Thy Will Won’t Be Done.

My wrinkled face
is beginning to waste,
limp body, still hung,
on a squeaky clothesline,
that is tightly confined,
beneath a given thumb,
any part attached to me,
repeatedly gone numb,
neurons firing incorrectly,
missed the target,
subsequently,
my brain feels like,
a bowl of old pond-scum,
the day and night,
continue to come,
Hell or high water,
thy will won’t be done.

Bent.

I am the face blended in on the train –
with open wounds bleeding blame and shame –
I am the darkness that protects the light –
blinded by a goal in sight –
I am the reasons why I hate myself –
just me to blame and nobody else –
I am the hatred in the moments alone –
when the place is quiet and nobody’s home –
I am the purpose that drives so many vessels on fire –
I am the face of the weary and tired–
I am not satisfied with the way things have become –
I am not going to accept what you’ve done –
I am the one who meant each word I said –
I am the one that you lied to instead –
I am the one who is sullen and down –
I am the reason none of my friends come around –
I am the cause of all things tragic –
I can make people disappear from my Life like Magic – 
I am the cultivator of this poisonous place –
I am afraid of my own body and face –
I cannot tell which creatures won’t bite –
I will eventually resign to this fight –
I am convinced that I’m better off without –
I am aware of what they’re all talking about –
I am the one who tied the original knot –
I guess that that’s a detail that each one forgot –
I am not filled with any cold from the snow–
I have mastered that defense system, you know –
I am a human fucking being –
I have a heart that pumps and bleeds –
I am not interested in dramatics and games –
be decent to me, and I’ll treat you the same.

Maybe Later.

I barely shut the door behind me before I burst into tears again,
Thoughts racing round my head without a place to put them in;
Every “ignored” phone call turns out to be a chance I’d been given,
To swallow down my fears and be the person I should’ve been.

So many days have left me without a spark of hope within,
So many lies spat onto me to get me to fall back line with them;
So many pieces of so many puzzles scattered across a line, so thin,
So many surfaced memories that I can’t push back and drop on him.

I barely shut the lights off before the tears begin to come unpinned,
I’m here – without the parts of a heart not properly sewn in;
And you’re there – without a clue as to where you’ve even been,
I just want to hold you while the world around falls in.

I hardly fall into a fitful sleep before the lights blaze brightly in,
And the alarm clock sings of misery and a day that will never end;
Waking dreams and nightmares of how likened you’ve become to him,
I had to cut my losses – before Life cut my throat again.

The Way Words Move Me #100

The other day, Sam and I were talking shit about someone that we rejoice in the sprinkling over with well-deserved layers meanness whenever we get the chance; somehow we found ourselves doing the (all-too-familiar) giggling obnoxious descriptive of  horrific scenarios including this person. At one point, we were saying something along the lines of this person being stuffed with super shiny glitter and exploding in order to impress himself/herself, because this person is so vain and grandiose.

I was like, “You know, I’m sure there is a word in the old English language for that, the sick fucks…”; and then in response to the quizzical wtf? queue, I added, “I swear they had words for shit that they just had no business actually needing a word for…”

I applied the word “feague” to the conversation; (though at the time, I couldn’t recall the actual word but that didn’t matter because it was the definition along with the fact that there was even a word in existence for it, which mattered). “Feague” was a term from 17th century English used to describe the act of sticking a live eel up a horse’s ass before a showing or race. Like, to put some pep in his step…seriously.

 

http://blog.inkyfool.com/2012/12/feague.html

 

The fact that there was a word for such a horrendous thing means it must have been a pretty widely used thing, no? (Shiver)

I’m not sure if I want to continue on writing about words now – or if I want to call the fucking Humane Society of the 17th century and make a death threat to whoever picks up, damn.

Anyway, then I got to thinking how many things there aren’t words for, like, things that really need words but don’t have them. A good example is Sam’s shiny glitter stuffing/explosion concept; as the lack of a word for this specific depiction basically brought our disturbingly juvenile behavior to a close, lacking the perfect word or term needed to continue any further.

And, with all the words created and recorded in all of the languages in history, there should be no reason why the creation of new words for modern circumstances, such as the one in which you accidentally butt-dial your ex during a steamy make-out session in the bathroom of a club somewhere in the middle of the night. Like, there should totally be a word for when you slice two fingers nearly clean off of your own hand with the edge of the newly opened lid of your dog’s canned food, right?

 

 

 

Writ in Water.

It seems that only those included in the number of human beings that are afflicted by “The Word”, that are also stained by the attached process. A love for words begins early in Life for those of us who harbor one; mine did, at least.

I recall noting many “adult” words that I overheard in “adult” conversations during my childhood; words such as: proverbial (I still over-use it, by default), harlequin (A word that I loved so much as a child, I chose it as a name for my first dog), hankering (a word that has a definition just as awesome as it is), overlord (a word that remains as fun to say today as it did when I was three), and most memorably: Tachyon (a word that I notoriously misused throughout my childhood because I simply loved to say and spell it). I was notorious for making statements that were made up of various idioms and adages I had heard my older male family members (my Papa, Dad, or any of my 5 older brothers) use. I am teased to this day over things I said in all earnestness, as a young girl trying to be super serious and to be taken seriously.

