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Spilled Ink 04
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ÀÄ ÄÙ
Ä electronic literary 'zine Ä
*ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ*
ù ÄÄ´ volume four ÃÄÄ ù
*ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ*
stop plagiarism - let out your soul
Copyright 4/95
ú úùcompiled & edited by Twilightùú ú
ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ
þ Table of Contents þ
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
1. A Funny Guy - Ralph Cherubini
2. About A Girl I Spent Two Weeks With In Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
- C.E. Nelson
3. Bird Poop - William Kwok
4. Blank - Jason D. Lee
5. Bliss - Ray
6. Cobain's Final Lesson - Stephen Lush
7. Consumed In Flames - Angie Huffman
8. Desert Sky - Sdnaik@iastate.edu
9. Doll Parts - Courtney Love
10. Dry - Cloie
11. Hidden Rooms - James V. Scibetta
12. Hurt Me Again - Jamie Stokes
13. Hurting You Back - E. Ann
14. I Thought We Might Get Closer... - Tucker Latham
15. Ice - Therese Leigh Stamm
16. If You Keep A Rat In A Cage - Michael McNeilley
17. Il Girasole (The Sunflower) - Eugenio Montale
18. Introvert - Todd Knight
19. Journal: V. - Karen Y. Chan
20. Madrigal - Sue Lee Katherine Troutman
21. Memories Of Love - Kim Clemente
22. Mingling - Todd Knight
23. Moon Dancing - Terry Schorer
24. Musings - Damya
25. My Ballerina - Surfohio@mailbox.iwaynet.net
26. Poetry In Motion - Michael Johnson
27. Post To Me: The Purpose Of Poetry + Poem: Domestic Violets
- Eu-Ming Lee
28. Remembering - J.L. Dowd
29. River - C.E. Nelson
30. Rock Star (Alternate Version) - Courtney Love
31. Sexual Dreams - Max@computek.net
32. Sinners - John Anguish
33. Someone Reading This - John Quill Taylor
34. Teenage Angst - Jason D. Lee
35. 10 Months - C.E. Nelson
36. The Boy Who Dances With Waves - Midori
37. The Joker - Ray
38. The Time Has Come - Mike 'Chupa' Christensen
39. This Music Burns - Chuck deVarennes
40. Tomorrow - Carlo G. D'Agostino
41. Twilight Shadows - James V. Scibetta
42. Untitled - Eu-Ming Lee
43. Untitled - Steve Marra
44. Untitled - Ray
45. Wind - Jim Higdon
46. Written In Lights - A.C. Missias
þ Including Quotes From:
"Forrest Gump", Courtney Love, Anne Rice, William Shakespeare
ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ
A Funny Guy
þ Ralph Cherubini
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
he was a funny guy.
when we were kids we would pull all kinds of pranks on him
he was very regular
same time same place every morning after breakfast
once we hid all the toilet paper in the basement
he just went out on the backyard lawn
naked
and stood in the rain for 16 minutes.
we timed him.
another time we hid all his underwear
we peeked from the closet as he put on his trousers without any.
one day our dog died
my sister and I cried and cried
he crawled into our room on all fours panting
and we pretended he was still alive.
I still think of him as a dog
or cat
or any number of things
and I am sorry
now
that we made fun of him
but I know it was all
all of it
part of the game.
about a girl i spent two weeks
with in philadelphia, pennsylvania
þ C.E. Nelson
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú
she threw me out after two weeks.
she said she loved me but had had enough.
she was pretty hip, ate tofu, wore big
city clothes and took big city steps.
she read tarot cards constantly.
she said the cards didn't like me.
she said i had to go.
she said, i love you but you have to go.
she also said, i can't have you here.
so i left.
i left on the amtrak
from 30th street station
at three pm on a thursday.
i didn't tell her i was leaving yet.
she cried when she got home, they informed me.
then, becca called me and cried some more.
i don't know why she did that.
she did it again the next night but
i had caught on by then.
you miss me? i asked.
yes.
want me to come back?
no.
are you sure?
no... yes.
i didn't go back.
i wanted to go back
but i didn't.
i don't know why i wanted to - maybe it was the city.
philadelphia was a nice city.
each and
every day i would take the subway
to south street
and roam the long blocks
of trendy shops and restaurants
feasting on steak sandwiches and blowing
cigarettes, thinking poetically
about nothing;
about the blonde hooker in chinatown;
about the liberty bell
and ben franklin's grave.
it must have been the city.
it might have been the girl.
maybe i just needed a vacation...
maybe
maybe
maybe.
Bird Poop
þ William Kwok
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùú
birdy birdy
up in the sky
why did you poop
on my eye?
did you do it
out of ill will?
or did you do it
for a cheap thrill?
your little gift
left quite a stink
thanks for nothing
you fine-feathered fink
next time we meet
what a delightful surprise
simply because
it'll be your demise
one last question
one last lie
that's all you'll get
before you DIE!
Blank
þ Jason D. Lee
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùú
And I am blank
no words to guide the blind
for they are blind by anger and sorrow
Blank because I have no emotion -
been there, done that
can't do that again.
Almost killed myself the first time.
Can't do that again.
I love him.
I love her.
I love the picture we make.
I love us.
I love my dreams.
I love our reality.
I love you.
I don't know what love is any more.
We are all in an uproar.
It is our fault?
Fuck you.
You are as lost as I am.
the sad thing is: you just don't know it.
So we sit.
And drink.
And find some sort of solice in our music.
And drink.
And talk about What Might Have Been.
And drink.
And sleep.
And laugh.
But on the inside:
We shed the tears that cannot fall over our cheeks.
We think and think and think and think.
Never resolving anything, just wasting time.
Because, you know, time heals all wounds.
I am living proof of that.
And the thing we love to do the most to ourselves -
and no one even suspects:
We beat ourselves up.
Whipping.
Slashing.
Beating.
Training.
Killing our own internal puppies.
I know.
I have killed my own puppies for over 20 years now.
But of course I had some help.
We are blind, don't you see?
We live in our own little worlds that rarely collide,
and when they do meet -
we say "excuse me" and go on.
Blind.
Blind.
blind.
b ind.
b ind
b in
in
n
Bliss
þ ray
ùúùúù
Leaning from side to side
Groping a crowded hall
Wrists and ankles tied
Smashing heads on the wall.
Acid eating the eyes
Hope shredding the skin
A throat slit by cries
Suffer trapped within.
Malice soothing the mind
Vomiting lies on the floor
Supremacy to the kind
And all that is all to abhor.
