Chairs: a poem not about love

two colors, blue and white

almost as if they were meant

to make a patter, picture or design

we fit together like they do

pretty, one beside the other

but don't quite stack properly.

but even they don't have enough color

to have any depth.

solids and outlines plus whatever shadow

the lights let them create.

like them, in the dark

we are two-dimensional:

merely color and line.

PseudoRomance

public void PseudoCode main(String args[]){       if(you look my way){           i'll never leave;           don't let me go;      }else{           walk away now || i'll lose control;      }       while(i = true){           don't let me go;      }       if(this touch means anything){           we'll stay together;           we can stop playing games;      } } //don't walk away all romantic poetry ought to be written in code. old piece from last year. (haha... Java romance...) PS: || means "or". so. yea. enjoy? (Jan. '08)

ANTI-LOVE POETRY

Keep your hands off me.

You're everything that I want.

Not what I can have.

Always 5 steps back

7 inch distance, at least.

Less makes me stupid.

an intermission:

just let me tear my heart out

and hand it to you.

Pretty you may be

We know beauty killed the beast

Guess I'll ignore you.

You break what you have

Something good will come of it

But its not certain.

the second movement:

sorry for staining your rug

i'll just lick it clean.

You're a stupid jerk

With your stupid pretty face

Wish you had cooties.

I'd love to hate you

I'd love to love to hate you

Not hate to love you.

now, the conclusion:

rejection's not a sure thing...

acceptance, neither.

Let me walk away

While I haven't lost my head

And can play it safe.

If I'm not open,

Under my skin's all you'll get

Far from fragile things.

Capitalism.

Hello!

The pleasure's all mine

But I'll sell it to you cheap!

Cheap cheap cheap!

At least cheaper than the guy next door

But that's because, as I said, the pleasure's all mine

(and I'm making room for more!)

Would you like some happiness?

It comes in a brightly colored box!

It's right where you can afford...

Whoops! The price went up

Because THEY just ran out.

So I'm the only one on the block

With some, don't you doubt.

Replace that outdated melancholy

With a little bit of cheerfulness

You don't want it now, but I know you will

Because the one selling it to you is Tess.

She's tall and blonde and beautiful

A Barbie come to life

She's not really the brightest

And to get through her skin you'd need a chainsaw not a knife!

I bought out all the rest of them

You can only come to me

I don't play fair (never did)

And that's the way it'll always be.

