Eulogy

The night no longer grips my spirit as it once did. The magic moon and creeping vines as they lose all grandeur, form my overtly calm self. Relishing the night takes time, an epoch of rage and fear, culminating to the pinnacle of anticipation. The point where waiting for the fear to ‘kick in’ becomes the adrenaline rush that eclipses all others. Like tasting fine wine, the night needs to set in and marrow with bone.
A legacy of running from tick-tocks frames my subsequent growth. The night no longer pretty, the days no longer gritty - just a frameless smog of empty silences. Having faced those demons a long time ago, the silence is no longer beautiful. The calm before the storm, has come and gone and at present I find myself in the midst of an intense disregard for all things calm. I wade through desert sands in my dreams, copiously waiting for the morning sun to help the crack kick in.

And it does…
The sun bristles outside as the electricity conks out. I discover that there is no flavour superior to the sweet tang of sweat. To sit through each dreary drop coursing down my neck as I navigate my way through the stickiest day of my life.
Blissfully zoned out- enough to tune out the sense of discomfort. I am the quintessential junkie on his final trip. The one you wait for with every quivering, shaky breath. Every other hit becomes just that- the 'others', fated to bring me to the precipice. Now, there is only the wait. To savour the slow but steady satire of my demise. The mellow tendrils of an ashen joint soothing out the kinks in my soul, the battered scraps of syringes cased in coral blood coating my sea of memories.
And I hear you kiddo, as clear as life before death.

My sweet, pretty baby
After mama moved on and daddy left home
The sight of you all grown up in a cradle
With money and a rock and sugar on top
To rub in my betrayals

How does a masochist apologise? "I’m sorry kiddo. I linger in your four-year-old shadows everyday". There is no laughter to frame my face, no more songs to sing my pace, no more smiles to send your way. They all lie in your pocket purse, as I wait - bound forever to your withheld ‘get-go’. Just that kiss on the cheek to say “move along on your way, cause I’ll be okay”. But it never comes. I am marked with your granite glare, to slash my soul. You are the only God I pray to for forgiveness.

She left you long gone,
with a sketch of a song
And now you’ll swallow up souls for a living

Just one more chance at being a sodden saviour, kiddo. A colossal apology for a smile?
Believe you me, loneliness comes free. There’ll come a day when you will need me there to love you.

You and me and the Devil
make three
You wont need any other love baby

Just one last chance and one more dance. Even the nights don’t sing to me anymore. Just one last smile as I work on my wiles, for a calendar of your candy kisses baby.

Come lay your bones on my turpentine stones
Just you and me.

I don’t need any other love baby

Beautiful Loser

In the immediate unforseen,
How am I to navigate the course of wants and wishes with can's and cant's. The practicalities of things are hard pressed to hit home at present, and there is little denying that it is about time they do so.
So good. I am resolved to face my fate. I shall try and try again on my intermittent stumble, tumble, fumble of go-getterdom. My way, highway, byway- all in all to carve my own path. Camouflaging, non-chalance and faliure with color and wit, no longer makes the cut. No more running away: I shall trudge my road. Skulk and sulk the sign posts, but walk it nonetheless. Two pints nurture and four spoons nature, now call me to the point where the inpermeable 'twain must meet'.

Beautiful loser
Travellin man,
just do it once
while your able and can

Happy birthday Girl!

You see dear girl,
There is 'fiction' in this ache between these lines in font and my memories. A catechism unravelling at the seams: of you and me and the demon who dreams.
Blowing candles at each pit stop cake, of every birth and every wake.
I write it down, every word a truth.
But it doesnt mean that im not just telling stories.

A birthday wish spanning every age
to the seven year old me and her gilded cage

A birthday song for the long and gone
Seedy wanderer of slush 14 and moving on

A birthday card for the doomed to dance
through sweet-16 memories and one lost chance

A birthday kiss for the hard to miss
A stalking statue on the precipice...

Of Meece's and Frogs

It puzzles me to no end.
The fact that inherent genius placates itself, hiding under sublime layers of arcane comedy and banal banter. Then again for some reason in my eyes that is 'genius'...sans pretence. Out of all the Bob Dylan songs in the 'Great American' songbook, it is 'Froggie went a courtin' that strikes me the most - perhaps because its silly.
It is the blatant 'Old Mc Donaldisation' of the lyrics that gets me everytime.
Action-reaction-subjection-derision-deduction-induction-instruction-Action. From the Poet of poets: this is Dylan at his peak, because he writes without an agenda, unlike most of us who do. Come to think about it so does Dylan, he is probably THE polemicist of his age.
But with Froggie, not at all, there is no beginning or end to the nihilist nonchalance of this ballad. This dirge spans time and space, it is a run-on sentence and palpable cycle of never ending-dom to the finish. The romance of Mr Frog and Ms Mousey incontrovertibly trumps every Juliet her Romeo. A romance that inconsequently harps on about the manifold 'nothings' and 'everythings' of existence. The farcical tragedy of tragedies....of a fate fortold for us un-inhabitable mortals, who strive to break walls and glass barriers and glimpse haloed ever-afters.
Never again will a frog love a mouse.