The gruesome under a veil
To abominate at birth
A smile pinned by a nail
Repulsed by no self-worth.
Foaming tears at the mouth
Licking up pitified spit
Poor man builds his house
In a rat-infested pit.
Excreting dreams in the sewer
Sleeps in a puddle of piss
Atrocity couldn't be truer
Loathing a rich man's bliss.
Cobain's Final Lesson
þ Stephen Lush
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
artist and attention-getter
lend me your soul in
a chord or two -
you made meaning from sonic electricity
some hear ugly hate
but i see beyond your middle finger
trend hater, trend maker
angry and wild, a fragile child
you said "I do not want what I have got"
proved it true with one shot
now what's done can't be taken back
"out of the blue and into the black"
now heaven, hell, or void will have its way with you
unaffected fans remain few
the average self-death affects six, yours a billion and two
what about those two
did they mean nothing to you?
anger fills my heart
at a life whose I was never a part
hey
wait...
no, it's too late
love your friends by living,
"through this"
please.
(dedicated to those who haven't folded)
"He's stupid; I'm smarting... I want my baby, where is the baby, I want my
baby, they took my baby..." Ä Courtney Love
Consumed In Flames
þ Angie Huffman
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú
The burn of desire
It lingers on and on
The softly flaming fire
Even after you are gone
Only mere reminders
Are these scars upon my soul
The scorching flames keep rising
As the heat begins to lull
My heart so full of longing
The distance is so far
I reach for your desire
Holding on to a prison bar
Trapped inside four walls
Set me free my heart proclaims
But the passion just keeps searing
Consumed forever in flames
Desert Sky
þ Sdnaik@iastate.edu
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú
Waiting...
Waiting in the
starless desert sky
The cold winds of time
shifting the dreams dunes
along with it.
Streaks of pale moonlight
creeping around me
As I see the mirages
again - visions of being there
Hopes beyond hope
Dreams despite illusions.
Drifting along
I wish I could return;
pause for some laughter
such an oasis reach.
The pain recedes
only to return
Can I see her again?
Can I hear her please?
Beyond the silent darkness
when the sun rises again
in this dark desert sky.
Doll Parts
þ Courtney Love
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
I am doll eyes
Doll mouth, doll legs
I am doll arms, big veins, dog bait
Yeah, they really want you, they really want you, they really do
Yeah, they really want you, they really want you, but I do too
I want to be the girl with the most cake
I love him so much it just turns to hate
I fake it so real, I am beyond fake
And someday, you will ache like I ache
Someday, you will ache like I ache
I am doll parts
Bad skin, doll heart
It stands for knife
For the rest of my life
Yeah, they really want you, they really want you, they really do
Yeah, they really want you, they really want you, but I do, too
I want to be the girl with the most cake
He only loves those things because he loves to see them break
I fake it so real, I am beyond fake
And someday, you will ache like I ache
Someday you will ache like I ache
"I wish I could find more help in terms of people that have gone through
it, 'cause people that have gone through it aren't interested in the
celebrity quality of me. And if you haven't noticed, there's quite a
large discrepancy between my celebrity and the band. You know? And
that's really gross. I feel like Cher. You know? It's like, you pay
attention to what I'm wearing, but, like, somebody buy my record, 'cause
it's an O.K. new wave record, please." Ä Courtney Love
Dry
þ Cloie
ùúùúùúù
the poet is dry
the heart is shallow
dank, with storms of empty thought
she regurgitates the numbness
into catchy clichs
poetry appraised
the debris of an unsound mind
so through and through
the soul sheds its contents
like a snake would its skin
coil and lash out
repress and purge
but you're soon to find
that it molds over time
decomposed into forgotten drama
so i rummage through my history
all spilled out
like clotted blood
upon the foundation of my being
the trials of my heart
recorded and kept
in this base form of symbolism
the connection of noun upon adjective
replaces the heavy tears
the swollen eyes
the linguistics of love
the grammar of aggression
my interior liquidated
running swiftly through pen and ink
and it blots and smudges
as this heart flows
simultaneously with the slate of hand
creation crutch
for i've said too much
and forgotten to feel
when the moment was real
so now it's all past
and the scroll ages before my eyes
the heart is shallow
the poet is dry
Hidden Rooms
þ James V. Scibetta
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
Come with me and we shall find
Hidden rooms within your mind
Ancient galleries of thoughts and dreams
Thundering waterfalls and crystal streams
Foilage thick with healing powers
Marble mountains and golden towers
Where time and space no longer exist
Where past and future turn to mist
Contentment and serenity flowing free
As you and I explore eternity.
Hurt Me Again
þ Jamie Stokes
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùú
Happy birthday to you
how should I celebrate
should I send a card
with a nice gift
no- you'd prefer me
tied in a ribbon
at the age of five
will a nice picture do
to quench your hunger
or do you have to hurt me again
hurt me again?
but you haven't stopped
each day I cry another tear or two
each day I long to forget your face
to forget your taste
your smell
to forget you
but you hurt me again
each day
you rape me
you never did-
oh you wanted to
but I would scream
I screamed once
you hurt me
hurt me again
and again
make me feel you inside of me
maybe I'll lose the fear
maybe I'll lose the care
Maybe I'll be able to hate you
hurt me again
(in celebration of the birthday of the person who
is my eternal tormentor, and who has caused much
pain in my life, but who I still can not harbor
any feelings of hatred. That emotion, it seems,
alludes me. Am I blessed or cursed?)
hurting you back
þ E. Ann
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú
i hate you when you hurt me
- i try to hurt you back
but i can't be that cold.
i hate you when i feel the
stupid
weak
tearstains on my sheets,
tears i've wasted on you.
my eyes are swollen
and my heart burns
and it's all because of you.
i hate when you call me
"her" name
and then call it a mistake,
instead of the slap of pain it really is.
i hate when you apologize
and sound so
sad
and desperate,
and i give in.
i hate you when you hurt me
and i can't make myself hurt you back.
i thought we might get closer...
þ Tucker Latham
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú
my fingers glide with the fluid ease of familiarity over the letters...
twilight
but where joy would fill my heart with its warmth after typing it not so
long ago, now the empty, aching space left by its absence is overwhelmed
by trepidation...
i try to force back the memories, the pictures, the thoughts that ran
rampant through my mind, threatening to take my sanity with each and every
passing moment...
but i realize that i have not brushed it off. a voice that once evoked
calm, reassurance, comfort, a feeling of love and being loved, need and
being needed, wanting and being wanted whispers from the void that has,
without warning, filled my immediate area with silence and darkness.
