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Spilled Ink 10
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Ä electronic literary 'zine Ä
*ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ*
ù ÄÄ´ volume ten ÃÄÄ ù
*ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ*
stop plagiarism - let out your soul
Copyright 5+6/96
ú úùcompiled & edited by Twilightùú ú
ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ
* All literature presented herein is copyrighted by their respective authors *
þ Table of Contents þ
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
1. An Afternoon Fishing Off the Coast Near St. Augustine
- Peter Damian Bellis
2. Angels - Ray Heinrich
3. At Sea - Ben Ohmart
4. Desirous - Janet Kuypers
5. Down By The River - Ray Heinrich
6. Eltania - Sanctified
7. Face Through A Glass - Drucilla B. Blood
8. For A Moment - Quinn
9. Forbidden - Heather Gilbert
10. Fuck Me - Twilight
11. Green Vinyl Chair - http://www.execpc.com/~jsilver/
12. I Am Vertical - Sylvia Plath
13. I Love You, Goodbye - Firefly
14. It Can't Rain All The Time - Jane Siberry
15. John - Janet Kuypers
16. Mirror - Sylvia Plath
17. Mother - Serena Lemick
18. One Of Those Days - Kurt Nimmo
19. Out Of Body - Greg Krehbiel
20. Pandora - Sanctified
21. Rape - Link
22. Robert - Janet Kuypers
23. The Coming Of The Storm - Shaun Allan
24. The Death Of Gully Hand - Beau Blue
25. The Red Heart And The Silver Heart - Ray Heinrich
26. This Twilight Garden - The Cure
27. This Weekend - HappyMonk
28. To My Daughter, Nancy. - Deborah Spungen
29. Untitled - Bob
30. Untitled - HappyMonk
31. Untitled - Molina
32. Untitled - Molina
33. Wrecked - Bloodshot
þ Including Quotes From:
Charles Aaron, Tori Amos, Dr. G. L. Cardwell, e. e. cummings, Dr. C.
Friedman, Garbage, Courtney Love, H. L. Mencken, _Now and Then_, Blaise
Pascal, Sylvia Plath, Arthur Rimbaud, Benedict Spinoza, Deborah Spungen,
and Everett True
ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ
An Afternoon Fishing Off the Coast Near St. Augustine
þ Peter Damian Bellis
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
I.
Buckets of ice are brought
On board and emptied into the
Locker. How the ice shines in the
Morning blue, glint of a
Thousand fish eyes, cold and
Hypnotic, augury aqua.
The men gather in twos
And threes and look deeply into the
Sun-warped sheen of the ocean and
Savor memories of the past:
Savage instinct foaming at the
Mouth; blood bubbly uncorked;
Pendulums of barbed steel slicing through
The dark, dark silence; the men watching from
Above in impenetrable brightness.
And so it is. The keel of the boat
Rips through this ocean garment, the
Salt-spray glistening as the stiff
Wind of passage blows flat
Each naked wave. Here there
Is unheard laughter, and the men
Cling to their bottles like
Infant gods and wait out the ride.
Then the boat slows, slows and stops.
From below there is only the blackness
Of the hull now anchored to the sky; and
Shadows rise, unwary and voiceless and
Versed, slipping into the wave-light and out;
A silent, unearthly fugue;
A song of mourning for the damned.
II.
Hungered by the blood-sweet meat of
Sacrifice, the men crowd 'round the
Red-stained wharf with strings of martyrs
Cold of bone and dangling and soul
Emptied. Unfelt hooks are lifted and
The bare bodies placed on the unction
Block, for sale, prime and washed white raw
And cut and cured with salt and wrapped
In strips of immaculate plastic cloth.
And the red hand of evening rises,
Rakes the black coals heaped in this
Pit of time; and the fire rages; and the
Bright robes of threadbare flame cover
The dead and send a pall of smoke
And ash rippling clean and upward.
Angels
þ Ray Heinrich
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùú
layer upon layer
the crisp ashes float
in the wind
carrying us off
where we will never see
the wind
like some believe in gods
like some give up
and turn to the earth
but in the middle of the sky
between blue and blue
there are angels
belonging to neither
gods nor earth
angels
of our fantasies
and of our fantasies
made real
or as real
as we'll ever be
angels
to carry us
wherever we hoped
in movies
or in
the illusion of life
we made for ourselves
angels
to carry us
out
out where we wished
ever since babes
wherever we wished
angels
of our fantasies
made real
þùúùþ
Ray is an ex-Texas technofreak and hippie-socialist wannabe. He
writes poems for thrills and attention, likes dogs, and owns a blue fish.
He published his first chapbook by secretly placing copies in local bookstores
and libraries. His poems have appeared in CrossConnect, Morpo Review, So It
Goes..., Sand River Journal, 33 Review, BiSexual Journal, billetdoux, Droplet
Journal, Sub-UrbanTerrain, No Trace, Biopsy, his own "Word Biscuit E-letter"
and elsewhere. An electronic edition of his chapbook: "lots more damn poems"
(Word Biscuit Press) is available free via e-mail.
Send e-mail/requests to: ray@vais.net
"I found eternity...it is where the sun mingles with the sea."
Ä Arthur Rimbaud
At Sea
þ Ben Ohmart
ùúùúùúùúùúùú
met, married, broke up, broke down
the lifeboat wouldn't move
the sea wouldn't drown
no one would hit a naked man
the captain sent his regrets, asked him to stop
the razor wouldn't take a bath
he did the worse, and endured
"- Approximately one thousand people commit suicide every day.
- Someone commits suicide once every 15 minutes.
- May is peak suicide season."
Desirous
þ Janet Kuypers
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
the light from you
the flames leap up
licking my lips
touching my skin
the fire moving
in its desirous dance
the smoke intoxicates me
as the remnants
from the desirous inferno
drum a rhythmic beat
and crackle as they burn
the ashes fall
sprinking
tickling my face
sliding down my throat
coating my lungs
making every breath
a desirous pant
I chain myself
my body falls limp
I am entwined
with the desirous world
the desire from you
þùúùþ
Janet Kuypers, 26, is a graphic designer for a publishing company in
Chicago. In her spare time, she is the editor of the literary magazine
'Children, Churches and Daddies', and sings in a alternative acoustic band.
She has been published in assorted literary magazines on nearly 1,000
occasions, has had two books published (_Hope Chest in the Attic_ and _The
Window_, which is currently preparing for its second printing), and is about
to print her third book, _Close Cover Before Striking_.
