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Flodis Issue 23
hello, poopy pages!#! respected kindern of the eltern! it's
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flowers of disruption #23 -- 20.09.99 -- by trilobyte
== the zine for tasha & anjee ==
purple is the color of the sky as the storm decides whether it wants to join
us in our town or head off to some other, more interesting place. sailors
at the sea in illinois look up and think "aye, tonight is a good night."
they eat their crackers and drink red wine at taverns that i could not go
to. they are probably very good taverns. maybe someday i shall visit them
and meet sailors. i think sailors are more interested in the big-chested
blonde type of woman, though, and would likely not show much interest in a
tall brown haired boy such as me. my breasts are not an issue, i would
immediately be shunned due to my being a manchild.
but perhaps i am a sailor, and if you were a big breasted blonde, then, i
would walk into the tavern and you and i would make eye contact. my eyes
are brown, yours are blue. your curly hair would fall onto your white
blouse, and your appropriately tight skirt would shimmer around your legs
as you walked immediately toward me. i would hold you, i would make
sailors angry with jealousy. i would take you home to my shanty, feed you
cheese, and talk about the good times. those _would be_ the good times,
though, so i would talk about current events and about glenn miller. i'm
sure you would like glenn miller.
aye. those _were_ the days. you would dance with me on my wooden floor, i
would dance with you on yours. you would laugh with me on my sofa, i would
laugh with you on yours. we would smile at sun up and at sun down.
with your left arm wrapped in my right, we would skimmy bop around the
maddened town.
and in the future, the floor is separated from a pillow by a mattress, and
my head goes on the pillow. my body lays on the mattress. next to my head
is a girl's bedside cabinet, made of a large tupperware container, and on
that rests pottery used as an ashtray. quite ventrical is this girl's
living style, as she opened up to a few and closed off to others. her body
is the commune in which her spirit resides, with people coming in and
dropping out as time saw fit. on this body are two nipples, surrounded by
a large network of coarse, faint blue veins. a statue of her would not
duplicate these veins, nor would it reproduce the small trail of hair
leading from her belly button into her jeans.
if a ghost were to enter her room, a male one would ravage her or console
her, and a female one would be jealous of her or become a companion. if
the lights flicker, she's got a 50% chance of being harmed. and she's been
studying up on tarot.
that's a far cry from my sailor days of yore, which remind me of a poem once
read to me by a young, vocal flower, which goes something like this:
* poem ..
* * poem ....
* * poem ::::
mister doy was a bear
mister doy did not care
mister doy was very fair
and mister doy lived in a lair
miss neto liked the sun
miss neto wore a bun
miss neto liked to have fun
and miss neto can;t run
little phill had a spill
little phil took a pill
little phil liked to kill
and little phil wrote a will
missy sarah was a goat
missy sarah liked to boat
missy sarah carried a tote
and missy sarah wrote a note
* *
* *
* end poem.
a young, vocal flower named aster, in fact. does she play trumpet? don't
ask me, i don't know.
you buckle when he belts. we cuddle and i melt. the wall between us won't
be standing no more. you rattle and i reel. roll over, pal, and heel.
send me letters from faraway towns to remind me of you when i had forgotten
about everything. make me recall when i melted, the many times. fondle my
imperfections, petrify my bones, excavate my emotions years after they were
able to shock the rays of energy between our eyes, between our mouths,
between our minds. rest a potato or green collar on the pure crystal
empathy hanging from us, banging from us.
we're not too old to party, it's just lost the adventure.
and you know what the sad part is? there's no guarantee that it will ever
come back, and if it does, it will surely because we had to work to
ressurrect it. will we give our children the adventure that we're wishing
for today?
will it even matter, if we can't meet buxom blondes in taverns?
sheesh.
alas!
a submission,
from ron
aka zaff,
aka sweeney erect.
(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)
It's very easy, easy as getting rained on. And you're
going to say that I am not saying anything new. And
you're going to say that I am not saying anything you
didn't already know. And you are going to say that
I'm just standing outside in the dark under the skies
waiting for children to pass so I can shake a dead
daisy at them and try to frighten them.
I know I am only saying old words in an old language.
There isn't much else left to say, nothing original,
just me and the rain and the dirt being beaten into
slime by the rain.
It's chilly outside, not cold but chilly and the stars
are big and fat like pimples ready to pop on the face
of some poor kid, some kid who will have to wait 5
years to get fucked and then have it happen with an
ugly chick after a party and a lot of beer.
A few days ago the girl I love left me via a
moderately long and affectionately worded e-mail. And
now, just a few days later, it is raining again. As
if nothing ever happened!