`true love never dies...`
how those words once brought me comfort...
now... how they smack of betrayal.
...perfidy
my knuckles turn white with agony as i clench my fists as hard as i can...
keeping with the hierarchy of needs, the simple, physical pain distracts
me as the carefully-manicured guitar-pick fingernails on my right hand
cut into my palm.
screaming in torment as my relentless mind returns to its anguish, i
curl up and begin to cry. tears track their salty course down my face as
i weep with abandon, focused on the loss.
...treachery
searching for an answer, i cast my gaze accusingly at the moonlit,
starry sky, and, with tears clouding my vision, utter a single demand...
a solitary question...
`why`
with no answer forthcoming, i curl up on my pallet, once a theater of
comfort, now cursed with the numbing bleakness of solitude...
i hope... i hope i will fall asleep soon... Because... in silence
there is only one thing i can think about.
my throat is hurting with the ceaseless sobbing. i think back to a time
when i had solace...
a pair of arms, that when wrapped around me would take away all my pains
and deny the assembled catastrophes of the day their significance...
a shoulder, which would soak up my falling tears, and with them, my
fear, my doubt; replacing them with hope, meaning... be...longing...
a pair of lips, that when curved upward in a welcoming, comforting,
beautiful smile, said `i love you` without parting...
a pair of eyes... looking into mine own with concern... loving me.
picking up my instrument, i begin to play the song i wrote for her...
it is at once beautiful, chaotic, enigmatic...
and its beauty reminds me of her.
as i play, i realize that strangely, although i am deeply saddened, i
retain some hope... for the song is not complete.
once again, perhaps, it shall slip back into its rhapsodic beauty...
this time, filled with knowledge of the pitfalls ahead and borne with
the skills to surmount them.
learning to love.
"And just remember: this is all bullshit. And I'm laying in our bed, and I'm
really sorry. And I feel the same way you do. I'm really sorry, you guys.
I don't know what I could have done. I wish I'd been here. I wish I hadn't
listened to other people, but I did." Ä Courtney Love
Ice
þ Therese Leigh Stamm
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
I came as a bride to the cold country,
brought all my warmth from the sea.
Then, each morning, with him gone,
I left the cabin alone, climbed the mountain
to where Lone Pine Ridge breaches the sky,
and beyond -- up the deerpaths
to the old sheepherder's racked hut, past
the high meadows, to the crest
(impossible to see from below)
where the wind howled lost
in the stand of ragged lodgepole pines, where
only the red-tailed hawk and golden
eagle come this high, searching for prey
down the backside into the valley below.
With the noon sun slinking across cloudless
skies, I passed the great horned owl
who lives in the tallest pine, sheltered
in the west side of the mountain
above the crags, above the cavern.
Flushed from his nest in the daylight,
he brushed my cheek with his wingtips,
letting me feel his force. A warning.
I followed the path of the mountain goat
and learned to track the stalking cougar
to her lair in the rifted canyon, and
walk with the deer on their silent march
down the hills to drink in the sunset river.
When he came home, I led him up
the moontracked path to feel
the fresh snow fall. I pushed him down
on the hardpack, unzipped his jeans
and took what I thought was mine,
tender and white, the snowflakes
settling on our naked skin, melting
in my heat. I fucked him in the icy forest
clearing, surprising him, startling him
like a caught deer, shagged by the shank.
He fell in the snow, victim of my desire,
unwilling, but captured,
and the ice of his heart
never melted
as his body complied.
He told the boys in the bar
his wife is a sexual predator,
become the weird woman of the hills. Wild,
she brought her beachy ways
where they don't belong.
"Complex as a shell, she could wind you
in her convoluted circles if you aren't careful."
"You can't give an inch or she'll take it all,"
they agreed. "A woman has to learn
her place -- and that's in the kitchen,
not yearning for the high
wild country that belongs to men."
"A man has things to do
that don't involve a woman --
buddy hunting and bragging,
drinking strong liquor,
testing his strength with the girls in town,
and he doesn't need to come home
'til the playing is through."
I felt myself captured
by the blue willow china on the shelves,
surrounded by crockery, polished copper pots,
the tyranny of mops and sponges, the dinner's demands
and the cold demeanor of the man come home.
I couldn't claw my way inside
his maleness, firm and rigid, unwilling,
and when he stayed in town 'til the bars closed
or 'til he sobered up on someone's couch,
day into evening and night into day
as I waited in long white nights,
I began to feel myself turn to ice.
I never thought any more of the boys on the beach
running and singing into the night
unhurried, with their warm beer waiting,
swimming in the tepid waves
and feeling their hot tongues
coming like fishes.
I felt my skin grow cold in the lapland wind
and made my bed alone in the snow,
and watched my wildness freeze in cold summer.
I no longer followed where the cougar stalks
or played the trail of the deer; the owl
was safe from my intrusions.
I thought,
no wonder lemmings throw themselves into the sea,
hopeless. this is a cold country --
where the ice of desire
imprisoned
envelops
all.
If You Keep A Rat In A Cage
þ Michael McNeilley
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
If you keep a rat in a cage
the rat will lose the impulse to bite you.
Will take food from your hand gently, before
running away with it, back into the corner.
Will climb above on the perches
like a bird in the night.
Will race to the cage door in the dark
and watch you pass, hoping.
Will press its face against the bars,
against the floor as you pet it, as you
stroke it kindly with one finger.
Will perch on your shoulder, and run around
inside your coat, and try not to
piss on you.
If you keep a rat in a cage, and you leave
your best wool sweater there too close by,
the rat will drag it in, pull it through
the narrow opening between the bars
with a strength that seems supernatural,
and tear the crap out of it,
pull the shreds together in a huge rat's nest
and sleep in it, happily shrouded in
closeness to you.
If you keep a rat in a cage, there is no guarantee
the rat will come to love you, but
chances are good. As is the likelihood the rat
will be authentic in its affection;
will be constant and return good treatment
in kind. And if the rat escapes,
the chance is strong it will return
from beneath the eaves, chattering,
turning its head to one side,
showing one red rat eye, unblinking,
entreating, freedom is not so much,
take me back in.
"I may not be the smartest man around, but I do know what love is."
Ä "Forrest Gump"
Il Girasole (The Sunflower)
þ Eugenio Montale
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
Portami il girasole ch'io lo trapianti
nel mio terreno bruciato dal salino,
e mostri tutto il giorno agli azzurri specchianti
del cielo l'ansieta` del suo volto giallino.