"In real life I'm bone dry, and when I play, I'm a mango, and in sex I'm
starving to be a dripping mango." Ä Tori Amos
Down By The River
þ Ray Heinrich
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
the body
smooth and white
is waiting no longer
and the stab wound
washed by the water
looks like a scratch
but admits your finger
like a small mouth
Eltania
þ Sanctified
ùúùúùúùúùúùú
i take a breath,
i can smell you on my clothes,
i can hear you in the song.
blister my tongue if i say your name.
i can pretend, i'll play along
with the little white lies
i've made myself believe.
i sleep in my bed,
i can feel your arms around me.
i can touch you in my mind.
destroy myself if i think of you.
i can pretend, i'll play along
with the little blatant lies
i've told myself today.
i cry all by myself.
i can see your worried face,
i can taste your lips on mine.
punish myself for wanting you.
i can pretend, i'll play along
with my insane denial
that i cannot cover up.
numb me, i can't take the pain.
smash me, i will never feel the same.
"To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day,
to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle any human being
can fight; and never stop fighting." Ä e. e. cummings
Face Through A Glass
þ Drucilla B. Blood
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú
A distorted image of reality when viewed from the top; the bottom seems
so much closer than it really is. Stick your hand into the water and the
real depth becomes apparent. It is in this manner that I begin my
journey. By the water. When I think about the time, those times when
everything seemed to fall apart to come together again, rebuild itself
in such a way as to redeem the value of life...all I can remember are
the times with the water. The puddles on the roof, the thunderstorms,
the nights of walks along the lake and the waves that slapped themselves
torturously against Chicago's man-made beaches. All of these things tie
into my mind. The walks in the rain when it finally ceased to matter.
When you finally realize that water is so much a part of you that it
can't possibly hurt you to just soak yourself, cleanse yourself, renew
rehydratereciprocaterecondateressurect.
Yes, I can see this now. I am fluid as the air that surrounds me is
solid mass that I float through. I am only as solid, only as impenetrable
as I permit myself, force myself, allow myself to be. One moment you may
try to touch, to feel me as I am, a physical body, a hardened mass. A
touch is so impersonal. A touch is so much less than to pass through.
You pass your hand through me and feel nothing. Pull your hand out now;
you are holding the stars and flowers and the vast nothing that was
inside of me. I am air, water and flesh. You are flesh with me and we are
fluid together...rushing into each other, stream to river to lake to
body. You reach your hand to touch me, but I am already there as the air
within your fist, the water in your veins, the flesh on your bones...
"If you put yourself where your lyrics are, it's like acting, only better,
because it's what you've either written as an allegory or an anecdote, or
it's happened to you, so you put yourself into the spirit of the song..."
Ä Courtney Love
For A Moment
þ Quinn
ùúùúùúùúùúùú
You ask me if I'm okay
and for a moment I hesitate
before nodding my head
and for that moment I debate
what if I tell you the truth
tell you I'm afraid
of being alone
of not being special
of screwing everything up
of not caring
of hating myself and everyone else
I'm afraid I'm losing this game
and in that moment I see you're scared too
that if I try to confide
I'll just be overwhelmimg you
so I smile and nod
and for a moment
I'm not so alone
"The less you know, the better off you are." Ä Dr. G. L. Cardwell
Forbidden
þ Heather Gilbert
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
The tendons rip -
lost in the softness of her blood
The languid, dark words which echo inside her mind,
Inside her heart.
Where tears form but cannot fall...
Where words are heard, but she tries to block them out,
Tries to hide inside the film of darkness,
in the temple of her mind.
The meek gaze of a child:
upon the only greatness she has ever known.
The fear and the sickness of the darkest secret.
The secret no child should have to bear.
A gentle shower of love:
Nothing but a burden of lust.
Does he like to watch her burn,
shaking and falling upon the ground before him....
Her body overthrown by the light
as she turns to the sun for comfort
and screams:
When will this end...
Fuck Me
þ Twilight
ùúùúùúùúùú
Down I glide through the
river of ink
Ink so liqui-ous black and
pure
Gushing, rushing, raving,
running
Splashing onyx hot loveliness
Through my clenchd fingers
As I squeal with delight
As it lusciously tickles me pink
Pink in my inner folds of
promised love and satisfaction
Hot and tender, fragrant as e'er
Sliding, exciting, panting,
And giggling
Trying to grab hold of the
slippery sides
Flailing helplessly, lovingly
As searing darkness
Leaps like coins upon my chest,
my neck, my lips -
I taste its burning love
enveloped in my curled tongue
And on my knees
As I draw them up close
And upon my hardened
nipples of soft flesh
Smooth, succulent,
shining sweat
Steaming milk
Licking up my sweet delectable
oozings of vapored milk
Running down my knees
Cutting grooves of red down
my silky skin
Pleasing me as they caress painfully
into my thighs
Beneath my lace and satin
Plunging, squeezing, pumping,
Fucking me like no human penis
Into every hole, into each abyss
Bleeding me humbly
While loving the taste of my
own blood
Tasty drops upon my lips
Semen mixed with red beauty
Making me sexless
By enjoying my sex,
my petal-pink youth
I drown, enraptured in
happiness
In make-believe sunshine
Fornicate repeatedly into oblivion
Nothingness, blackness
Fucking my brains out
And shitting them onto the floor.
"Slut me open and touch my stars
Slit me open and suck my scars" Ä Courtney Love
Green Vinyl Chair
þ http://www.execpc.com/~jsilver/
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
our first ever together thing
her pillow compliments
your faux euro styling perfectly
hold us in the blue ghost light
slippery in your swabbable embrace
hold me
a wet haired reader
who ensconced
awaits the sound of keys
ill turn you
so all your good sides are up
and in the summer
youll be to my sticky thighbacks
our love seat
weve got to scrunch
so you make one
I Am Vertical
þ Sylvia Plath
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùú
But I would rather be horizontal.
I am not a tree with my root in the soil
Sucking up minerals and motherly love
So that each March I may gleam into leaf,
Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed
Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted,
Unknowing I must soon unpetal.
Compared with me, a tree is immortal
And a flower-head not tall, but more startling,
And I want the one's longevity and the other's daring.
Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars,
The trees and flowers have been strewing their cool odours.
I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.
Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping
I must most perfectly resemble them -
Thoughts gone dim.
It is more natural to me, lying down.
Then the sky and I are in open conversation,
And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:
Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have
time for me.
I Love You, Goodbye
þ Firefly
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
What, what, what do you want me to say to that? I'm happy for you?
Thrilled? Look. Look at this smile! No! Look at me, not through me.