It is us meece's who must wait,
wait...
wait
For the last piece of cornbread sitting on the shelf.

Homo-Escapian

It is often hard to harrow out the intricacies of being honest to the point of perfection. Is there such a thing? To be completely, unfetteringly, unflinchingly honest in ones' being and speech. I hardly think so, or I like to think not, since it dispells a notion which I find may be impossible for my ever-wavering capacities to conform to.
Virginia Woolf, in one of her many diatribes on feminism and the empowerment of all that is Yin in the homo-escapiens of this world, has spoken of killing the 'Angel in the house'. She has reiterated the need for the unequivocal demise of this sentient being that plagues the female psyche, to consider the repurcussions of their words and actions. Not because of the consequences that may indelibly occur due to this 'un-due' voicing, rather for the opinions that may frame in the minds of men, regarding these shemale 'perpetrators' of blatant, bold and boisterous speech. It is true that Woolf may not be one of the most objective caricatures to stand by, nor by any means the most sane (pun intended on all peripheral scales). However, the Lady does have her moments of grandoise epiphany, and this one is no less.

'Killing the angel' could most literally be taken as having no fear, and writing unflinchingly about everything. Taken in the literal context of the time, no-holes-barred sex-talk baby! However times have changed, it is indeed the 'best and worst' of them. The scales for judgment as it so happens, have shifted... slightly to the left. Women are now seldom judged for talking about sex, instead they are more often than not, judged for not talking abou it. The scale for judgement is far too complex, for who can tell what makes a woman intellectual and not ineffectual? Is it abstaining fastidiously from pop music and romance novels and seeking solace in political rhetoric via the Time and Newsweek? Then again, there is a difference in 'seeking' and 'finding'. Heresy once again compels me to strut it ' Seek and ye shall find' just isnt going to make the cut this time.
To seek intellect and admiration, through highly inconclusive jargon, is not necessarily equivalent to finding it. Neither is it in any way productive. There (unfortunately) ARE those who 'find' solace in a Britney Spears crink and in Elle Woods's euphamisms. What of that poor lot of 'lost flock', is their path to be condemned even if it works? Is trying to sound or act smart, in fact smart? How can it be admirable if it is pretentious? Then again how often is it not pretentious to be consequently admired?

An adop-duction of worlds it is, this flux of information and to pick and choose the right and left of it, is nearing impossible. The Angel's demise, therefore demands that we pick the 'Puck' of slurry silliness along with the abject geniosity of the Poe, it means we embrace the acids of Coke with the daintiness of wine, it means that we relish Grape Skittles with the same dedication we award to Caviar, it means we ferociously ( or less so) belt out Jackson moves to Billie Jean simultaneously reminicing to Rachmaninov rapture.
It is a 7-course meal of rainbows, my friends and the canvas tints both black and white. The Angel is dead, the looking glass simultaneously smudged and sparkling. For time will prove that there is little perfection in the word 'perfect'.

Paint the pallete of colors
to clasp a Kaleidoscope of flavors
All shades black
All shades white

Quit playin' games with my hide!

It seems infantile and slightly ridiculous that i still react to silly key words like 'gun-shot', 'punch' , 'lizards' and 'bruise'. When you've survived the train wreck, why let the smell of smog and sound of shrieks hound you? But it does, it is always the little things. Much the Pavlov puppy am I. Automatically cringing and barking to symbiotic signals that arent even 'signalled' specifically for my person.

The game's about money
It goes on for duplicity

Its' the bottom of the ninth
Batter up and smash it
'cause the game ain't funny.

The Wanderer

As I ponder a path yet un-foretold
of broken barometers to rage against the dying of the light.
As fierce echoes of foregone passions shrivel to squander,
a truth yet lied to death
And the crashing cries convulge cradles' that fall

The Acid priests in mighty towers, solemnly recall
The 'Aimless wanderers' of lonely caves
and lowly taverns of ill repute

A phalanx of pubescence, seeking answers to lost questions
"What is the color of intoxication?"
"What is the flavor of good intention?"
"How do the 'pure' savour pretention?"

