces of cloth ten years old
to burrow my lungs

i've decided

2008-05-18T22:25:00.002-04:00

to cut up snippets of hugo and paste them on a paper.
i'll photocopy the picture of the viola da gambaist
in the warehouse with the castle door
or old and prettied with the man in the white turtle-neck
and baby blue suit
he reminds me of you

i like

2008-05-14T15:30:00.000-04:00

the part with the vacuum

and i drank a whole mug of tea today.

He won't be seeing anyone, today

2008-05-08T17:24:00.006-04:00

it seems
whenever i love you
i speak in terms
of enemies and warcraft
and the third reich
where i was fed and left to die

it appears
sinking into your face
something is missing here
the spreading wing ..
did you lose it,
or was it only misplaced,
dear

and on those rain-soaked days
when the memory is fade
you'll bottle up your face
and leave me all alone in this place
until
you
recall

what was it..

and when the thunder melts
into your skin
prying pulling at the memories within
i promised you that i'd let you alone
but the truth is a shiver
as the marrow is the bone

and on those rainy day,
when it's only you alone
lips sealed like an envelope
with your name,
i recommend myself for a change,
sinking into your face
op'ning up memories
and out of bounds
and taking dreadful calls from these
raving hounds
you've set up so
carelessly,

it's not like swimming all alone
in these canals
i'm here beside you
drowning

blysse

2008-05-07T21:37:00.004-04:00

how it happened..?-- i shattered my head on the stonework

(wake up, infants, from your sleep wake up! leave your tepid sleep for the flowers- enormous, praiseworthy, tall and graceful as the stem of the earth- the flower with the sweet, thick blossoms: so different from your precious sleeping. Some call the flower Formidable, I call it Bounty.)

and I woke up, my eyes floating in red, my head soothed by numbness. a great thing sat on my stomach, excavating the blood from my eyes- great, in the sense, hideous in it's prose. painful thoughts throbbed in and out like fluid through artery: without my head, i am nothing, without my head, i am nothing, i am nothing, without my head.

(you sweet paranorm, i think, you came to rescue me and take me into this other world. You dragged me out from under the crushing cement of parliament hill. for that i surrender all my kisses and love to you, by this fountain. i am nothing. i am overtures to nothing, stay me here in this while with you..

they lay their heads on the stonework

you know i do want your love..

2008-05-05T22:40:00.003-04:00

i was suspended from a lineograph, deciding whether or not i loved you.
i fell down /folded/tilted/derelict/
i loved you after the fact.

Sleeping in Motion

2008-05-04T15:44:00.003-04:00

LISTEN, DON'T WATCH.. unless you really must

Forstaken

2008-04-15T10:08:00.003-04:00

Sinisteria in wheels of motion. The greater form of trunks and chords all twisted and charred together. Beaufatalia allies of spit and nicer words sitting in trees, loving and incandescent. Revenge is a sweeter word, for your disappropriated smear of quasi-love-words. Sweet sincerities! Quick-sense thringing in my ear, and death-current through my canals.

I leave, you leave.

2008-04-06T18:05:00.004-04:00

He looked like a tobacco roll, standing all up-right and rigid and sickly-green, in his Olive-Drabs. A dutiful kiss he placed on the cheek of every woman in his life, from knee-high Eugenie to Grandmother Zittie. And always mother, in her mockingly stern countenance. It was mostly defiant, they had decided. The Gerries wouldn't get Mother, the Gerries would only get neighbour boys and cowboys and European boys.

And Zittie said he wouldn't go down.

The house went up in a smoke of furious anticipation.
"Where's the damn suitcase!"
The cry hit the side of the house and fell. On the south side, out of view, Georgi, embarrassed, shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets. Father was railing out at something, and it weren't luggage.

'Bout time he felt it. Time they all felt it.

His polished army-boots spent a real long time holding onto that precious ground, as he took his first step into the automobile. Time reeled around his last steps on the family land. The grass was olive-drab- dry like the tobacco fields before the war had started across the sea. The stench of the dried fish pond weighed in our senses. And against the thick soles of our bare childish feet, even the morning ground felt like burning asphalt.

They-- we weren't a perfect family. A perfect family wouldn't exist in a world of death and flying warfare.

His other foot left the ground as he climbed in beside Father.. waving his Air Force cap, grinning like a devil, crazed and sunburnt. Deetie snapped a photograph, before Mother could ask for another one in front of the parlour window.

So long, I'd said, Tommy, bring me 235 enemy aircraft, brother dear.

Leaving the island, long long last

2008-04-03T17:10:00.001-04:00

for nothing, Rasputina and Oh Perilous World! for some of the most inspiring colonial punk... ever. Easy category that.

I wait intently for the word.