Tendono alla chiarita` le cose oscure,
si esauriscono i corpi in un fluire
di tinte: queste in musiche. Svanire
e` dunque la ventura delle venture.
Portami tu la pianta che conduce
dove sorgono bionde trasparenze
e vapora la vita quale essenza;
portami il girasole impazzito di luce.
Bring me the sunflower that I will transplant
in my garden soil parched by salt,
let it turn all day long, its face
to the flashing azure sky, yellow yearning.
Things born in shadow yearn towards light,
long to swim in a torrent of color, of music;
to disappear thus is the goal of all adventure.
So bring to me, with your own hands, the plant
that turns forever towards the source
of transparence and light, where life vaporizes
to its essence; bring me
the sunflower, in love with the light.
Introvert
þ Todd Knight
ùúùúùúùúùúùúù
They
say "the
eyes are the
window to the
soul."
That would
explain why
I
never
make
eye
contact.
journal: V.
þ Karen Y. Chan
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
an ice-cream parlor
way up there
plastic seats
and marble tables
you licked my chocolate
the way i adore
and saw your nose wrinkle
but i didn't like your vanilla
vanilla peace
don't think you recall
the place at the corner
with the dumplings round
and tea oiling the rims
of those generic cups
it was dark
and the plastic rose
covered our mouths
chewing air like
silent food
wish you knew
the street lights flickered
fireflies in the damp night
wetting our palms sticky
stairs as we walked up
not looking
until we reached second floor
walked through your door
and held on all night
night hungers
i wanted to eat with you.
Madrigal
þ Sue Lee Katherine Troutman
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú
I dream
of the balmy nights
beneath the palm trees
swaying
in the Caribbean breeze
the last lights
of sunset
creating
sensual definitions
to the contour
of your moistened lips
the smell of the ocean
the body heat
the pounding of the waves
the rhythm of your heartbeat
musk and mambo
like aphrodisiacs
sultry
swaying
to the drumming of the night
Memories Of Love
þ Kim Clemente
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú
I'm quiet today, I'm silenced today.
I remember what the peace felt like,
I remember the gentle smile that you
Gave each time I entered the room.
The same hospital room. The last
Time I got to say I love you.
Do you remember, Grandma, that I sat
There with you from the minute I woke up
Until the moment I put my weary head to rest?
I was in good spirits then, I tried
To make you laugh, and we watched
All those stupid t.v. shows, and distant
Relatives came to be with you, came to see you
Before you left. And you said you only wanted
To live to see me graduate, your first
Grandchild to go this far, your
Proud and shining star. I made sure you
Could still drink your tea, one-half
Teaspoon of sugar and me, trying not to melt
The straw you had to drink it through.
I remember the strength you gave me,
The encouragement and the love to help
See me through, when I could do nothing
For you.
So this May (may I make it that far),
I will graduate for two.
"We vow to weep seas, live in fire, eat rocks, tame tigers... This is the
monstrosity in love." Ä "Troilus", Shakespeare's 'Troilus and Cressida'
Mingling
þ Todd Knight
ùúùúùúùúùúùúù
Well I don't want attention
(I just want to be noticed)
and I don't want to be loved
(I just want to be wanted)
and it hurts to be a finger
on a crippled, arthritic hand.
And I don't dislike all people
(just the ones I notice)
and I don't disdain communication
(I just don't like to talk)
and it hurts to be a player
with no adoring fans.
And I don't always act so vain
(just when I think I'm noticed)
and I don't distrust all women
(just the ones I've come to know)
and it hurts to be a cadaver
that's forever named John Doe.
"The pain is a deep dark sea in which I would drown if I did not sail my
little craft steadily over the surface, steadily towards a sun that will
never rise." Ä Anne Rice, 'The Tale of the Body Thief'
Moon Dancing
þ Terry Schorer
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
Sister moon's shining radiance
inspires this dance tonight.
Arms flung out and up,
head back, hair flowing,
twirling to her inner music,
feet flying a race of joy.
My eyes are dreamstruck,
My smile, a mist of yearning,
as I spin to her gentle piping.
Star dancing
Racing for the sky, I soar,
spinning amongst the stars,
wings wrapped about me,
as I listen to their fluting song.
Their radiant light fills my soul,
shining from my prismed body,
as my dance takes me into
the universe...exploding...
into fragmented points of light,
raining down on mother earth,
in homage.
Musings
þ Damya
ùúùúùúù
I just had an Epiphany - life is beautiful. "Way to go, Damya, you're
just frothing at the mouth with those great insights, aren't you?" O.K.,
O.K., so what I'm saying isn't exactly a refreshing, entirely novel idea.
In fact, I'm certain that thousands of brilliant minds before me have told
of the same conclusion, and with greater eloquence, yet despite that, I am
struck by this utterly obvious yet often overlooked thought.
Think about it, how often does the average person take the time to
stop running around on this hamster wheel of life and really, truly breathe?
Try it. Close your eyes, and take in a slow, deep breath of fresh air.
Feel your lungs expanding in that miraculous manner. Now hold it in. Keep
holding, and when your lungs begin to burn and your brain screams at you to
breathe, THEN you should realize how precious the ability to breathe is.
After that exercise, you probably agree with me that breathing is an
essential part of life. Based on that premise, why is it so few of us think
about breathing? The answer is simple; we are too caught up in the petty
parts of our existences, generally forgetting to enjoy the simpler, but
often most gratifying experiences of life.
Recently I was bored, so I decided to look at my hand. As I stared
at the ordinary body part, a funny thing started to happen - all of a sudden,
it ceased to look like a part of my body, an extension of me, and instead
began to look like a separate creature. I then thought about the thousands
upon thousands of tasks this one hand is capable of performing - from tying
shoelaces to holding someone else's hand to wielding a surgeon's knife if it
so chooses. Amazing, isn't it?
Then I thought about the rest of this magnificent body I have been
given, by God or the miracle of evolution, depending on what you believe. I
have eyes that can see myriad colors and the tiniest, most minute shadings
and textures of the objects I am surrounded by. I have ears that allow me
to hear the tiniest inflections in my friend's voice, to hear the
thundering of a summer storm cloud in a heavy, humid sky. I have a nose with
which I can smell the lovely, pungent tang of chimney smoke curling up into
eternity on a cold winter's morning.