You're always trying to read me; read the unreadable. You know me better
than to think you can read me. You see what I want you to see; nothing
more! I'm tired of seeing you. I'm tired of hearing you. I'm tired or
crying for you. So go; just go, if that's what you're going to go. GO!
Ya know I knew you before, before you became this "star" that you are. I
knew you when, when your father thought you were gay, and your mother was
sick and tired of all the time you spent at the theatre. I gave you a
shoulder to cry on and told you they were wrong and they didn't
understand. I was there for you when the entire school was calling you a
freak and a fag, ooh how I hate that word, and I gave you a shoulder to
cry on and told you they were wrong and they didn't understand. But it
didn't matter what they said, because you were so much deeper, so much
more beautiful, so much better then they would ever be. And I was there
for you when your first professional director in your first professional
show told you you'd never make it, you didn't have the look, you didn't
have the voice and you couldn't act to save your life. I gave you a
shoulder to cry on and told you he was wrong and he didn't understand.
But this, this time you're wrong and you don't understand. You're wrong,
you're wrong...so wrong. What, is that not what you wanted me to say?
Is that not what you wanted to hear? Well this time I can't say what you
want to hear. What did you expect me to say? I love you goodbye?
I love you goodbye! I love you goodbye! Well let's see how many different
ways we can say it until I believe you. I love you, goodbye. I love you
goodbye. I love you, Goodbye. Fond farewells... remember me fondly...
We never said our love was evergreen. It's over now, the music of the night!
Oh. But you've been taught well. How many times did you practice that
one line?! I love you goodbye!
Oh, go ahead and walk away... you never listened to me before; why start
now? Why start now, because I want you to listen. You will hear me today
if I have to scream until forever comes because I love you too!! I love
you goodbye... goodbye... goodbye dear dear sir...
Oh, you're back; well, I humbly welcome you... Oh, thank you for blessing
me with your presence... So glad to see you, stranger... Yes, YES, I
realize people are staring at us... but I'm used to being stared at. I'm in
love with you, people think I'm insane... oh... why... why did you come
back; wait, Wait. I know why... because I said what you wanted to hear.
I love you.
And you don't understand what love is.
You don't understand.
Love is willing to give up everything that matters for another person. I
would give my soul, my life, the precious precious spotlight... I would
give you up for you; to make YOU smile; to make YOU feel better; to make
YOU happy. But what about me... what about how I feel... what matters to
me? But that's just it. I don't matter; the only thing that matters to
you is that goddamned spotlight... the goddamned glory... the goddamned
stage.
But that stage can't do anything for me, because no matter how many
different ways I say it, I can't make the feeling go away. I don't love
him... I don't love him... I don't love him... I don't love him... I
don't... don't love... love him...
I love you... go ahead and look through me... It's there; it's always there
in my eyes, in my soul... I can't act it away... I can't sing it away...
I can't dance it away...
I love you and you're leaving
You won't stay for me
You don't love me
You won't stay for me
You won't stay for them
You won't stay for yourself..
All because of your poor shattered ego
Oh bleeding heart..
Feel for me
Cry for me
Die for me
I would have done it... I would have done it all because I love you.
I love you.
I love you...... goodbye.
"I have relationships with people who are brave enough to deal with me, and I
don't want to deal with people who aren't." Ä Courtney Love
It Can't Rain All The Time
þ Jane Siberry
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú
We walk the narrow path
Beneath the smoking skies
Sometimes, barely tell the difference
Between darkness and light
Do we have faith
In what we believe
The truest test
Is when we cannot...
When we cannot see
I hear pounding feet in the...
In the streets below, and the...
And the women cried, and the...
And the children moaned at the
There's something wrong
It's hard to believe that love will prevail
It won't rain all the time
The sky won't fall forever
And though the night seems long
Your tears won't fall...forever
When I'm lonely
I lie awake at night
And I wish you were here
I miss you
Can you tell me
Is there something more to believe in
Or is this all there is
And the pounding feet in the...
In the streets below, and a...
And a window breaks, and a...
And a woman falls, and there is
There's something wrong; it's
It's hard to believe that love will prevail
It won't rain all the time
The sky won't fall forever
And though the night seems long
Your tears won't fall...forever
Last night I had a dream
You came into my room
You took me into the light
Whispering, you were kissing me
And telling me to still believe
...Within the emptiness of the burning seige
against which we set our darkest descent...
Until I felt safe and warm
I fell asleep in your arms
When I awoke, I cried again
For you were gone
Oh, can you hear me
It won't rain all the time
The sky won't fall forever
And though the night seems long
Your tears won't fall...forever
"There are things in life that you can't stop, but it isn't a reason to shut
out the world." Ä "Crazy Pete", _Now and Then_
John
þ Janet Kuypers
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
at the other side of the room
I look through the cigarette smoke
the roar of conversation
and the dim lights
I look at his face
but I no longer see John
I have dreamt and envisioned
a God-like figure
I have imagines his sensivity
and his thoughtfulness
I have felt his hands
caress my skin
his lips meet mine
he has held me
one thousand times
and protected me
I have rehearsed our moments
together in my mind
the moments I have created
the candlelight dinners
the dancing
the loving
while never knowing him more
than across a crowded room
the music blares
as I look over my shoulder
between the empty faces
and see his image
laughing
smiling
conversing with friends
my eyes flare with envy
I wonder why
he is not with me
but I know
the face across the room
is no longer John
it is a door to a dream
that will never
come to life
"A life lived in fear is a life half lived."
Mirror
þ Sylvia Plath
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùú
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful -
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important ot her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
"Don't believe in anything you can't break." Ä Garbage
Mother
þ Serena Lemick
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
i stared down to the boiling soup-
the red bubbles-
popping and splashing on my face.
she brought me this-
"eat it down" she said-
her smile growing-
eyes glowing.
i cry-
licking the tears when they run near my lips-
mingling with the coppery taste of blood.
almost reading my thoughts
she screamed
"you will never be-
you will never live"
i knew what she meant.
i threw the soup-
againt the already bloodstained walls-
and on myself-
covering my purity-
killing my innocence.
i spat on her-
and left the room.
i cried the night i killed her-
drowning her in love-
in her house of hate.
i cry at my lost purity-
innocence.
now i live high on a mountaintop-
alone in my mind.
"I'm very possessive of my pain and just express it for how it is. I used to
express my pain in ways that were terrible for other people. Ways you won't
want to know about. This is how I do it now. Hopefully, there are things
about my pain which are authentic and original and haven't been expressed
8,000 times by white males, and which people can find refreshing and
relieving." Ä Courtney Love, regarding her music
One Of Those Days
þ Kurt Nimmo
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
when I'm not sure
what my presence on the planet
means. I think the poet
d. a. levy was correct.
