if the cloud bursts thunder in your ear

the hippies played an eerie rendition of "brain damage" last night. all these things i have in me, portable art, forever changed by it. this is my jewelry; what i decorate myself with.

in order for me to hear them, they had to first be embraced by the masses who could not hear them. but oh, how they thought they did. but i would never have heard them otherwise. i don't know how many really did hear, i know i am not the only one, but i know it is a small number. i have often wondered how they managed to be embraced as they were, what they had that the average imbecile responded to. i don't think i have that thing. so no one will ever hear me. but that is beside the point, and a small lament. though i used to think it would save me, to be heard. i now just think it would be lovely if it could get through to those who could hear, and it may, someday. my words may stay lost forever in this sea of mediocrity, but they will stay, so there is the chance.

i am not finding the words to describe the lunatic to you as i had intended. the way that song entwined around the growing madness in my head and caressed it, so that i was not so alone. i still wish i could speak in music. another frustration, but i will keep trying with what i have, and one day the words will come together, and i hope, build something lovely as well as tinged with sadness and regret.

The Box

I see it long ago an old movie in my mind I can't see much the box is closed and silent all around no one talks to me but they never did and he did so I didn't care that he hurt me sometimes and I forget that part and I felt anyway and I needed and I fixed on this one thing which is now in the box.

Rising up

fuck rising up and overcoming. i’m fucking tired. working hard; a generation of untouchables, and the rest of you acting like it’s fucking normal, like some fucking aberrant god wanted it so. some are just poor and stuck, some are damaged from when they were too young to protect themselves, and struggle the rest of their lives with what that did to them. but that doesn’t automatically make them decent people. it makes them pitiable, but sometimes, if it weren’t for the abuse, they’d have been assholes just like everyone else. and it’s still in there, covered over by layers of dysfunction. and you think someone is in there, someone worthwhile, if you can just peel off the layers. and so you try. and all that trouble, all that filth you sifted through, you thought for a reason, was for nothing. her fiction of herself, this online persona which was not who she was in life, combined with the fiction i wrote for her in my own head, of what i wanted her to be, and the two things combined to create quite unrealistic expectations.

then there’s the rich. my god, i could go on about them. english is a wonderful language for scorn, and i am chock full of that. scorn and contempt. it is not what i wish. it is not what i choose over other, more lofty emotions. but they are everywhere, ruining everything. there is a way to rise above, i know, but i have not reached that level of enlightenment. and i am stuck. while all around a carnival, a parade that they march in and they don’t even see where they are, any of them, the rich, the poor, the damaged. i cannot understand their greed, the rich. i want nice things too, i can understand to a point, but they take it so far. and so much of what they want is so completely, i would think obviously, useless. then there is the willful blindness. everyone drinks deeply from that fountain. so few can see anything, and that is my loneliness.

of course, i must rise up and overcome. i must. there are only two other options. one, too horrific to think of what it would do to the only two decent people i’ve ever know, and the other, too horrific to think what it would do to me as well as them, to stay like this. and it never lets you stay, anyway. life is never static. and we must negotiate that while everything whirls all around us, as well as the maelstrom in our heads.


now listen to Goodbye Horses by Q Lazzarus, dammit. Please? it's such a fitting end to this piece. Goodbye Horses

i keep trying to talk to people through music, and so few can hear what i hear, can feel the full spectrum of what is contained there. there is such a world there, a dream world where the beauty of the pain entwines with the possibility of something more...and they give us this small space, this hope, a respite, to help us go on, to show us that there is more...if we can learn to see with new eyes, untainted by the shackles the world wants to keep you in.

the pleasure of delusion

oh, to sink into the arms of someone fond of me, and i can pretend it is love, full of hope and promise. the excitement of unknown, boundless possibilities, without that painful baggage, full of spikes, which constantly prick the skin. but then you wake up, and one morning instead of the buzzing of life all around backlit by a luminescent dawn, you see the pain, the struggle, the death, the competition for limited resources, and the harsh, cold light exposing it all.

touch

the frustration of distance
and how we try
what exactly do we think we will touch?
why
always why
what does it mean
all this grasping at strangers
i am grasping at you now
at the air
nothing to hold on to
all the love in the world
could not save me

dissolution

it is over

it
is



polly wants



forever



i think i should be



under tow



the line won't



break



if

i


don't



i think i want


the safety

of the cage


freedom has a price

my cry opened the door


all i wanted

was more food

cloistered

don't believe in love
but i want it
in a stranglehold
beating it down
I can wrap up in
a pale defense against the elements

elements walk by
they never see me
but want to fuck me anyway

i wonder if anyone sees anything
i know it happens
i've read books
i can tell
they see pieces

it's hard to see
in flashes
but so much
i should have gone the other way
just opened the view on one piece
and that would never have been enough

i always come here
breaking behind my eyes
the beauty and horror
it's too much terror and wonder for one person to hold

but letting go...


ceremony

pale shelter