There are so many different organs that make this body complete and
capable of doing the trillions of things it does in its lifetime. I am
beautiful; I am created to be capable of feeling the most exquisite pleasure
and the most extreme piercings of pain, not only physically, but emotionally
as well. I feel the scorching heat of a pan when I bring my hand too close
to it. I feel the bite of the first snow of the season on my cheek as I
trudge through the cold outdoors. But I also feel the pain of losing a loved
one to death or misunderstanding. I feel the peace that comes from
knowing I am with somebody who loves me. I feel the comfort and warmth of
skin when someone hugs me.
Some say the human body is merely a machine - I disagree. While we
may be machines, we are not JUST machines. We are not JUST flesh and blood
parts that are programmed to do certain things and react only in ways that
fit within specific parameters. We feel, we do, we live, and we make
choices. We choose with our own free will to do what we want. We choose to
talk to that lonely-looking soul standing in the corner at a party, we
choose to become dancers, astronauts, writers, lovers, poets, and friends.
No one can convince me we are all JUST machines.
Being what we are, we can choose to live as automatons, which sadly,
is what most of us do. Perhaps I speak only for myself when I say this,
but I don't want to die not realizing what it is to live. I don't want to
become so wrapped up in the troubles and struggles I'm faced with that I
forget we only live once. It's wrong to take life and everything that comes
with it for granted. I have only this lifetime to count on, this one,
relatively short lifetime in which to live, to make my mark and leave an
impression on this world that will be here long after I am only ashes. It
is a crime to not do what I think needs to be done here on Earth, to laugh,
to love, smile at perfect strangers, when so many people die early, leaving
the remaining chapters of their lives blank and unwritten. I am lucky to be
here, alive, breathing, and strong. Though maybe we are reincarnated and
live a thousand lives, I'm not taking that chance - are you?
"I am the girl you know, can't look you in the eye. I am the girl you know,
so sick I cannot try. And I am the one you want, can't look you in the eye.
I am the girl, you know, the one who should have died..." Ä Courtney Love
My Ballerina
þ Surfohio@mailbox.iwaynet.net
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú
Across the sand,
into the sea.
We dance on time and say farewell
to earth.
Across the red haze of the sunsets,
we dance and play.
Floating on the swell of life,
years of sadness falling away.
To ride and sing,
how high can we go?
Into the wave's breast,
I have touched her soul.
To see my ballerina floating on the sand,
outlined by the sunsets of my dreams.
No time, simply a being together.
Did you know,
it has been so wrong for me?
I need to go,
into your being and play upon the waves of
your soul.
Because I have touched your mind,
and know that I can't turn back.
When I am with you all is not there,
there is a timelessness that we share.
I love you my ballerina,
dancing on the sand.
poet's journal
M.Z. Evensen
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùú
i trace wing prints left by words
an endless while ago
i write about tomorrows and yesterdays
about the micro-time it takes to fall in love
and the eternity of slowly knitting
abandoned broken dreams
i leave colored chalk masterpieces
on summer sidewalks
and print tree rings in sequoias
i fashion leis of songs
and word-blossom coronets
more fragrant than jasmine and white ginger
i compile a journal of rain-washed days
and crisp pear mornings
i paint pictures of imagined lives
that washed into each other
like water colors
i write
Poetry in Motion
þ Michael Johnson
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
The pain hits my head and
the words flow like blood to
the eyes and minds of all
the people who behold the view of
the paper that holds my creativity.
The Poet , I am.
The words form from agony and
the happiness combines with
the emotions withheld throughout
the life of the problems faced with
the answers for tomorrow.
The Poet , I am.
The meaningless thoughts start
the process as the paper takes
the shape of the feelings rushing from
the mind of the writer as fingers flash
the past into a reanimation of life.
The Poet , I am.
The finished product offers
the reader the opportunity to feel
the suffering and heartache or
the triumphs and victories of
the things with which are not.
The Poet , I am.
Post to me: The Purpose Of Poetry + Poem: Domestic Violets
þ Eu-Ming Lee
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú
The purpose of poetry, in my opinion, is to reproduce a mood, emotion,
sensation, or image with the use of words. This, in itself, is a constant.
However, how one interprets that mood, emotion, sensation, or image may be
subject to personal experiences, but those interpretations must still revolve
around the central purpose of the poem.
In general, this is true of all art, and the ones which are most effective
are the ones which evoke the most well-defined emotions and experiences
from the audience. If your art is ambiguous in any way, its purpose is
lost. Whether your medium is prose, verse, free-verse, rock music,
photography, pencil, watercolors, or even movies or videos, the same
criteria for art holds.
Now, the trouble with good art is that it should be general enough so
that anybody can relate to it while at the same time being specific
enough to evoke a unique human reponse. Going even further, the response
evoked by the art should be immutable as time passes. Thus, while
Courtney's [Love] music is excellent because it is so violently vivid and
specific, it is also flawed since it can only touch a minority of
people in our brief time frame. However, this does not make me
appreciate her any less. In fact, I must appreciate her even more for
keeping the subject of her art so relevant and meaningful to us (the
audience) personally.
The reason we have poetry, music, or art is because we can't directly
download emotions. When you're sad or happy, you want it to be
contagious. You want to force your mood on others. You might do it
by gazing at your shoes as you shuffle slowly to class. Or you might
do it by irritating other people on the net. Sometimes, we feel so
strongly, happy or sad, but mostly sad since it is such a stronger
emotion, that it feels like we'll explode from keeping it all to
ourselves. So we need to share it. And the better we do it, the
better we feel about it. So roughly, I gauge the quality of any
work of art by its emotional baud rate. The more information and
emotion it can accurately pass with the most simplistic carrier, the
higher the baud rate, the better the art.
Here are some words a friend I really care for once said to me. She
said them as a joke, a balm to soothe the recent scars of her abusive
relationship. They are so crushing, so accurate, that even though she
just said them in passing, I still regard them as poetry because the few
simple words overwhelm you with images and meaning.
"I still have the scalp of hair he pulled out. Do you want to see it?
I keep it in my top drawer to remind me of him."
That still haunts me. And the way she smiled after saying that
still frightens me. I don't know if she kept it to remind herself
that he loved her or that he hated her. And by telling me, she was
passing a demon on to me so it wouldn't haunt her anymore.
And here is what I did with the demon:
Domestic Violets
Copyright 2/9/95 Eu-Ming Lee
Roses are red
And you're black and blue
Two domestic violets
For every bruise.
Roses for bruises
was no easy compromise.
Bruises being so rare,
they paid a dozen roses
for one.
But now you're not so sure
of anything anymore.
You said you knew how to live
And you knew how to love.
You knew when to forgive
when push came to shove.
But now you don't know anything anymore.
But at least you know your worth.