We invent games to keep
ourselves alive. Be it writing
or painting or flipping
burgers at the local Mickey D's.
Its biological imperative that keeps us
alive. J. P. Sartre told
confidants upon the moment
of his deathbed
that everything he wrote about existence
was bullshit. He didn't provide
explanation or alternative hypotheses
in the moments before he died.
I drive to a McDonald's
built on the edge of a farm field.
Last year it was corn. This year it's
McDonald's and a coming-soon subdivision.
I take the drive-thru. I'm hungry
and tired. Earlier in the day I had wanted
to kill an office computer. It's now five o'clock
in the afternoon. I wait in the drive-thru lane
for dried-out burgers and cardboard fries.
I think if life is not meaningless it is
at least completely absurd.
In such situations
I consider myself a very small and
insignificant fleck of existential flotsam
momentarily adrift in the
incomprehensible stew of the universe.
I'm resigned in the face of it.
I eat dried-out over-microwaved burgers.
It's the easiest thing to do.
J. P. Sartre wrote a lot of words
that he disavowed at the end. Rimbaud wrote
far fewer words which he also
disavowed at the end. Maybe it is
biological necessity that drives the human.
My brain is designed
to make the animal end of me
find and consume nutrients.
Even though sometimes
I have to beg for it
through a car window
and microphone screen.
"A conclusion is the place where you got tired of thinking."
Out Of Body
þ Greg Krehbiel
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
Tom hated riding the bus. It was degrading to stand in the mud by the
side of the road while his neighbors drove by sipping coffee and listening
to the radio, but his budget simply couldn't stretch any more. Cutting out
car insurance, gasoline and parking, although unpleasant, was easier than
cutting out the bi-weekly case of Milwaukee's Best. "A man's gotta know his
limitations," he said when explaining the situation to friends.
His wife had been out of work for almost a year now, and despite a few
temporary jobs here and there, which did little more than help them afford
better beer, the only likely end to the financial crunch depended on the
stock market. Their lifestyle belied the impressive and rapidly maturing
stock portfolio that was supposed to fund their dream: raising horses in
Kentucky. But that was still a couple years away, and Tom tried very hard
not to think about it. Until then, life was just a matter of making do on a
small budget.
Tom left one Monday morning for the bus stop, turned the corner at the
end of the court, gave a last wave in case his wife was watching, and then
walked past the row of dilapidated cars that were always parked along the
narrow street between his townhouse development and the main drag.
His stop was near the beginning of the line, so he almost always got a
seat. Today he sat next to a sleeping woman. He tried not to disturb her
with his morning paper, but she woke when the edge of the sports page
brushed her hand.
"I'm sorry," Tom said. "I didn't mean to wake you." He gave her a
quick once over: she was thin and somewhat plain. The short, rubber antenna
of a cell phone stuck out of her breast pocket.
"That's okay," she said. "I wasn't sleeping; I was walking around the
arboretum."
"Emergency! Break off contact," his mind told him, but he said, "Oh,"
and turned back to his paper.
"No. I'm not crazy," she responded, guessing his reaction. "I was
meditating. I can leave my body and visit other places."
Tom laughed. "Sure," he said.
"I'm serious," she persisted. "Haven't you heard of out-of-body
experiences? I've been meditating for years now and I have a spirit guide
who helps me. I can go anywhere I like."
"Okay," Tom said, deciding to have some fun. "I'm game. I'll give you
directions to my house. You go ahead and leave your body and go there, and
then come back and describe it to me."
She smiled indulgently. "Okay."
It surprised Tom that she accepted his offer, but he gave her the
directions and watched with some interest as she resumed her meditative
posture.
"If you don't mind," she said, opening her eyes. "I'd rather you not
watch me."
Tom shrugged, turned away and caught up on the Redskins while the bus
continued to lurch its way down the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. He
almost forgot about his meditative neighbor.
"You live in a light brown townhouse with green shutters," the woman
said as he got up to leave. "There are four azalea bushes and one holly
tree planted in front of the house. Your car - a blue Plymouth Satellite,
I believe - is parked in your space."
Tom tried to hide his surprise. He couldn't remember if there were
three or four azalea bushes in the front yard, but otherwise the
description was right on, and Tom wondered how she could have guessed so
accurately. She just laughed at him. She had a very distinctive laugh,
almost like the sound of a songbird.
"Impressive," was all he could say. She bowed her head at the
compliment and Tom hurried off the bus before the driver decided to move
on.
That night he talked about it with his wife, Sandy, over a few cans of
Milwaukee's Best. She was very concerned.
"I'd stay away from her," she said in a fearful voice. "She's probably
a Satanist or something."
Tom chuckled. "I think she's just a weirdo who likes to pull people's
legs. I doubt she's evil."
"You never know," Sandy muttered.
The next two days Tom saw no trace of the mysterious woman. He tried
to forget the whole thing and tell himself that she was just lucky. But on
Thursday morning, there she was, meditating in the same seat. Tom sat down
next to her, picked up his paper and began to read. She remained in her
trance until Tom folded his paper and got ready to go.
"You forgot to take out the trash this morning," she said as he walked
up the aisle toward the exit. Tom stared back at her, but he couldn't say
anything. The people behind him were pushing him along. He could hear her
laughing again as he stepped off the bus, bewildered.
He decided not to tell his wife any more about the strange woman, but
for the next few days he began to do quirky things as he left for the bus
stop. He'd set a penny on the porch chair, or put the classified section of
the paper in the mail box, or scratch a pattern in the dirt in front of the
azaleas. There were four, just as Grace had said.
On the following Tuesday morning he was running late and couldn't set
up any tests for his psychic friend, and he regretted it when he stepped
onto the bus and saw her sitting in her usual seat, eyes closed,
meditating. Once again, she was silent for most of the trip. Just as Tom
got ready to leave, she opened her eyes and spoke.
"What time does your neighbor leave for work in the morning?" she
asked. "The one in the gray house next door."
"I don't know," Tom said. "After me."
She nodded her head, somewhat sadly it seemed.
"Why?" he asked.
She shook her head, ever so slightly. "Never mind," she said. "Just
bring your wife some flowers tonight, why don't you?"
Tom wasn't sure what she was getting at, but he didn't have time to
pursue it. Her cryptic words made him feel uncomfortable, and they
certainly didn't make him feel like buying flowers.
The next day the woman was there again and she smiled warmly when he
sat down.
"What were you talking about yesterday?" he asked.
