Thousands of stitches to make by the morning light
We left our houses in ruins, and the fountain still ran.
We slept in those coats, with the needles still in sight
There were things we left behind; our heads, our hearts, our hands.

The bottles touch without breaking, they rarely make a sound
Either I'm filthy and suave, or I have a problem.
I pretend to know you well, in your words, confession's found
Brief as late summer's weeds, the truth is in the stem.

Way down in the blue caverns
Another man's song, another man's dream revives.
I told you to make an excuse
Without them, the man can't pray to survive.

Way down in the blue caverns
My beast reels back; it's tough to say goodbye.
On the porch, I made parched my lips
To set another world of mine to die.

I read volumes without shaking, and each gave me hope
To build my winter caves out of airwaves and lead.
That single condition, the cliff to the rope
I swear upon the landings exists (in my head).

Way down in the blue caverns
I wait down in trembles until I touch the dock with my hands.
Thousands of fires to envy the burn
We left our house in ruins, and the fountain still ran.

Usually - and several people I know can attest to this - it is nigh impossible for me to sleep during the day. I can sleep with the light on, but I can't typically take naps. Something about the natural light, I guess.

I came home, and within twenty minutes of actually being at the house, I was out.

Goes to show you, eh? 

My godfather bought a concertina, and I have resolved to learn how to appropriately operate this box of squeeze.

I can already wheeze out a slow-tempo, jerking variation of "Hot Cross Buns." This is, to me, amazing progress.

Of course, this is just another excuse for me to never venture outside ever again.

Pay me no mind. I accompanied a friend into the city today and nothing offsets sleep deprivation and the sweet reek of sewer like pretentious verse.

Soaked in the sidewalk steam
Their rows of bending barrels standing
Sordid scourges on the concrete
The gilded ladies with their burning skin
And glittered shadow on their eyes
Lifting legs out to mayflies
At midday

They lay amongst the structure gods
Whose crooked teeth are carved from stone and
Jewelled with glass and steely scaffolds
Standing ever so taciturn and meek
While turrets and sirens break from the bedrock
Cool and shattering the streets
At night



ilu, baltimore, you wretched concrete jungle you.

What the hell is with the extended network? Guys? Anybody?

Of the last thirty people I've randomly clicked on out of boredom, guess how many of them are in my extended network?

COME ON GUYS THE FIRST TWO DON'T COUNT

Thirty.

QUESTION: If everyone in the world is in my extended network, then why do they feel the need to mention it? Is it because they want me to feel more connected with everyone? It's kind of creepy, actually. I don't know these people, and yet they're in my extended network.

GET OUT OF MY NETWORK, DUDE NAMED JESSI. I DON'T KNOW YOU.

OH, AND JESSI IS A GIRL'S NAME.

SWITCH OUT THE LAST VOWEL AND YOU'LL BE GOOD, HOMIE.

This site is a fucking programming travesty, I swear. My computer is a mule. It's an old mule, but it's a mule. I take good care of it, only to have MySpace's syphilis-like script eat a hole through its face. Hell, and people have to wonder why I tend to stay away from this place.

So yeah, oh my God, opening night is tomorrow. I'm nervous. I can't stand those horrifying vinyl go-go boots but damned if I'm not going to buy them anyway, because I want to save them for when I'm old and swimming in my own draped and wrinkled flesh with my salmon-pink lipstick smeared up to my eyeball; I'll say, "Hey, Grandma used to be the shit, you know, with these motherfucking boots." The kids'll be like, "Yeah, what the hell? You aren't my grandma." Then I'll smile and strike a match on my girdle to light my Black and Mild, and I'll brand them all with the glowing tip, and then I'll say, "Yeah, I am; now get me an Ensure before I beat you with my glossy calves."

Anyway, still hate this site. HAY GUYZ WHUTS GOIN ON. :D

Thought I'd try something in a less contemporary style.


MY LATE ANNABELLE

I will never forget my late Annabelle,
Whose limbs stretched high whene'er she stood
There, by the bright and burning ocher,
Cast in ripples when she slept and breathed.