Roses being so rare,
they pay a dozen bruises
for one.
It's a wonder at all
that he still brings you flowers
or anything anymore.
Ming
set your demons free
"Fuck fuck you all except Ming." Ä Courtney Love
Remembering
þ J.L. Dowd
ùúùúùúùúùúù
I think I'll always remember you
in the early morning hours just
before dawn, when sky
is but a velvet drape with melting
colours soft as raindrops, a
time when everything is hazy
lazy clouds, majestic mountains
splashed across the sky in purple
palette, trees cloaked in sensuous
beauty swaying against indigo skies
stars like diamonds falling at their feet
thinking I'll always remember you
in the early morning hours, when
all I feel is gentleness
of morning about to awaken,
when all I hear is occasional
bird in song, when all I know is
peace within my heart knowing
I'll always remember you
in the early morning hours.
river
þ C.E. Nelson
ùúùúùúùúùúùúù
when it is time
to cut the corpse down
from the swing, let's rejoice and sing:
this neck will stretch no more.
and that mouth will
never chew a leg of lamb
and that mouth will never sing again.
that mouth will never again
seek out the wet embrace of another.
those lips
will never cling
to a beer
or
a woman named
sarah
who cries
for spring,
not even a fork
or blade of grace.
and the eyes, dead now,
will never see the way we
laugh
and turn from
our hastily buried regret.
Rock Star (Alternate Version)
þ Courtney Love
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
When I went to school in Olympia
Everyone's the same
What do you do with a revolution
(yeah, you just forget your name)
When I went to school in a fascist state
(Everyone's the same)
They call it punk rock and we got it great
(yeah, what am I supposed to say)
Hey you, please, make me real, fuck you
Make me sick, fuck you
Make me punk, fuck you
When I went to school in Olympia
(Everyone's the same)
From parasites to psychopath
Oh God, just please forget my name
When I went to school in Olympia (fascist state)
(yeah, and everyone's the same)
And we got a little revolution
And yeah, we won't forget our name, fuck you
Make me real, fuck you
Make me sick, fuck you
Make me punk, fuck you
Do it for the kids
Do it for the kids
When I went to school in Olympia
"Yeah, he knew he was the shit, but he had no rock star ego. And he needed
a little...And Kurt, you know, would carry his bag up cobbled Parisian
streets. You know, and he was scrawny, you know, carried this huge
suitcase because everything had to be punk." Ä Courtney Love
sexual dreams
þ Max@computek.net
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú
thinking of you. closing my eyes wishing I could be with you. wanting you.
smelling you. feeling you. tasting you. kissing you. cursing this
wretched reality keeping me from you. holding you. touching you. drowsy.
lethargic. longing to embrace you. undressing gently, carefully, lovingly.
adore being adored. tiny twitches of pleasure taking me over. ruffling
your hair. feeling the curve of your back. trembling. quivering.
breathless. taking your hand. laying side by side. caressing your face.
finger tracing the boundary of your mouth. stroking your legs. touching
your waist. the mound of your sex. swelling of your lips. clenching of
your thighs. possessing you. wanting you. desecrating you. drenched in
perspiration. waves of desire. rasping, gulping for air. breath on your
cheek. kissing your softness, rubbing it with my lips. squeezing your hand.
fingers stroking your hair, over your shoulder. wanting to be kissed again.
hands slowly crept around my neck. fingernails softy tracing. so soft.
mouth brushed against your neck, shoulders, breasts. losing control.
possessing you. a kiss that went on and on. forgetting the night. lips
wandering over the salty tang of your skin. kneeling between your feet.
owering my open mouth onto your sex, kissing, licking, sucking until it
starts flowing abundantly. bodies heaving. back arched. thighs giving off
heat. plundering your curves, your moist crevices. breathing quickly tempted
to satisfy this mounting desire. dissolving within you. lips are swollen.
your body nestled in my arms. contact with, pressing against your body
throwing me off balance. my head is whirling. losing control. seized with
a yearning. melting into a single lascivious entity. every nerve ending is
alive and tingling. legs entwined, twisting, arching, spreading, and
clenching. trying to control the flood of sensations overwhelming me.
explosion-implosion. overwhelming soreness. drifting off, floating high
into nothingness.
into a paradise of my own...
slowing of my thumping heart...
caressing you beside me...
and losing all sense of time.
Sinners
þ John Anguish
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùú
There`s an evil sky on the horizon
Blocking out the sun.
The wind, blowing it faster
Over here.
The silhouetted trees against the sky
One by one disappear,
Uniform grey.
I`m sitting in my car
Watching the river float by.
Sometimes wondering when,
Always asking why.
As the storm approaches
Turning light and shade to grey.
I wish you`d go away.
Oh well, the rain`s arrived,
Heralded by a piece of litter
Blowing ever higher in the wind.
And the greyness rushes nearer
Drifting faster down the river
Looking down on sinners who have sinned.
The rain, it`s getting stronger
And the seagulls have no chance
To get home, winging hard against the wind.
And the street lights switch themselves on,
Over there.
And as the ships pass by,
The ever greying sky
Seems so large against my insignificance.
I look out my window,
And you begin to cry.
someone reading this
þ John Quill Taylor
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú
someone reading this loves you truly
though you will never know it, you know that it's true
and it's good to know that you are loved
even if that love remains in a pocket forever
someone reading this abandoned a child
far out in the cold you listen and you hear endless crying
you say that it's not you, but you shouldn't feel left out
for you may be that child
someone reading this lies to a friend
losing all that sleep must be worth it
the real reward is that once you can lie to a friend
it becomes easier to lie to yourself
someone reading this cheats on a spouse
doing the nasty and you don't even feel a bit shamed
you won't realize your miscalculation until it's too late
for shame is an essential emotion
someone reading this has no legs
it's good to have a real sense of humor about it
so on the back of your wheel chair it says
the last time i got it up was in vietnam
someone reading this gets the AIDS virus
and it's very sad because you didn't even have fun
contracting your own death, and even sadder because
you don't even know you have it yet
someone reading this suffers every day
so i'm sorry i have to be the one to inform you
that no, it's not you
but i'm here to tell you that it could be
someone reading this wants to end a pain-filled life
and when you imagine your friends and your relatives
and all the pain and suffering this will cause them
you decide you will do it anyway, only not today
someone reading this will die soon
but you will make it look like an accident
since you were always one waiting to happen
and you finally even convinced yourself of that
someone reading this could be you and me
but of course if i get caught
i'll just say i was reading something else
how about you? what will you do?
someone reading this wrote this
look, they even placed some initials at the end of it!
but it's impossible to prove, and if you say it was me
i will just deny ever having been here
- jqt -
"What I want to capture is the look on a woman's face as she's being crowned.