Anxiety

I stepped into the house, and knew she was there. She'd left her black strappy stilettos by the door. One was lying on its side, the other barely balancing up. I found her curled up in my favorite chair in front of the fire. She smirked up at me, a seductive, slow one. I made a point not to meet her eyes. I knew already they were a deep green. She had the Catcher in the Rye open on her lap. It was a worn abused book, and I didn't wonder that she'd read it a hundred thousand times. The air in the room was dead. It was stale and hard to breathe and a slow sweet scent permeated the area. She always smelled of it. The setting winter sun sliding through the windows did nothing to lessen the stifling atmosphere.
I left the room before she had a chance to speak. I made my purposeful way upstairs, packed a few shirts and two pairs of pants quickly. I saw her startled painted mask of sadness watch me from the door standing there in her hose.
----
A twisted sense of calm was allowed in the motel room. It was a tense calm, that was wearing thin the longer I stayed from home. Yet I knew that's where she was and didn't wonder, not for the first time, if perhaps her power didn't stretch further than I knew. I dragged my eyes around the nearly barren room. It was dusky, and damp and had smelled of sweat for days now. The curtains were the lightest shade of blue that still managed to be blue and not white. They hung limp in the sodden air, and almost did a good job of covering the bars on the windows. Sighing, I knew it was time and once again packed the five shirts and a couple of pairs of jeans.
----
She had re-arranged the house in my absence. Chairs where small tables used to be and empty space where none ought to be. The sense of unfamiliarity was not strange, it was her punishment for me when I left the house at her arrival. The twisting in my gut doubled as I walked through a strangers home, knowing that things weren't as they were supposed to be.
With silent footsteps I made my way up stairs. I tiptoed past the bedroom, avoiding the sweet smell and incense, knowing she knew exactly where I was.
I locked myself in the guest room. It was just as impersonal as the Motel 6 room. But her familiar sense of stillness filled the room, making it fractionally more bearable. I flung the window open hoping to dispel it for a more calm, quiet feeling, but the air moved neither in nor out, and her smell surrounded me.
----
Everyday I leave as early as possible and return as late as possible. Although the freshness outside is still stagnant, it is less stifling than the sweetness and stillness inside the house. She has pervaded the entire household. Now reminders of her cling to everything and its nearing impossible to breathe.
Out of doors the sweetness still clings to my clothes and I can feel tendrils of the stillness wrapping around me, the staling freshness invades my senses creating a pleasant cacophony behind my eyes.
I can always catch her watching me from behind the stained lacy curtains as I near the front door. The deep green boring into the base of my skull, and making my stomach churn.
----
As the sweetness and the stillness of the house became suffocating I made my way towards the bedroom. Her incense burned strong and it smelled of sweet basil and orange blossoms. Behind the door she lay posed on the bed; she had one arm stretched and her head tilted back exposing her neck. The way her lingerie folded, where one leg was bent, made a complex pattern of lines. In the half-light they were indistinct and bled into and between each other. Her brassiere pushed and pulled perfectly, in a manner that made her most appealing. The sweetness and the strangulating stillness wrapped comfortingly around me. Dark green eyes trapped mine, and my heart raced madly and my stomach twisted and tied itself in unpleasant knots.
As she stood the fascinating lines disappeared and I found myself staring at smooth skin instead. A carefully manicured fingertip dragged itself across my chest, and sharp fingernails dug into the skin of my cheeks as she turned my face to hers.
Her pretty porcelain veil smiled its painted lips and my heart stopped.
Her name slid slowly from my lips, and I crumpled to the floor.
----
Though she was gone, the stillness slunk through the house. I would find a shirt here, or a pair of panties there. One of her strappy black stilettos remained by the door, toppled over on its side. I couldn't get the smell of the incense out of the air. And whenever I found one of her things, the sweet smell of Anxiety would curl seep out, suffocating and caressing me.

Finis.
This is a quick thing I did back in Sept. '08 and i just remembered about it. so yea. what's everyone think?

love mess

echo Narcissus

me me me

but

he said something before

love love love

repeat him

love me love me love me

staring at himself

me me me

but

he's taken in by the feeling

love love love

he pleads with the spitting image

love me love me love me

trying to catch his attention

me me me

but

its so one-sided

love love love

nothing he says will get him to hear

love me love me love me

no matter what they said it was still

me me me

but

could it still be a matter of

love love love

he was still only saying

i love me i love me i love me

Myth

Would it be possible,I wonder, to re-work the Narcissus myth to include both Ameinias (who ran himself through with a sword) and Echo? 

Nemesis took Ameinias' revenge, (he wished for Narcissus to feel the pain of unrequited love... ) made Narcissus fall in love with his reflection and Narcissus drowned.

Echo got in trouble for talking to much, so she was cursed with only being able to repeat what others said. She fell in love with Narcissus, but he had eyes only for himself. He died, and she wasted away, until only her voice remained. (Or alternately, she wastes away first, and then one of the gods gets mad at Narcissus, and makes him fall in love with himself. He wastes away and dies.)

Either way, I'm fairly certain at the end of the myth, the gods feel kinda bad for Narcissus, and they turn him into a flower. 

A flower of the genus Narcissus, is actually a daffodil. Resilient, they bloom in the early spring, and they're bulbs, so they bloom year after year. (Extra bonus points, into making that into character traits!)

I wonder... 

the truth

in the end it becomes all about not hearing

not listening

not acknowledging 

the little voice

repeating

liar liar liar

Home

And they're swimming in hurt

in the tears

their own tears, backed up

over the days, weeks, 3 months.

they can look at each other

but sometimes

they just

they can't 

they forget to touch

and the whole house shakes with voices.

they stand far apart from each other

sitting right next to one another

the screen, the idiot box

the T V.

sitting in silence, laughing here

or arguing there

its almost like conversation.

so the hurt sits

fetid between them

explosive between them

miles and fathoms between them

and they keep themselves afloat with tears.

They leave the Captain to his own devices, little contraptions that whirl and twirl and print out list of numbers and strange symbols. He flits about the room, eyes big and black behind multiple lenses. He pulls the papers and reads them, up and down and sometimes sideways humming to himself at the insights they afford him. His calculations and, indeed, his variables, are unknown.