They clewed her curtains by-and-by,
And o! how they whipped and whished about.
A fiber snapped, the wind blew them away;
For modesty's sake, she slowed.

She sighed beneath my every ministration,
And fell to twine with every move
'Til sweetest silence resigned her breath;
When she did tarry, she turned away.

Hundreds of crude gentlemen slept
Beneath her, when she wandered from home.
Yet as I stood by, she never did stray;
My Annabelle held fast to faith.

We ventured toward the good Carolinas
With gifts for mother's wonder estranged.
En route, we met 'gainst the neighbour boys,
Who reeling held pistols to her throat.

I cried aghast and drew my own,
The gentlemen procured their rapiers;
Annabelle gave them no fight nor sound,
And they shoal'd and seeth'd to strip her.

They bound me tight to their nubile, cankered whore,
Held my eyes that I would see her bare.
In flashes of iron, in greedy hands,
My Annabelle, she cried once and fell.

I will never forget my late Annabelle,
Nor the way her helm felt gripped and right.
Today, my sextant is blurred and wav'ring
On through tears that deepen her grave.




... Yes, I watched Master and Commander today. So shoot me (with grapeshot, har har).

As always, concrit is welcome and appreciated.

This is mostly for Chris, because I know he'll give me the best feedback. Mmyup. I saw his poem (INCREDIBLE - I just have to say that again) and found myself eager to post one of my own here. You inspire me, Moosey! ;)

Concrit is encouraged.


OCCAMY SIEVE

Commodore's brazen through the hail;
The flintlock rested against his hip.
'Til glorious steel's razor point encouraged
A porous waltz in salinised sugar pine.

Beating their drums, they stopped to nourish
Virginia tobacco with cracking lips.
Saviours they pleaded, casting in iron,
Watch as the Odyssey's trailer faults the ground.

Several spearhead the mountain's journey;
On foot and on horse, they count their dead.
The evergreen points skewer their eyes, and
None of them will see ocean again.

Now here in this valley they wait for others,
Leaned on the stumps of brashed and slivered.
The cold has cut away their voices;
Their stomachs emptied in the lavender.

Merciful I! shouts the waking hour, and
Lays the long handle against the fire.
No breath for the tyrants nor the peasants;
The tongue's begun to frost over in the air.

Long-armed beauty, slain in satin, with
Ruffles of lace kissing her throat, and the
Paltry steamer's coal-scraped fingers
Impress their ridges in the ivory clay.

Jawless and foundering, they cling to metal and
Leather for sanctuary from the dying pillars.
Trochaic and punctual are these sycophants,
When quartz in their hands is a-glitter.

I love bulletins.

I never make bulletins, but I try to read all the batshit bulletins my friends post. You know, the ones that read: "REPOST THIS OR SOMEONE WILL KILL YOU WITH A KNIFE AHAHA." Or "now that u have opend this, ur myspace will VANISH INTO THE ETHER."

If you post a MySpace bulletin that merely informs, like most bulletins on other sites, then I will simply disregard it unless it directly relates to me in some fashion. I don't check MySpace often enough to give a shit about who judges my intarnut friendship on the basis of how many bulletins I parrot back to them, nor do I eat pancakes enough to care about who's hosting a pancake fucking breakfast. I want the good bulletins, and only the good bulletins, to show up on my notification menu.

Here's a handy guide for creating the types of bulletins I will actually read:

1) There has to be huge amounts of caps-lock, Happy Noodlesque shouting.
2) There has to be a bullshit claim that the bulletin is TOTALLY TRUE and LEGIT.
3) There has to be a strong superstitious foundation.
4) The more annoying internet abbreviations you use, the better. Stuff like "u," "ur," "dis," among other 'net shorthand objects, will be applauded.
5) Bonus points for indirect threats on my life and/or the total destruction of my own little piece of MySpace e-trash.

Hugs, kisses, and peanuts!
Lea