A sort of ecstatic, blue eyeliner running...kind of 'I am...I am...I won!
I have hemorrhoid cream under my eyes and adhesive tape on my butt and I had
to scratch and claw and blow job [censored], but I won Miss Congeniality!'
And that's the essence of sickness in this culture that I'd like to
capture." Ä Courtney Love, regarding the cover of 'Live Through This'
Teenage Angst
þ Jason D. Lee
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùú
You can't hate me like I do.
I know me better.
And no one wants to share my world.
Or maybe I just don't want to share.
It doesn't matter.
The cause is hidden, but the result is well known.
I have a plan.
Most people don't understand it.
I had to explain it today to the one person it was written for.
Made her cry.
I'm an abortionist.
I made her cry.
Aborted her hope.
Killed her fucking puppies.
And right now, I'd kill anything I could get my hands on.
Let me sum up the last day:
class
work
jealousy
sleep
blood
phone
listening
jealousy
thinking
lunch
anger
letter
abortion procedures
Fuck you Mr girly-man who uses us.
Fuck you Mr wimp talking to her like that.
Fuck you Mr suave flowers kissy kissy man.
Fuck you Mr rapist.
Fuck you Ms I-know-more-than-you-do-'cause-I'm-just-trying-to-give-you-space.
Fuck you Mr overreaction.
Fuck you Mr "Can't anyone spell on this newsgroup?"
Fuck you Mr God. Where are you now?
Fuck you Ms Lee. Get out of your little beanie world.
Fuck you Mr mel. Mr killer of all hope in you and everyone else. Mr I
have to carry the world's burdens on my shoulders because someone has to
and I don't see anyone else doing it so help me make me into a martyr so
I will die and one day a book will be written about me and I will never
be forgotten.
Pussy.
You can't hate me as much as I do.
I know me better.
I want to say I am sorry.
But they are empty words.
I want to say I love you.
But they mean nothing.
I want to cry.
But no tears fall.
I want to die.
But I cannot.
I want to quit thinking.
But the brain won't turn off.
I want to return to some sense of normal.
But it just wouldn't be the same.
Fuck you.
You can't hate me as much as I do.
I know me better.
"I don't think Kurt wants to be standing in a Bar-do at the Gate as the
patron saint of drugs...beautiful losers, suicide, and heroin. I don't
think Kurt wants to be there. I know that wherever he is, a lot's
dissipated, but there's a major guilt left behind. And he's got to have
his dignity restored, and his true self. And he could be a real grumpy
bastard, but that was part of his power. You know, without saying a word,
he could make the whole room feel like shit. You know? And he also had
an intense narcissism like, "You're coming to me." But he also didn't have
one ATOM of rock star ego, and he needed it. He didn't give himself enough
credit. I mean, he knew he was the shit. At the same time he didn't give
himself... I mean, he prayed every night. He taught our daughter how to
pray. One thing that...when I would, you know, verbally we would pray out
loud, is for him to love himself." Ä Courtney Love
10 months
þ C.E. Nelson
ùúùúùúùúùúùúù
kiss me kiss me
she cried
i pulled her by the lips
and she came unglued.
what are you doing
you filthy bastard?
kiss kiss, i replied, kiss kiss
while chewing on her tongue.
she wiggled. i blew my nose and
damned near choked on her lips.
girl was not there in the morning.
i was not surprised.
ten months later i heard:
she had vomited what
was left of me.
it came up with blue eyes and
tiny fingers, a bit of blonde hair,
no teeth. pinkish-grey and
screaming. somewhat alive.
she named it katlynn annamarie.
the woman had some sense after all.
one day i had a letter in the box.
inside the envelope was a photo
of me, only very very tiny
and with blue eyes (not my brown eyes).
there was a note as well:
here's your daughter, you sonofabitch.
she's beautiful. i don't love you. you
were hell in bed. you can never see her.
i want to fuck you again, so, fuck you!
and if you come near us i'll shoot you in
the ass. i love you. look at this beautiful
child!!! how could you do this to me? my
belly is back to normal now. if you could
see me, you would want to fuck me again.
the stretch marks are not so bad. i am
going to marry the landfill worker. he
beats me. you never did. you were always
soft and gentle with your little hands.
a nice guy, i always thought. you make
me sick. love, rebecca.
p.s.
fuck you!
i folded the sheet of paper and placed it
back into the envelope, then folded the
envelope and stuffed it into my pocket. i
was still holding the photo.
i looked at it for a long time.
the little girl was gorgeous.
she really looked like me. this
was too much. i started to cry
and soon my shoes were soaked.
my head kept ringing:
nelson, you're a father now...
over and over as i went up the
stairs to my apartment.
i didnt know what to do. i
had never made anything so
lovely. i felt like a god.
a very poor and worthless god.
i took off my shoes and
put them out on the balcony
to dry.
the world had suddenly grown very bright.
The Boy Who Dances With Waves
þ Midori
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
The boy who dances with waves is gentle in his bidding.
He nimbly coaxes the blue maiden into a sweeping waltz
racing her over the ocean sand. She reaches up to meet
him and together they dance delicately, he tiptoes
around her fragile form, not wanting to disrupt their
fluid dance.
With his deft steps of utmost caution, she is his to
mold and bend and shape into the partner she so desires.
Together they hold each other in a streamline embrace,
a complete union, but a fleeting one at most.
For this fiery wave resents the boy who steals her heart
and she lashes out in a spray of foamy white.
The good-humored boy shifts his weight and braves the blows
that his willful companion inflicts,
never losing the rhythm of their dizzying waltz.
Onward they fly, as he tames and woos this volatile creature
with his carefree smile and swift, silent movements.
Her boy has tamed her and now he hears the music stop,
hears the song of another wave whose secret dance
he is yet to discover. Together they part,
she exhausted, falling to the sand, he ecstatic,
moving on to the next partner he will have to charm
with his gentle touch.
And so the boy who dances with waves carries on
his silent bidding.
The Joker
þ ray
ùúùúùúùúù
So many nights, asleep, awake...
Beyond my sights, the demons stake,
Tranced i'm lying, my breath he drains
I think i'm dying, but my mind restrains.
The Joker's here to collect his dues,
I pray in fear for faith to refuse,
He reaches inside against my might
To take my soul before dawn takes night.