She shook her head and frowned. "It's a burden being clairvoyant," she
said. "You find out things you don't want to know - things it would be
better that you didn't know." She shook her head again. "Never mind. You
don't need to hear it from me."
"Is something wrong at my house?"
She hung her head for a moment in silence. "Well," she said, as if
resolving an internal question, "you'll find out sooner or later. Your
neighbor has been visiting your wife after you leave for work."
Tom felt his heart come into his stomach. How could it be? He thought
he had a good relationship with Sandy. Why would she do something like
that? His confusion quickly gave way to raw anger. He wasn't going to sit
still for this. If she'd been unfaithful, she'd live to regret it. He'd
make certain of that.
"Has she been unfaithful to me?" he asked the mysterious woman.
"I really don't want to get involved in this," she said, shaking her
head, but Tom persisted.
"You can't just drop something like that on me and then clam up," he
said. "Tell me what you know."
"It would be better if you heard it from her. Why don't you ask her if
your neighbor came by today? Maybe you two can talk it out." She paused for
a minute, empathy all over her face. "I'll be at the pool hall tonight if
you need to talk."
* * *
This was cleaning day, and Sandy was wearing an old pair of boxer
shorts and a sleeveless, cut-off t-shirt. She put her unwashed, long,
blonde hair in a bandanna; she'd shower after she finished her chores. She
liked to dress like this from time to time. It reminded her of crazy days
at the beach when she was in college. When she caught a glimpse of herself
in the mirror she realized her figure hadn't suffered over the intervening
years. But she was in a hurry to finish cleaning the bathroom before Sally
Jesse came on.
Sandy felt the cold bathroom tiles against her long, bare legs as she
stretched to clean some dust that had accumulated behind the toilet. She
accidentally bumped the line that ran from the water supply to the tank and
the old plastic washer at the connection with the tank gave way. She
screamed as the water ricocheted off the bottom of the tank and quickly
soaked both her and all the freshly-washed bath towels. Before she could
recover from the shock of the cold water against her bare stomach and turn
the shut-off valve, the bathroom floor was completely flooded.
She leaned back against the bathroom wall and sighed, wondering what
to do. Just then she heard a car door slam outside and realized that James,
the next door neighbor, was about to leave. He had always offered to help
out if she needed anything.
Sandy ran down the stairs and out the door, her dripping wet t-shirt
and shorts pasted onto her body, and thumped on the hood of James' car just
as he began to back out of his parking space. He turned to see who was
banging on his car, but his angry expression was immediately replaced with
a smile. He didn't seem to recognize her, but he was obviously looking her
over. Sandy realized what was going on and looked down at herself, thankful
that she had been doing the 20-minute workout four times a week for the
last several months.
* * *
Tom sat in silence at the dinner table. Sandy didn't seem very
talkative either. She usually greeted him at the door with a smile and a
kiss when he got home, but tonight she seemed preoccupied, and the dinner
was burned.
"Did James come over today, by any chance?" he finally asked.
Sandy looked up in surprise. Tom thought he noticed a hint of fear in
Sandy's eyes, but she turned her head back down to her plate, toying with
her chicken, and answered. "Yes, as a matter of fact. The toilet broke and
he came over and fixed it for me. How did you know?" she said, looking at
him again. Her face was inscrutable.
"A little bird told me," he said. "I've got to go." He got up from the
table and grabbed his jacket.
"Where are you going?" Sandy asked.
"To the pool hall," he said as he slammed the door. It felt good to
slam the door. The fears and frustrations that mounted all day seemed to
climax somewhere between Sandy's "yes" and slamming the door. Tom's face
was stern as he walked briskly down his familiar route to the neighborhood
pool hall.
By the time he made it to the bar, he was more than ready for a drink.
He set a $20 bill in front of him and pointed to the Budweiser sign. The
bartender knew that look, even though he never expected to see it on Tom,
and he knew better than to try to start conversation.
"So I guess you know," the woman from the bus said as she pulled up
the stool next to him. Tom's eyes didn't stray from the mirrored Coors
Light sign behind the bar, but he could see her slipping into the tall bar
seat in the reflection. He had always seen her on the bus, wearing a coat,
and he was surprised at what he saw now. She wore a loose-fitting denim
shirt over a black halter top and a pair of skin-tight jeans. She wasn't
gorgeous, but it was easy to find something to like about her.
"Yeah," Tom said. "She said he came over this morning."
"I'm so sorry," she said, turning to face him and putting one arm on
his shoulder and the other hand on his knee. "Did you talk about it?"
Tom shook his head. "What's to say?"
She took a sip from Tom's beer. He finished it, then held up two
fingers to the barkeep.
"I don't even know your name," he said, turning to look at her for the
first time tonight. He hadn't sat this close to a woman at a bar for a long
time. Her hand was still on his leg, and when he turned to face her, it
moved up a foot.
"Grace," she said, smiling, and then removed her hand from his leg to
grab her beer. She took a long drink and then set the bottle down where her
hand had been. Tom smiled.
"They sell carry-out here, don't they?" she asked. Tom nodded. "Then
let's get a six-pack and go outside where we can talk."
* * *
Tom got home late that night. He tried to crawl into bed without
waking Sandy, but she rolled over and looked at him. He could see the pain
in her eyes, but she said nothing. That was a clear admission of guilt as
far as Tom was concerned. If she didn't have something to hide, she would
have asked why he had stormed off the way he did.
* * *
The next morning Tom saw Grace in her usual seat, meditating, and he
quietly joined her. She heard him sitting down and opened her eyes.
"Did you talk things over with Sandy?" she asked.
"Not really," Tom said, "but I know she's been cheating. It's written
all over her face."
Grace nodded. "What would you do if you could catch them in the act?"
Tom felt a flush of rage as the picture formed in his mind. His eyes
narrowed and he looked down at his lap for a moment, and then looked coldly
into Grace's face.
"I'd kill them both."
A small fire seemed to kindle in the back of Grace's eyes, as if she
secretly relished the idea as well. "Do you want to catch them in the act?"
she asked.
Tom nodded, and then he realized what she was offering. "Could you
help me?"
"My ex-husband cheated on me," she said, "but I was too timid to do
anything about it." The self-reproach was obvious in her voice and
expression. "I know what it feels like. Yes. I'll help you."
The vision of Sandy in bed with James stoked the burning anger that
was filling his whole body. He wanted revenge against Sandy, and as he
looked at Grace, he realized he wanted it in more than one way. As the bus
slowed for Tom's stop, they agreed to meet at the pool hall again that
night and plan. Tom leaned over to kiss Grace. She shook her head slightly
and smiled. "Not here," she whispered.
