I never want to talk over you.
I always want to listen, listen and perhaps respond.
but mostly just
listen.
Saturday, July 27, 2013
MPDG
used to wish I was one of those
Manic Pixie Dream Girls.
you know, like Zooey Deschanel or
Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's.
that bubbly, shallow cinematic creature that exists solely in the fevered imaginations of sensitive writer-directors to teach broodingly soulful young men to embrace life and its infinite mysteries and adventures.
most of the time the MPDG's don't have goals
or endeavors independent of the male lead.
I reject that thought when it pops into my head nowadays.
I reject that title.
I won't be a lubricator to your peace of mind if I haven't ever had my own.
Manic Pixie Dream Girls.
you know, like Zooey Deschanel or
Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's.
that bubbly, shallow cinematic creature that exists solely in the fevered imaginations of sensitive writer-directors to teach broodingly soulful young men to embrace life and its infinite mysteries and adventures.
most of the time the MPDG's don't have goals
or endeavors independent of the male lead.
I reject that thought when it pops into my head nowadays.
I reject that title.
I won't be a lubricator to your peace of mind if I haven't ever had my own.
Sunday, July 21, 2013
a big fucking blur
like someone moving when you take the picture
in a constant state of co-existence in parallel dimensions, never in
solid form, particles
atoms - movingbeing
us
Thursday, July 18, 2013
we're trying
the floor is covered in ash, we trudge
through to the kitchen to pour ourselves some coffee,
then to the bedroom to lay in the empty space there, left
to us - everything is - to swallow like a bad thanksgiving dish
you're too polite not to eat
our hands are never clean, our feet are always cold and
we don't have enough sense to put on socks.
the faces are heavy, they give off sawdust smiles and
big red-marked cheeks from leaning too hard on other people,
we are craning over one another, reaching past one another, never holding
eye-contact
it's the emptiness left from the previous emptiness here,
it's awful here,
it's awful
here.
through to the kitchen to pour ourselves some coffee,
then to the bedroom to lay in the empty space there, left
to us - everything is - to swallow like a bad thanksgiving dish
you're too polite not to eat
our hands are never clean, our feet are always cold and
we don't have enough sense to put on socks.
the faces are heavy, they give off sawdust smiles and
big red-marked cheeks from leaning too hard on other people,
we are craning over one another, reaching past one another, never holding
eye-contact
it's the emptiness left from the previous emptiness here,
it's awful here,
it's awful
here.
Saturday, July 6, 2013
"When the weeds are poking through your skull, then there's plenty of time for regrets." - Han Shan
There are two voices (among the many) in continuous opposition,
always finding their way into a mouth or two or three of the
hungry tongues and teeth and lips of this place:
"Why spend time chasing when you are nothing but
a bag of bones prattling along the path to a concrete slab?" says the one.
Says the other,
"Yes but this is life, jump in!
Join the fray - play. For the time - there is only so much."
always finding their way into a mouth or two or three of the
hungry tongues and teeth and lips of this place:
"Why spend time chasing when you are nothing but
a bag of bones prattling along the path to a concrete slab?" says the one.
Says the other,
"Yes but this is life, jump in!
Join the fray - play. For the time - there is only so much."
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
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