Above my cries, laughs the Joke,
In my blood my feelings soak,
He shines on pain, my aching years...
Straight to my brain, resurrect my fears.
Strip my eyes, black and white,
Too weak i will to long the night,
Possessed inside, i'm frozen still
Aware, i hide, from his ill will.
So silence locks
My lips of red.
The Joker mocks
The life i've led.
My soul runs...
Leaves me for dead,
The devil comes
And fills my head.
the time has come
þ Mike 'Chupa' Christensen
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú
the time came for me.
tonight.
time for me to face my demons.
and win.
wasn't expecting the time
to be tonight.
just kinda happened that way.
there was warning.
about half an hour.
every little bit counts.
she just came on campus.
no real apparent reason.
not to see me of course.
that would be my wishing
that the past would be changed.
ha.
too late for that.
i found another.
the time came
in our own house.
why not?
that's where we met.
a year and a half ago.
has it been that long?
wow.
she was drunk,
i wished i was.
i wished i was invisible.
i faced my demons.
i got through the night
in one piece
which is good.
"release"
i screamed out the words
as the tears fell
i didn't care if she saw me.
who gives a fuck about what she thinks anymore?
doesn't matter.
all that matters now is
my megan.
she helped me get through the night.
thank you.
i can never thank you enough.
the past is gone.
that was made clear to me tonight.
no more i love you's.
funny.
the one who i stole her from
was trying vainly to get her
just like he did before.
he can have her.
she's a river.
and she's gone forever.
flowed off into the sea.
i loved her.
that was long ago.
i'm kinda glad she came.
helped me finally close that chapter
in the increasingly longer and more stressful book
that is my life.
i'm 21 years old.
it's not the years, it's the mileage.
amen to that.
i really wish i had some aspirin.
splitting headaches due to
extreme stress
are not good.
ground zero.
so much crap has taken place
at that bar at the house.
add another to the list.
"final talk with kelly magee - 3-25-95"
and shut the book.
This Music Burns
þ Chuck deVarennes
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú
band romps the storytell ride.
i sit with empty coffee mug,
full ears,
and happily forget
a good night's sleep.
i've been feeling old and closed,
suddenly remembered emotion
surges me.
grudging blossom,
i open
from amplified sound
that cuts through fear,
shatters the walls.
i'd been holding back,
growing slack,
fixed and pompous.
My arteries aren't stiff!
Full and flowing.
Creation,
rock and roll,
break me out!
fluid and vital
in naked joy!
i'm free.
this music burns alive,
i declare my legs working,
my heart open,
love unrestrained.
on a sonic flow
through human voices,
i'm taking back my soul.
Tomorrow
þ Carlo G. D'Agostino
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
The sky darkens
In shades of grey
Gathering the air
To cleanse our decay
Awash in confusion I slowly sink
My trust pludered by Deceit, my heart broken
Left only with myself of which to think
And so many words between us left unspoken
Games of chance are best left to the skilled;
No greater game of chance is there than Love
Its price no less than the spirit of which we are filled
Deeper than the sea, brighter than the the sun above
So let it rain
The drops are my sorrow
What we became
Left us no tomorrow
Twilight Shadows
þ James V. Scibetta
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
We leave a trail
Of broken parts
Of fractured dreams
And care-worn hearts
As we dive into
Another day
Another breath
We'll fade away
Into the web
Of eternity
A destiny spun
Of hyperbole
Where twilight shadows
Run and dance
Beyond the realm
Of circumstance
Where fate no longer
Has control
The freedom won
For every soul.
Untitled
þ Eu-Ming Lee
ùúùúùúùúùúùúù
When I was ten,
I had a friend.
She broke her head
and fell down dead.
Every now and
then and again,
I remember her
and feel ten again.
Suicide is suicide.
Kurt will always be
Twenty-seven
Crystalline time.
"I resent being a role model for marrying a rock star. I wanna slap girls
when they do that to me, I really do. That's disgusting." Ä Courtney Love
Untitled
þ Steve Marra
ùúùúùúùúùúùúù
Though I have paid penance to an uncaring extremity
For each year past the first feelings of ejaculatory warmth
Held by the whims of an engorging entity
I have fought urgings of violence.
Pondering the joys of a hymen bloody rending.
Wondering if for each unwilling fornication
I would scream jubilation!
Could I take the purity of an organ, unspoiled by consciousness
And fill it with my hatred?
Could I say to a frightened girl, dress torn, groin bleeding -
I'll break your neck if you scream
I'll rip your head from your shoulders and send it to your mother
in a box of roses.
Open your mouth before I fuck you in the ass, again.
Swallow my glistening spittle
gushing like blood from a savored artery -
Your tongue the blade
Your mouth the chalice...
I pause.
Am I repulsed?
Yes.
Am I capable?
No..... I would never.....
And from the whisperings of my mind.
*Yes*.....
Untitled
þ ray
ùúùúùúùú
Into stillness... i yield to be led by its wave
through the illness of mind, -- heartless, i sink
on my journey to the shore.
The sea will shell what i never forgave,
Release my resistance, -- but the last wish it gave...
Don't flirt with its waters no more.
Enduring the tide... master,... i obey,
through the depth of life, -- weightless, i rise
on my journey to the shore.
The sea will capture what i cast away,
Unbind my emotions, -- but the last wish I gave...
Don't drift up my beaches no more.
wind
þ Jim Higdon
ùúùúùúùúùúùú
the wind
pulls my shirt
broken bottles
a newspaper
and a girl's hair
as she walks
clutching herself
keeping warm
keeping up
with her boyfriend
a halfpace ahead
Written In Lights
þ A.C. Missias
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
Some things you need to get in writing.
Not just the mortgage rate
but -- exactly what do you mean
when you say you care?
Maybe thoughts would be clearer when put in lights:
an exhuberant *NEVER MET ANYONE SO WONDERFUL!*
flashing across an urban signboard
or *I'm really sorry*
in soft violet neon outside my door.
Everything demands the appropriate light:
the glint of a wine glass raised in toast --
much better by candles only;
an outdoor picnic with people-watching --
blazing sunshine, of course.
I'd still accept a blazing billboard
trumpeting my glories to the world.
But right now I am happy here,
savoring your kisses in lush darkness,
with background of subdued cityflicker.
ßÜ
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ß
Legalize.
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
Submit your original literary works for Spilled Ink, [volume five], to
Twilight.
Ice Castle: (713) 722-5400
Paradise Playline: (713) 597-4000
Or by Internet e-mail:
twilight@mail.utexas.edu
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