One day a particularly stocky instrument made its way over to the Captain, trailing a long list of results, like intestines.

As he ran his eyes over the long thin strip of paper, his wrinkled face smoothed in shock. His black eyes looked over-large, magnified. He scrambled towards the nearest device, which flailed slightly as he grabbed it. Frantically, he looked over its train of numbers, his eyes sliding back and forth as he added and subtracted. Checking the equations in his head, his face folded again, like a paper crumpled in frustration.

Days later, when the chaos died down, someone noticed the lack of smoke exiting the Captain's chimney. When they tentatively entered, they found him on his back, limbs curled like a spider, and the solitary, still intact device shuddering in the corner, the symbols contorted and twitching across the paper it continued to spit.

uhm. something new? maybe for the lit. mag. but i dunno if its good enough.

the killing feilds

calluses

aren't enough to

save

us. smiling

send us to our

deaths.

torturing confessions

or their confessors

doesn't take away

the truth

in them. if they are

written down.

EXAM

read the instructions.

they'll tell you what to do.

Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

maybe, a little caution

can be applied to them.

Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

indefinitely? well, probably

if you follow the instructions.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

apply

your own

mind

read the instructions

do you want to follow them?

i did.

do you dream?

no, she says, maybe.

next, later.

she's asleep, perfectly still.

later, next.

we're running

            running

            running

the city is a sudden forest

snow grey then

colorful trop. with flowers

then.

do dream people dream?

I don't know, she says

why don't you ask one next time?

but.

Hamartia

those with destinies

spend forever trying

to escape them.

(they tend to fail, too.)

those without destinies

spend a lifetime worrying

if they make the right plan

(they tend to have, too.)

counter-communication

forth

back

forth

.

forth

.

just

type the message!

forth

.

just

answer the question!

forth

.

just ---

back

forth

back

.

back

.

back

.

Breathing is all A matter of Pressure.

When someone tells you grades and numbers and assessments mean nil,

in the long run, they're actually

lying to you.

Because,

really?

They matter. They matter,

a lot.

Life is secretly a long line of people all waiting to pass judgement on you, looking to see if

you're 

GOOD ENOUGH.

So you have to have your credentials ready, 

you have to be GOOD ENOUGH.

Good enough for them to look at you.

Good enough for them to want

you.

Bosses, teachers, friends, colleagues, bankers, lovers, investors, the government, your parents.

Everyone.

Wants to know.

If.

You,

(yes, YOU)

are good enough.

Good enough for them.

Good enough for their money.

Good enough for their

TIME.

Because if you're not

worth it, that is.

If you're not GOOD ENOUGH, that is.

They don't want you.

And

time is short.

So,

they want your numbers.

Because,

numbers are fast.

Numbers are

GOOD ENOUGH, for them.

For them to know you

For them

to know

if

YOU are good enough.

City Song.

she'll spit the streets beneath my feet

traveling me

taking me on

a journey.

maybe if i look hard enough

i'll see her shadow on

the skyline

bright neon, like a beacon

like a calling

like a fresh breath to 

a choking soul.

she'll envelop me 

take my hand

she'll lead me into her

heart

the pumping and thumping

blare of car horns.

the flashing neon lights

beaconing 

me

her

calling

pulling away the streets

leave me

chasing after

her.

Funnel cakes, in the end, are not funnel shaped at all... Which might be mind-blowing, for someone who wasn't expecting that... 

They're actually kind of squiggly, wormy looking... 

Nonsensical, we call it. 

Not quite funnel shaped

Then why call it funnel cake?

I really don't know.

However, the real question is: Is 'shaped' one syllable or two?

untitled.

the first time around

isn't nearly as exciting 

as the second

when you know what to expect

and when.

laughing disarmingly

at the not funny

parts. its only natural.

maybe the sadism

will kick in.

kicking and screaming

like an ant

covered in napalm

or was it pesticide?

and curiosity

never got you anywhere

but trouble. so

they tell me.

Cigar.

its something in the smell of

cigarettes, when your sinuses are dry.

they smell of comfort and a remembrance

of death.

the quiet orange light

in the dark

can be a comfort,

you know they're still

breathing.