SOME EXAMPLES:

“Don’t put all of your eggs in a gift horse’s mouth before they hatch”

“Never kick a gift-horse you led to water in the mouth when he’s down”

“Give a man a fish, shame on you; teach him to fish, shame on me

 “Kicking the bowl”, instead of the bucket

 

I knew my ABC’s way too early as well; I can partially remember the day that I was in my Dad’s lap at the kitchen table and we were coloring together (so I must have been super young because I became “too old” to sit in his lap by the time I was 3.5 years, according to my Papa) and my Dad surprised me by asking me if I knew the alphabet yet. He was trying to mess with me, being certain that I didn’t – and that he would be able to give me shit for not knowing an answer – he was good like that. I can guarantee that he was the more shocked of the two of us when I belted out the entire song correctly without missing a beat; being the oldest of his own siblings, my Dad often overlooked the power that having a clan of older brothers gave me in such instances. I was (and still am) like a dried out sponge just waiting to absorb any information made available to me in any given context.

It was like I saw words as people spoke them, like a cartoon bubble over everyone’s heads, all the time. I was a naturally excellent speller as a child, something I have lost touch with in the time in between; I just LOVED words – there’s no other way to describe it. There is only one “wordsmith” in my immediate family, and it had been my Papa, who doubled as my daycare provider during my pre-school era. This became one of the most enriching and enlightening parts of my youth when it comes to words and my love for them; we often played word games together that loosely ran all day long and into dinner-time. My Papa gifted me very, very generously with his mind, heart and brain, indeed. In grade school, I was able to win over the others in my class every time through the shaping and molding of the words I chose to use on them; I took sweeping victories in my campaigns for the Student Union or Student Council positions I went after, because of the speeches I had written and the way I worded them. I was a peacemaker at home and on the playground – and my love of vocabulary never let me down in that context either. On the flip side, it has been the same love of words and literary expression that has wounded me deeply many times in Life, too, however. I am sensitive to the weight that words carry in an almost exquisite way; something that is tried and true: impossible to explain to a non-word-lover. When the weight of a word has been passed along to me, I have carried it no matter how heavy it may have been.

Most, if not all, people not afflicted by “The Word” have no appreciation for the burden attached to being a carrier of its weight, and behave accordingly. I have realized in the more recent years of my life: just how much I am affected by literature and the artistic use of words, as I find myself feeling the most emotions available to me during times that I have absorbed written content. There is just so much simplicity alongside of such intricacy in words and the beautiful combinations they can concisely make up. John Keats, my all-time favorite romance  poet, who was so perfected in his wordsmithing skills that he often made women cry and men shrink, left on his headstone, the most eloquent description of it all:

“Here lies one whose name was writ in water.”

You dig?

 

Remembrances.

Since the first night I spent asleep in his words,
the most moving words I’ve ever read or heard;

I fell fast asleep inside unfamiliar relief,
to the lullaby spun from the lungs of this beast;

I slept like a baby while he read softly to me,
he brought me safety from the Carnivorous Things;

He recognized the burdens heavily anchored to my name,
he easily lifted the tolling weight from my weary frame;

If he ever wonders, he will never wonder why,
he wiped countless tears from under my eyes;

Era il capo di uno degli ultimi branchi di lupi.
he was the very last of his kind, understandably;

All I want to reach for are his words as they float by,
as I swoon at the slice of moon that hangs inside his eyes;

Since the time that he first folded me – buckled at my knees,
his strokes were long – humming songs, growling protectively,

his poetry had the melody to make me forget that I am weak,
captivated by a scent, and took up the chase to hear him speak,
Giggled schoolgirl, sprinkled sparks of nice, clean jealousy…
that beast: he gave me nothing, left me holding so many things.

Bubble Bath.

I thought you’d left while I was in the bubble bath;

So I paraded around sporting bitchy tits ‘n ass…

I wrapped myself up in your freshly washed towel;

telling myself I was glad that you were gone now…

Silly me; you actually never had gone anywhere at all;

I found you standing quietly with your mouth opened in awe …

Beads of sweat dot your head; a crown of liquefied guilt;

Swallowed whole – from all you know; desire you’ve never felt…

And when you see my red-ruby pouting start to pucker,

and sense how my insides tense;  you sexy mother-fucker…

Lick me clean of my tears – salted by such childish fears;

strike a match against the fuse between the filthy and the pure…

tonight I stroke your hidden side – that displaced face you always hide;

Allow me to perfect your view of how a good girl will abide…

you stood there, your hands wringing with intensity;

shirtless and hungry like a pre-meditative beast,

I was yours bendable expendable – that’s right,  wrapped up tight;

And you were yourself – an animal, ever-ready to bite…

the time became a sucking noise from the drain,

you manhandled my body and I hijacked your brain;

I’m glad you never left while I was in the bubble bath;

it’s sad to think about it now after so much time has passed.

.