* * *
The bus ran every 25 minutes during the morning rush hour, which gave
Tom the flexibility he needed for his plan. His boss didn't come in until
9:30, an hour and a half after Tom usually arrived, so he could miss two,
or even three buses without getting into trouble.
He left home at his normal time, not bothering to kiss Sandy good-bye.
Their conversations had cooled to the bare essentials in the last few days,
and neither of them seemed to want to solve the problem. Tom walked out of
the court and around the corner to where the trees blocked sight of his
house. Grace's conversion van was parked there.
Tom tapped on the window and Grace opened the sliding side door to let
him in. She was sitting in one of the two swivel chairs just behind the
driver's and passenger's seats. Between the chairs was a small table on a
pedestal, bolted into the floor. On the table was a thermos of coffee, some
napkins and two bear claws. Behind the table the van had no permanent
seating. The floor was carpeted, and the walls were covered with curtains,
or perhaps bed sheets, that had a strange, starry pattern. Tom thought the
style appropriate for a New Age aficionado who meditates and has
out-of-body experiences.
On the floor Tom saw a twin mattress and box spring. He raised his
eyebrows in surprise and smiled.
"That's where I do my meditation," Grace said, and added, with a
bigger smile, "and other things. Have some coffee."
Tom sat in the open seat and poured half a cup, then took a bite of
his bear claw and thanked Grace for the unexpected food. They sat in
silence, smiling at one another, and began to play little games with their
feet under the table. In a few minutes they decided the flirting wasn't
necessary and found themselves passionately kissing on the mattress,
groping and tearing at clothes.
An hour later, Tom poured himself another half cup of coffee from the
thermos and waited patiently as Grace went into deep meditation. She sat in
the lotus position on the center of the mattress for about ten minutes, and
then opened her eyes. She stared blankly ahead for a few moments, breathing
deeply, and then turned to look at Tom.
"He didn't come over today," she said. "Sandy's doing laundry, and
he's left for work."
Tom shook his head and looked at his watch. "Do you think we'd better
get going?"
Grace checked her watch and smiled. "I think we can spare another
twenty minutes or so."
* * *
The next day, Tom opened the van door to find Grace on the mattress,
already meditating. He sat down at the table and poured himself a cup of
coffee. He hadn't taken the first sip before Grace opened her eyes.
"Today's the day," she said with a serious, almost evil look in her
eyes. "He's there. Are you ready?"
Tom reached into his briefcase and pulled out his .38 caliber revolver.
"He came over almost as soon as you walked out the door. Go now. I'll
watch," she said with a malicious smile, and closed her eyes, going back
into her meditative trance.
The anger that had been smoldering for days burst into fresh flame as
Tom pictured Sandy and James together in his bedroom. He put the revolver
in his jacket pocket and walked quickly back to his house, the anger
growing with every step. He took his keys out of his pocket and prepared
himself to open the door and run quickly up the stairs into the bedroom,
before Sandy could react to his presence.
Tom watched the bedroom window carefully as he approached the house.
The curtains were drawn and still. He walked quietly up the four steps to
his front porch, put his keys in his left hand and the revolver in his
right. He quietly opened the screen door and then, in one quick motion,
opened the front door and charged through, turning immediately right to go
up the stairs.
"Tom," Sandy's voice said from the living room. "What are you doing?"
Tom stopped on the fourth step and looked into the dining room. Sandy
was sitting at the table with a strange man in a suit. Tom brandished the
pistol and walked toward them. The man's face was ashen. Sandy's was red.
"What are you doing? Put that thing away," she said.
"So it's not just James, now? Who's this?" he said, pointing to the
well-dressed man with the pistol's 2-inch barrel.
"James? What are you talking about? This is my lawyer."
The man seemed to take that as his cue. He opened a file folder and
set five 10 by 12 color photos on the dining room table. Each showed two
naked people in bed, but Tom couldn't quite make them out from where he
stood.
"What's going on, here?" Tom said gruffly as he pulled one of the
photos closer. His heart stopped. It was a picture of him and Grace.
"I'm divorcing you, Tom," Sandy said. "Our pre-nup says you lose all
property in the marriage if you're unfaithful."
Tom pushed the photo violently at the lawyer and glared at Sandy. The
pistol was still in his hand.
"You witch," he said. "You were sleeping with James. That's why I did
this," he said, pointing to the photos.
Sandy blushed slightly, but her face was stern. "I never slept with
James. What gave you that idea?."
"But I've got..." Tom began. He was going to say "proof," but he
realized he had nothing on her. Then he thought he heard something, as if
it were far off in the back corners of his mind, but growing nearer. It was
Grace's distinctive laughter, and she was laughing at him.
"Why?" Tom asked, the hopelessness of his situation finally settling
on him. He had lost everything.
"I don't love you any more, Tom. I'm in love with someone else."
Tom's world was crumbling around him. He didn't know what to say, but
he wanted to hear it all now. There was no use in bleeding it out slowly.
"James?" he asked.
"No," she said, and then smiled a wicked smile. "Grace."
"Ye shall know the Truth...and it shall make you confused."
Ä Dr. G. L. Cardwell
Pandora
þ Sanctified
ùúùúùúùúùúùú
that little covered box holds the keys.
my demented soul lies within.
traveling through the everglades,
i cannot find my way out.
i'm lost - a time forgotten under circumstance.
no one can ever know
the pain we feel inside.
i'll deny it to the end, deny it to my friends,
deny it till i can fake it.
a tired stained box holds the stones.
a bleeding body lies below.
wrapping up the price
i have long since paid for misery.
i cannot find my way home.
i'm lost - a heart forgotten under circumstance.
no one can ever know
the pain we feel inside.
i'll deny to the end, deny it to my friends,
deny it till i can fake it.
and please,
when will you come save me?
i don't want to be alone.
i don't want to see myself -
scared little fool.
and no one will ever know
the pain i feel inside.
i'll deny it to my end, deny it to myself,
deny it till i can fake it
no more.
"'Pretty on the inside.' Isn't that a great phrase? It's like when you're a
little girl and all your friends have told you that you're ugly, and you're
crying and sobbing and stuff, so you go to your mom and ask her if you're
beautiful and she replies, 'Yes, dear, you're pretty on the inside.' Or
maybe it's more Freudian than that. Maybe it's a reference to the vagina.
Or maybe it refers to the way everybody judges everyone else on their looks
and their dress and how the ugliest people can be the best-looking and the
most beautiful people can be the most totally repugnant. Or maybe it's about
pain, as the rest of life is, and how, no matter how much pain and torment
you put your body through, you always have that inner core of self inside
you, that indefinable something which keeps you sane and keeps you together.
