I dreamt of you
for a thousand years.
Put you together
from the dust and longing
I found between the beats of my heart
and built you up from the ground up.
But I am no god.
And my try at creation
was doomed at best.
It seems dust and longing
makes for poor clay.
Was I born a shape?
Or did I come out in just colors
Yellow, pink and blue.
Was my skin mosaic?
Was I born a mass of clay and water
Sand and glass and dirt?
Did I smell of the earth and taste of salt?
Where was my soul
while my body fermented in the womb of my mother?
I do not remember.
I feel I was not there.
Even when they pulled me from the dark
And brought me into the dark
I was no where to be found.
And when they held a flame to my face
There were holes where my eyes should have been.
Did I swoop down from the stars
Or rise up like the kalo peaking out from the mud?
Did I break the skin of the sea
Or fall like fruit f
A man can be many things.
He can be a father,
a brother
a son
a husband
a friend.
But then there are men who are not men
And they can be things as well
A spider
A snake
A wolf
A shark
There is a man who is not a man.
He does not sleep. He does not rest.
He waits.
He watches.
There is a man who has no face.
He has a smudge.
He has tooth and claw.
He keeps a nightmare where his heart should be.
There is a man who is not a man.
He is a monster.
I pinched the bridge of my nose and let out a low moan. I hate my job. Some huge stupid ogre things slipped through a Rip and killed some cats. Now don't ask me why they attacked cats and to be clear it was only cats. It was hard to get them to come at me but what can I say? I guess I just piss everyone off.
I was on my back, Shakespeare would have made an innuendo about that, and one of those things was headed over to me. It made these awkward grunting noises as it ambled forward. I could just imagine all of the poor kitties that they had murdered. That made me angry just angry enough to push off my elbows and
get knocked back on my
I felt the blade run him through. It's weird how something can just do that, cut through people like they're Jello or melted ice cream cake.
A sickening squelch and then a thump sounded as his torso hit the hilt. I heard him gasp in to the open space besides my ear; it was a sound of shock, the kind of shock that comes from having a ritualistic 300-year-old sword thrust through your belly.
He coughed, his lacerated muscles contracting around the metal. That must have hurt like hell.
"Ouch," he said the word like a jagged stone.
It passed my lips went down my throat and dropped into my stomach dragging me down and down.
"Oh god, kid," he
"What do you dream about?"
Her voice is even and measured but the question is still obvious in her voice to me. She was always monotonous. She was always trying to hide because she was scared that if she seemed too eager, too interested then I'd take advantage. So she all she's willing to give is monotonous questions and blank stares. I don't mind.
"Nothing," I reply and it's true.
I don't dream or maybe I just can't remember my dreams not even the wet ones. It's very frustrating.
"Liar," she says in return.
What she's really saying is 'okay I believe you'. She almost never says what she means. She tucks a strand b
I am sorry
No, I don't mean for anything
I mean I am pathetic
I mean that I don't know what I mean
I mean that I am small
And dense
And thick
I am a pebble that never grows
Smooth and round
I travel from bank to bank
To bank to bank
And nothing ever comes of it
I am an end result
Of generation after generation
Of disappointments
false pretense
And second chances that never really change a thing
Yet still manage to leave holes in the ground
empty space, hollow air.
I am an empty box
Cardboard
Nothing special
And within me are the hopes and dreams
Of liars and thieves
Beggars and whores
Who spit and shit and piss
In th
She comes for me at night
when no one can hear us or tells us it's okay.
We know it's not okay.
Nothing will ever be okay again.
She comes as a specter in a night gown
a shadow in the doorway.
Her bear feet makes no sound in the soft dark.
The gray carpet, only raveled plastic, keeps our secret.
She gathers me up, bundles me whole,
in the pink comforter from Christmas 1998.
The heat of her and the cotton
makes me sweat and I want to push her away.
But I don't
because that is what love is.
Don't cry she says
but I'm not.
Don't cry
but I'm not crying.
She spills out and over me
soaking into my hair
and anointing my forehead
If mother is god
then my god is a dead woman.
She has set herself on fire
and nailed herself to a tree.
She is a silent thing
small and square, 8x10.
A face that sits on my dresser or on my desk.
She is a reminder
a msytic beast
and boogeyman that lives in picture frames.
She warns me against myself
not with words
but with a death certificate.
stamped across in crooked font the green form reads:
strangled with telephone cord
He puts his fist through the glass
then hides the raged hole behind a towel.
He cleans the shards up
as best as he can.
Washes whatever is left
down the drain.
He waits for me to get in
then turns on the water because he loves me
and that is what fathers are for.
He reminds me
to get behind my ears because he is my father
and that is what fathers do.