Little do they know...
Not all who wander are aimless.

Not if ones aim in seeking wonder
...is to wander.

Yes Sir!

I do not know if I am any good at following orders, then again, I am consequently brilliant and subsequently a mess. I can conform to appearances and never to intent. Which always begs the question, how does one separate the two twins? I suppose if they can remove beings that share an intertwined brain and heart through cold hard metal, they can separate ideals and action through bitter euphemisms.
An 'adop-duction' of this world am I, bristling to call me an orphan after you meet them' folks. There they go, scampering off into distant horizons... the prophecies of lonely pilgrims and solitary travellers, merely travellin' through, passing on and sailing high...

Yes Sir, yes sir!
Three bags full sir,
Dont really give a crap about the other two
Just the one for the little girl
who lived down the lane

Just that one will do...sir.

My coping curse

A precipice of precincts that surrounds my being and my dreams. I do not know if they crumble, cross-multiply or carve on into new forays. However, they do change.
Completely.
Whether or not 'change' is a good thing, is a question I believe I am doomed to evade forever and whether or not that will 'break me' or 'make me' is something I am cursed to cope with. However like a dilapidated patch quilt I am oblivious to the new patches that will grace my old posture. Living in the brundt of my dreams, fading in the slow malencholy of hazy sleep and wallowing in the self-effaced characters of my own conscience is definitely not productive or practical. But it seems impossible to dodge.
I wallow now, consciously and consciencously in my depracating, dilapidated demons. For I blame all my failures and flaws on silver-screen sabbaticals and merry melodies. I blame, without guilt, the hollywood dreams and the silverscreen screams that barricade my being from quietly accepting and adapting to the bitter salt tang of reality. I blame every myth from taking away my will to say yes to "can be's" instead of "could have beens".
I blame them.
I blame them with all my head and none of my heart.

Once upon a Rhyme...

There are moments in ones' life when we come intermittently face to face with our mortality, the moments are few and far between, but they exist. I wonder, now that I see my life perpetually trounced by outward phantoms , that I am prone to live vicariously through my words.
It is not a writers curse, as I would so like to believe - rather a cowards penance. Most men and women, who write, string together the words to dictate a life already lived or conceived. I, on the other hand, do so to avoid the latter. My words are the substitute for the journey, I write, because I come to see now that I cannot live and the words make this epitaph seem prettier somehow. Inanely glamorous and tinted in a softer hue than abject failure.
There are some select few, who are destined to go through life and not around it, sadly I begin to realize that I am not one of them. Even when life has left me little choice - backed me away imperceptibly in an unbearably cramped corner, I wish my way around it. Never, do I merely walk the path stretching out before me.
I paint it in my head, choreograph it in my senses, but NEVER do I feel it run through my fingertips.

Is mortality being faced with death? Or is it waiting for it with a smile? Or more likely, something wedged uncomfortably in between. I suppose what irks me the most about ‘musts’, ‘don’t’s’ and ‘end’s’ is the black out at the base of each word; there are no windows to these words. Only tar and cement to plaster every tiny opening. Perhaps the shortest path to Heaven 'is', in fact, straight through Hell.

What do I want?

A mind exalted beyond mortality? For there is no such thing. Plato is dead and I hardly think it matters to him that we remember his name. Is it a run-on sentence that I wish for, perpetually flawed? Yes I suppose that may be it.

For I loathe the abject finality of ordinary words on tombstones' that are left behind to summarize the entirety of a soul. People use words like Beloved Mother, Daughter and Friend, just as carelessly and cause-lessly as they do 'Blue' or 'Dog' or 'Paintbrush'.
‘In loving memory of’….words that say less than nothing.
There are no run-on sentences for tombstones. None bother to voice “Beloved Mother, who made pancakes on Sundays and loved about- to-rain cobalt skies” or “In loving memory of my daughter who hummed the ‘happy days’ theme in the morning and a Sparkles anthem every night before she floated off into Neverlands, yet unbreached”. No, there are only monosyllables at the end. That and full stops.
It hurts me, more than I can say that people no longer start sentences with “Once upon a time” and end them with “And they lived Happily Ever After”. I fear, that they too, already realise that the few who believe them, are destined to be broken by both.

And were an epitaph to be my story
I’d have a short one ready for my own
I would have written of me on my stone
I have a lover’s quarrel with the world.

(Robert Frost)