It's a great phrase anyhow. Evocative. Manipulative. Optimistic."
Ä Everett True
Rape
þ Link
ùúùúùú
I.
When it happens to your
sister
mother
aunt
girlfriend
friend
grandmother
Will you say they were... Asking for it?
II.
You see. You like.
You introduce. You mingle.
You smile. She smiles.
You talk. She talks.
You dine. She dines.
You kiss. She kisses.
You feel. She does to.
You touch. So does she.
You keep going. She stops.
You keep going. She stops.
You keep going. She stops......
III.
panting - of breath.
The - hurting - of my heart.
yelling - out in agony.
screaming - in forgiveness.
leaping - out of my skin.
bleeding - from within.
promising - it'll never happen again.
Robert
þ Janet Kuypers
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
I stand in a room full of strangers
leaning against a wall
a wallflower
but I was content with knowing no one
with knowing you
beer glass in hand
you introduce me to
the vast assortment of drunken fools
you call your friends
and I stand there
merely happy to be by your side
a stranger
intoxicated to the point of being comatose
tells me I'm pretty
but I really don't care
because I have you
you are all I need
as the rest of the party imbibes to no end
and you take yourself
down the road to oblivion
I stay leaning
leaning against the wall
and I watch
you sing a song with your buddies
laugh at the stupidest jokes
eat dog food
and I keep thinking
that this was all I needed to be happy
you seemed to be
all that mattered in the world to me
how was I to know
that I was leaning against the wall
because you gave me no support
The Coming Of The Storm
þ Shaun Allan
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
There is thunder in the distance.
Can you feel it?
Riding on
Rolling on
A thousand screams.
Can you hear it?
Blood dark, thick and rich.
Can you taste it?
Crushing on
Cascading on
A thousand dead.
Can you smell it?
Black and cold and close and tight.
Can you see it?
There is thunder in the distance.
A storm is coming.
There is no shelter to be found.
"What can go wrong...will go wrong." Ä Dr. C. Friedman
The Death of Gully Hand
þ Beau Blue
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
What's madness but nobility of soul
at odds with circumstance?
- Roethke
Perhaps,
In a time of loneliness,
After the heat has slithered past a gravel afternoon
And slipped into the coolness of the evening's lap,
Perhaps
You've heard the sidewalk singers,
Striking single notes and humming tunes
In strange erotic keys.
Maybe,
While walking down a neon skirted street,
The cedar sweet aroma of a freshly painted wall
Has lured you past the shopfronts
To a secondary doorway, a sanguine colored hall
Where the incense smoke and music,
Hanging in the air,
Swirling with precision smoothness
Up black-mat covered stairs,
Leads you past reality to a pitted wooden door
And leaves you standing desperately
Expecting something more.
Something more than moving shadows
Something more ...
And the minutes pass unevenly
They stumble through the alleyways and grieve
At opened windows someone left to catch the breeze.
The minutes sound like barking dogs
And feel like whispered wind.
The minutes tease.
They end ... and they begin ...
And the minutes pass unevenly.
As sidewalk singers, dressed in singers' uniforms
(The faded jeans and flannel shirts and dirty shoes)
Huddle in a disinfectant hall to pay their dues.
Mount Mercy's nurses lead them through
To send them on their way unused.
They walk away in single file,
Across fatigue towards apathetic peace
To search the asphalt for release
And taste the steel mill's sulfur by the mile.
They make an odd parade.
The men and women stare.
With their labels firmly tacked in place
Mrs. Dunham turns from them,
She never sees a face.
She just locks her door and slowly climbs the stairs
And to fill the space
She mutters softly,
"What has this world come to?"
But she doesn't really care.
We walk away in single file
And stop to ask the children of the streets,
"Where are we now?"
They only look up impishly and smile.
"We've lost our way somehow!
Where are we now?
Where are we now?"
The minutes pass in muted cries
And sirens wailing to the skies.
We lie on sweat stained mattresses
And dream,
But we never close our eyes.
For we have burned our coats and our cotton dresses,
Called to tell our mothers lies,
And now we stand alone
To press our cheeks against a wooden door.
Perhaps you understand the reasons why?
Perhaps, you've been this way before?
"What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination. When the sky
outside is merely pink, and the rooftops merely black: that photographic
mind which paradoxically tells the truth, but the worthless truth, about the
world. It is that synthesizing spirit, that 'shaping' force, which
prolifically sprouts and makes up its own worlds with more inventiveness
than God which I desire. If I sit still and don't do anything, the world
goes on beating like a slack drum, without meaning. We must be moving,
working, making dreams to run toward; the poverty of life without dreams is
too horrible to imagine: it is the kind of madness which is worst..."
Ä Sylvia Plath
The Red Heart And The Silver Heart
þ Ray Heinrich
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú
the red heart and the silver heart
the first
filled with blood
the second
with the lightness of clouds
the red heart
sharp knife
swings at your finger
never mind who
(maybe your other hand)
but the steel inside you
stops the knife
with the skin split
and the blood waits
and the two sides of flesh
are translucent
and the bone at the bottom
is white and gray
and then the blood comes
to relieve this paleness
to give it life
flowing easily
warmly
thickly
brightly
but later
it is almost black
the red heart
filled with blood
the silver
as thin as breath
watch a tree
throw itself against the sky
the silver heart believes
the tree
is the forked tongue
of some creature
buried
beneath the earth
licking the air
getting a taste of the sun
and the red
sees only blood
the red heart and the silver heart
on quiet nights
hear each other
beating between their own beats
hearing the voice of the other
hearing the voice of blood
hearing the voice of air
and between the beats of both
hear
the continents
miles down
rubbing rock against rock
singing with their heat
miles and miles down
the red heart and the silver heart
keep slivers of consciousness
magic
like the rocks are magic
living in the weather
that comes from the sun
and at night
the red goes on
the heart filled with blood
filled with the brilliant blood goes on
but the silver heart must rest
from writing down the story
from whole pages of hands
needing eyes
and much is missed
but the silver heart must rest
the red heart swells
again with blood
again with temples and sacrifice
of black obsidian blades
striking down to stone
with only a million ribs between
the red heart fills
and empties many times
and drinks it all as food and still is hungry
while the silver sleeps
the red heart and the silver heart
read the list of names
and they are always finding more
engraved in walls
printed in books
and the names they roll
roll from the silver
roll
into the red
and all the names
yours too
the red devours
"The Heart has its reasons which Reason knows not." Ä Blaise Pascal
This Twilight Garden
þ The Cure
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú
I lift my lips from kissing you
to kiss the sky
cloud soft and blue
and slow the sun melts down into
your golden words for me
I lift my hands from touching you
to touch the wind
that whispers through
this twilight garden turns into
a world where dreams are real
noone will ever take your place
I am lost in you
noone will ever take your place
so in love with you
I lift my eyes from watching you
to watch the star
rise shine onto
your dreaming face and dreaming smile
you're dreaming worlds for me
I lift my lips from kissing you
and kiss the sky
wide deepest blue
and slow the moon swims up into
your golden words for me
noone will ever take your place
I am lost in you
noone will ever take your place
so in love with you
"Love is the triumph of imagination over intelligence." Ä H. L. Mencken
This Weekend
þ HappyMonk
ùúùúùúùúùúùú
gently flowing over me
this torrent of sound
that holds me
and cries me to sleep
close myself to the world
for that one fleeting moment
just myself
wishing i was with you
stared into your eyes too long
made a world inside my head
losing control
letting the waves carry me away
held onto thoughts of you
knowing it would never last
leaving so soon
a hug and a goodbye
now i start over
left somewhere in the middle of the sea
swimming away from your shore
my mind a broken anchor
pulling me down
staring back at myself
breathing water
body convulsing in protest
laughing in triumph
thought i knew it all
i knew too much
i think too much
never want to think again
want to ride that wave
and fall asleep
"Music is good to the melancholy, bad to those who mourn, and neither good
nor bad to the deaf." Ä Benedict Spinoza
To My Daughter, Nancy.