The water does not burn
it does not chill me
It hits my back warm and welcoming
until
ouch
The blood is a pale thin line
that leads to the tarnished circle
of the old shower drain.
He sees the shard of green opaque glass
the evidence of his violence.
He sees how it has cut
I dreamt of you
for a thousand years.
Put you together
from the dust and longing
I found between the beats of my heart
and built you up from the ground up.
But I am no god.
And my try at creation
was doomed at best.
It seems dust and longing
makes for poor clay.
Was I born a shape?
Or did I come out in just colors
Yellow, pink and blue.
Was my skin mosaic?
Was I born a mass of clay and water
Sand and glass and dirt?
Did I smell of the earth and taste of salt?
Where was my soul
while my body fermented in the womb of my mother?
I do not remember.
I feel I was not there.
Even when they pulled me from the dark
And brought me into the dark
I was no where to be found.
And when they held a flame to my face
There were holes where my eyes should have been.
Did I swoop down from the stars
Or rise up like the kalo peaking out from the mud?
Did I break the skin of the sea
Or fall like fruit f
A man can be many things.
He can be a father,
a brother
a son
a husband
a friend.
But then there are men who are not men
And they can be things as well
A spider
A snake
A wolf
A shark
There is a man who is not a man.
He does not sleep. He does not rest.
He waits.
He watches.
There is a man who has no face.
He has a smudge.
He has tooth and claw.
He keeps a nightmare where his heart should be.
There is a man who is not a man.
He is a monster.
I pinched the bridge of my nose and let out a low moan. I hate my job. Some huge stupid ogre things slipped through a Rip and killed some cats. Now don't ask me why they attacked cats and to be clear it was only cats. It was hard to get them to come at me but what can I say? I guess I just piss everyone off.
I was on my back, Shakespeare would have made an innuendo about that, and one of those things was headed over to me. It made these awkward grunting noises as it ambled forward. I could just imagine all of the poor kitties that they had murdered. That made me angry just angry enough to push off my elbows and
get knocked back on my
"What do you dream about?"
Her voice is even and measured but the question is still obvious in her voice to me. She was always monotonous. She was always trying to hide because she was scared that if she seemed too eager, too interested then I'd take advantage. So she all she's willing to give is monotonous questions and blank stares. I don't mind.
"Nothing," I reply and it's true.
I don't dream or maybe I just can't remember my dreams not even the wet ones. It's very frustrating.
"Liar," she says in return.
What she's really saying is 'okay I believe you'. She almost never says what she means. She tucks a strand b
I fell in love at eighteen
with a canvas
blank and breathing.
I could shape him
and break him
a thousand times
with no fear for his well being.
because
he
did not love
me
Angela twirled and hummed in almost childish satisfaction. Her long dark pleated skirt fluttered around her as she turned. Her actions were so silly and innocent, things that Tate rarely ever was.
"Whatcha think?" Angela breathed as she did another twirl.
Tate smiled at her ways. It was her second day of school. He hadn't been able to see her off on the first day. There was room with mirrors on the walls and floors and ceiling; it kept him away but he got to see her off on the second day. Angela seemed completely fine either way.
"It's a bit," he began a look of thought on his face, "well stupid really."
A grin broke out across his featur
"Are you scared?" Tate asked suddenly as he sat at the base of a large ash tree.
From above him Angela called back, "What, of falling?"
"No, I mean if that's what you're afraid of then yes," Tate said as he ripped a still-green leaf in half then again and again, "but I don't think it is so no. I mean, like, what are you afraid of in life?"
"Well I'm afraid of birds I guess," Angela called down from her spot in the tree.
"Birds?" Tate said as he squinted up through the branches hoping to catch sight of her but the sun blinded him and returned his gaze to the leaf.
Now the tree was very old and very large. It had been around for over a hun
Current Residence: dorm Favourite genre of music: anything I can fuck shit up to Favourite style of art: uh.... MP3 player of choice: i don't have one :( Barry died Skin of choice: the one i've got on right now; it's nice and stretchy Favourite cartoon character: Pepper Anne Personal Quote: Believe me, that is not normal
Favourite Visual Artist
Alphonse Mucha
Favourite Movies
Heathers
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
The Velvet Underground
Favourite Writers
David Wong, Sylvia Plath, Neil Gaiman, Clive Barker, Pablo Neruda and a few other crazy mofos
So I just had my first major panic attack since coming to New York.
Now I was expecting this. I'm actually surprised that it took so long to happen. I used to get these quite often and they aren't usually that bad but this one was terrible. In fact my hands are still a little shaky and I my breathing is a bit off.
It started at the beginning of my English class today. Now that's not what I mean by bad timing. I was able to concentrate for the most part in class and keep my breathing under control. I meant to go straight to my room to let off steam but once I start to lose focus my brain gets all scattered. So instead of going back to my roo