Today I was standing around on a street corner,
waiting for a friend, and some girl in the apartment
across the street was cleaning and playing her stereo.
The girl I loved and I always used to joke that our
relationship was like an 80's movie. And this girl,
across the street, was playing the perfect 80's
break-up soundtrack.
Don't you forget about me
I'll be alone, dancing, you know it baby
I'm alone but I'm not dancing. And I don't see any
real hope for salvation just before the credits roll.
God is no John Hughes.
A few nights ago I was in my room thinking about
suicide. Not really planning on doing anything, just
thinking about it. It's a logistical nightmare...
couldn't figure out one decent way to do
it that wasn't risky or expensive.
What is the risk when you try to kill yourself? That
you will only maim yourself and have to go through
life like that.
So, because I didn't feel like getting a job just to
afford a gun to shoot myself, and probably for some
other reasons too, nothing really happened that night
except that I watched 'The Breakfast Club' and went to
bed and woke up.
And now I am standing out in the rain, having read her
e-mail saying that she had already found a nice boy.
Well! Why not? Move on...after all it's been only a
few days and already it's raining again. It's only
been a few days and already the stars are out again
and the squirrels are running around. The dead
blackbird under the bridge I walk over on my way
across town is still being converted into protein and
soil.
There is no resolution here, not now. No conclusion.
It is still raining and I am still here. Drip drip
drip. That was my little frivolity. Drip drip
drip--a little light heartedness to keep you
interested, draw you in, make you love me.
I am thinking now of the girl, so lovely and perfect,
happy, thrilling, clever, gorgeous (the most gorgeous
eyes and lips I have ever seen) and hoping she is
happy, singing a loud song offkey and in Spanish
somewhere right now, and I'm sure that she is, and I
smile a little bit. I hate myself for losing her
love, but hope that she is happy, that she won't do
exactly the same things to the next boy and he won't
do the same things in response and that things work,
because she deserves that. And hoping that I can
disappear, be made into slime by the rain.
Don't you forget about me
I'll be alone dancing you know it baby
If I dance, it will have to be alone.
===
we all invent ourselves
REM
)*()*()*()*()*()*()*()*()*()*()*(
i'm going to smell like peaches because i've been burning this candle all
night hoping to lure you in. its scent covers up any reeking stench that
may waft from my body. now, if i were to go out in public, i would smell
like a flaming peach.
oh, and rather than clue you in on the gory details, i will just describe
the one instance of frightful hatred: i was not chosen to enter the circle
of the spiritual elite due to my hair color and width of waist. i've been
trying to decide who to blame for this short sighted, ignorant nonsense,
and my only rigid finger is pointing directly at the dalai lama and all
those other blasted eastern mysticists and spiritual giants. how do they
get away with just wearing a small blanket, when women all across
mediterrania are stuck covering their whole body, save the eyes, with
thick, unrevealing, fashion-blind garments? why do these leaders of asia
and the middle east keep ME from getting MY KICKS by hiding their regions'
TRUE BEAUTY while only exposing flabby, aged mens' arms and wobbly legs?
they really must know something i don't. or maybe i know something they
don't. or maybe both cases are true, and i should leave it at that. or
maybe i should start a holy war. BREASTS and GYPSY EYES vs. BUDDHA and
UDDER GANDHI. it'll be the next big event out there, saddam hussein won't
even know what to do. he'll hide in his little bomb shelter because me and
my beer-guzzling american unionized factory workers are gonna trample
through his dumb dry desert of a country on our way to show them eastern
thinkers a piece of our RIGHT THINKIN'. they either ain't got a clue over
there or they're too engrossed in their cows or somethin'.
[WARNING: THE LAST PARAGRAPH WAS A PARODY. IF EASTERN THINKERS WANT TO
WORSHIP COWS, THAT IS THEIR OWN BUSINESS. MAMMARY IS MAMMARY.]
--
ÕÕª .-.
»ÕÕÕº ª »ÕÕÕÕº Õª ÕÕÕÕÕÕÕª | | this was an
Õª ÕÕ | | honestly bad
»ÕÕÕº ÕÕÕÕÕ | | time-waster
»ÕÕÕÕÕÕÕº | | email-box
ÕÕÕÕÕª ÕÕª »»» | | filler
»º »ÕÕÕÕÕº »»ÕÕºÕº »ÕÕÕÕ»Õº »ÕÕº »»ÕÕÕÕÕÕÕº | | from
.----------------------------------------------------------| | trilobyte
`----------------------------------------------------------`-'
flodis / flowers of disruption #23 / 20.09.99 / trilobyte@hoe.nu
tell your friends to roll some snowballs with flodis