þ Deborah Spungen
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùú
Sweet Baby
Welcome
I only came to say hello
I cannot stay
Loving arms hold tight
Don't go! Don't go!
But even loving arms could
not hold the golden thread
She slipped way and never
said good-bye.
"Children who face great life-threatening traumas at birth share many of the
same personality characteristics. They spend much of their lives angry.
Their behavior is often violent, much of it self-directed..."
Ä Deborah Spungen
Untitled
þ Bob
ùúùúùúùú
Dying of love, I yet will not declare
The happy malady of which I die
Because I fear lest any come to cure
The sweetness of the anguish that I sigh.
"There are two types of people: those who are masochists and sadists, and
those who have no desire to inflict pain or get pain, and that's the majority
of people. [We're] completely in the minority."
Ä Courtney Love
Untitled
þ HappyMonk
ùúùúùúùúùúù
dipping my foot in the sea-green mirror
testing her surface to see if it's cold
looking back once but only to leave her
taking the chance for the hand i could hold
left her behind left her alone
left her behind
sleeping somewhere in the back of my mind
...never give her the time
to find where i've gone
watching her walk as she's leaving my dream
staying behind with a wing on the floor
serpent with feathers of golden and green
tempting and leaving me wanting her more
left me behind left me alone
left me behind
sleeping somewhere in the back of my mind
...never give me the time
to know that i'm gone
waiting so long for someone who sees me
reeling in quiet when nobody does
missing the way that it all used to be
learning the way that it all had become
Untitled
þ Molina
ùúùúùúùú
Heart stopped beating, breathing ceased -
The world stood still that moment
Tried to soak everything in,
Wanted to remember that second of joy
Closed my eyes and smiled -
My soul danced as I cried to myself
Attempted to shake off the shock,
Failed, managing only to stir old thoughts
This day I had only dreamed of -
So surreal and impossible
Yet there I stood, mouth open in awe,
My heart calmed to a racing thud
Cleared my mind long enough,
Just to remember my pain
Ignored the urge to explode in words -
Instead taking my quiet submission
You taunt me endlessly with your games,
Surely you know the harm you cause
Now so fed up with the pain -
I give into what I have left
The realization stuns me, that -
Hate is such a beautiful thing
"Yeah, she's the nigga of the world you love to hate. Kicker is, she always
loves to hate you back." Ä Charles Aaron, regarding Courtney Love
Untitled
þ Molina
ùúùúùúùú
you turn your back as i approach.
i see the disapproval in your eyes.
your hate for me radiates from your aura clear as day.
you try so hard to hide it from me.
your attempts are made in vain.
the resentment in your voice chills my blood.
now so frozen i take my leave.
don't cry for me when i'm gone.
for that is truly what you wanted.
i peel the scabs back.
exposing the cuts for what they truly are.
i poke the needle in a bit deeper.
shuddering to self inflicted pain.
the glass marks my skin in funny little patterns.
my wrists look beautiful under so much crimson liquid.
so much crimson liquid.
my body covered in powder.
chemicals pump through my viens.
no more emotions cloud my eyes.
my pale white face stares up at you coldly.
you know the smirk on my cold flesh is directed towards you.
my last thoughts were of you and how much i hated myself.
in front of others you cry.
claim your heart is breaking in two.
aren't you afraid they can hear you laughing on the inside.
i peel the scabs back.
exposing the cuts for what they truly are.
i poke the needle in a bit deeper.
shuddering to self inflicted pain.
the glass marks my skin in funny little patterns.
my wrists look beautiful under so much crimson liquid.
so much crimson liquid.
"That's what relationships are about: repulsion and attraction. These are
the desirable relationships, but then we're a little more sensitive than a
lot of stupid people who are happy to be in a nice relationship and are
happy to live a nice life and not desire anything else. They don't desire
truth and they don't desire hate. They don't desire evil and they don't
desire decadence and they don't desire purity..." Ä Courtney Love
Wrecked
þ Bloodshot
ùúùúùúùúùúù
i see nothing within her eyes.
i see darkness taking over.
a beautiful soul being destroyed.
i see nothingness becoming her.
a loathsome individual walking the plains.
the plains of a thousand miles.
the miles of cruelty.
she ponders her ways of existence
through the space of society.
counting the mindless times
of abuse of her predecessors.
she switches her eyes
and gradually more on guard.
fleeing the painful sights
that she sees coming in many people's eyes.
and she goes, into darkness.
this extremely tortured angel
casts her glimpse among the skies
and lets them swallow her whole.
her beliefs in anything defaced
and her movements blurred.
she sweeps away
into the mists
until she's taken by the sun.
"I envy those people - those Russian farmers who live to 120 years on yogurt
with their simple lives. They don't have any stress. But it's no fun..."
Ä Courtney Love
ßÜ
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Ý
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Þ
ß ùtwiù
Legalize.
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
Submit your original literary works for Spilled Ink, [volume eleven], to
Twilight via Internet e-mail:
twilight@mail.utexas.edu
ùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúùúù
