Lady by the river
starts to shiver
her wrists covered with silver
blonde hair shimmers
she is pulled away
his hand covering her face
she tries to scream
but all is quiet
she cries for some time
Until she becomes silent
he rapes her
ever so violent
she tries to run
but he tells her to join the fun
she wants to see the sun
her time is done
he cuts her into slivers
he drowns her in the water
she haunts it
she always will
that is why
they call this girl
The Lady of the River
I saw the Martian sunrise today though
for you it was probably still twilight.
My knees had miniature craters in them
perforated by mounds and pebbles of ochre
like that bloody sponge in my chest that
gasped for air as I knelt there asphyxiating
and marveling at how such a sight could
be so exquisite and so anguishing at once.
It obviously didn’t last long; I wasn't wear-
ing a spacesuit or anything like that, and
when I died I knew I had forgotten you,
but then I saw you across the street
through the lawlessness of a sulphurous
Neapolitan thoroughfare, and we exchanged
curious gazes in a bright flash of forever
before I got hit by a bus and then woke up
next to you, strands of blonde tangled in my
fingernails' comb, taste of crimson vinegar
in my mouth. I nudged you and asked you
politely to leave before we suffered another
incident, but you had already got in your car
and pulled out of my driveway, cheeks flushed
but in your hurry you went and got side-
swiped by some drunkard going 100 mph.
My eyes teared up—yours would have too!
if you had seen what I saw in that mangled
corpse of what had just been a Volvo but
was then no more than crumpled origami.
It seems even in my dreams within dreams
within dreams I can never get rid of you. I’m
reluctant to close my eyes tonight for fear
that you’ll kill me instead this time and
all this dying is rather exhausting, I’ll have
you know. I’d prefer to live a terrestrial day or
two, with you, as human beings, but it seems
limbo is the only place we were meant to exist.
Street signs, snow flakes
Twinkling in the darkness
Among All the Automobiles
Racing too and Fourth Ave
Burning through tires and caffeine
Under the influence of peppermint dreams
Can these be, nostalgic memories of a
Kaleidoscopic futuristic collective
State of being?
Relax. Take a sip. Don't lose your grip.
Unruly Howlingdays to follow;
Need all the free coffee and tea i can see.
Dear girl who works the security desk at my friend's dorm,
blonde hair or purple, you get me going
and I'm impatient
i don't go in for the dating game
so wouldya do me the service
me you and the blonde barista would be happy together
until death do us part
Hey hi alright so,
let's slow down the thunder that emerges from your hair in boxcars,
cut off the dirty melanoma on my left cheek all bloodied from the stars,
And who wants to die together? (hint: Stars are a great band.)
who wants the pleasantness?
who wants King Kong Williams and windy spinach yellows?
who wants to grow old like the brine of my eyes?
Immaculate for the pleasantness again,
takin hostage $50,000 runnin off to somewhere called nevermore
tying it down on
breezeblocks in blonde buns,
delirious off all fashion and heightened colour in the forever of my woebegone ashtray!
And flying to skydragon or otherwise frank Liuna
flashfive James St, the dejection of my scatteredness,
the meth lab in your bedroom, (hint: your kisses count for a billion.)
the rising of how we put relish on the nights help buttons and eff words,
over the day lonely drug addict stoner with autumns
firebongs, (hint: cute&tiny lungs help i'm fearing cardiac arrest HELP)
choosing all them different voices all
them funny ginsberg America readings
Climb up and drink all that red wine and pass cuddle Tarantino warmth at 3am snapping reality tits (are we calling them that?) or red censorship lines playing
thru my imposed overratedness,
thru invisible tiny xmas drumkits,
Vericose gas station lessons and perpetual squishy memories in a flowin alphabet organization mourning the freezer,
deepening the memoirs and
lookin at those silly acid pictures with
Wilfred screaming from the broomcloset.
The morning is something.
The morning is really something.
(hint: so is the night.)
-Part 3, December 9th-
My True love.
She entered my life at random, miscellaneously speaking with her about her beauty, injecting more flirtation, as is my way.
Then one day I started to stress. The woman I was trying to court, the one with the gorgeous name too beautiful to be spoken, I was falling for her. Far too quickly. And I needed to let her know, I needed to advance the relationship.
I was panicking. I don’t know why, but, I chose a girl at random, the most beautiful I could see at the time, and I began to ask her advice. I wanted to know from a beautiful woman’s perspective what I should do.
She, Belle, told me I should just walk straight up to her and kiss her right on the face. The thought of it made me turn red with embarrassment. It was such a bold move, could it work?
I asked if she was serious, and sure enough she was. This (at the time) blonde woman I chose at random was telling me to march right up the this girl I was head-over-heels for, and kiss her.
I never did. But for some reason, I fell in love with Jami Belle. I still feel guilty for leaving the gorgeous name behind, but, this woman, was something more.
She sent me a preposterous photo of her making this awfully crude face akin to a duck. And my heart melted. This drop dead beautiful girl I don’t even know just exposed herself in one of the most vulnerable poses I’ve ever seen. I loved her. I wanted her. And I told her.
I didn’t pull my usual bullshit and just, try to manipulate her into being in a relationship with me. I told her “I’m falling for you, Jami.”
The next couple weeks were spent wooing her. Constant messaging. Exchanging of truths and flirtations. Then one day, I was sitting in a park, surrounded by amazing music, perfect weather, and I told her “I’m sitting here, surrounded by beautiful people, and I can only think of you.”
I think that’s when she fell for me. Thank god. My chest exploded every night thereafter.
The next two months were spent in love. Complete love. Kissing and snogging and exchanging the most sacred of ourselves to each other. Promises. Embraces. Comfort. True love.
She was in my dreams, almost every night. I loved remembering those dreams. She was my everything.
We had some bumps, who doesn’t? She left me for a bit, we kissed and made up. She told me she couldn’t be rid of me. I melted.
-Note here, This isn’t some shitty teen drama. This may legitimately be the rest of my life.-
Time passed, we were good again. I told her, I asked her “Will you marry me someday?” She made sure I heard her yes.
I ended up with some jewelry for her, A red beaded bracelet and a ring of steel woven like a Celtic knot. I suppose It was a planned promise ring.
He and I... Started to go downhill. As the temperatures dropped, so did both of our emotions. We both seeped slowly into depression and neither knew what to do.
She lives many many miles away. Some nights I lay awake thinking that if she were just a little closer, it could have been better, but no. We both seeped lower.
I couldn’t get her my gifts. She couldn’t get me hers.
We slowed talking. Soon neither of us had anything to say.
She began to ignore me. I can’t blame her; life was terrible, and nothing could be said.
I was terrified of her. She could break my heart, my will, my name and my power at any given moment; through ignoring me, or responding curtly. I was horrified of what we had become.
This didn’t feel like the true love it once was.
Eventually I became convinced that our love was dead. I was in shambles. I cried a little every day thinking of it, deciding if it were true.
Then an influential figure of mine got me to begin speaking on the subject. Soon, I poured every detail I cared to tell to him, about how I felt, was feeling and all of it. I cried so hard, I don’t know how to describe. I was hysterical. This was the worst I’d ever felt. And it was my fault. I was deciding to end it (with the major influence of this figure I was speaking with). He told me he was shocked, not thinking I was that deeply in love. Me said how he hadn’t felt a heartbreak, a TRUE heartbreak like this until he was in his 20s. I was only 16.
I poured the water. I decided.
It must be dead. She didn’t love me anymore.
I needed closure. I wrote to her, telling her things I shouldn’t have. Absolutes about our relationship, our present, and our future. I spoke to her of her strength, her perfection, how she will always be wanted and loved. It was impossible not to.
And I walked away. I tried to grow. I tried to learn.
I put bandages on my wounds. They began to heal. And scar. Scar deeply.
I got to the point where I could finally flirt with girls again. They jumped on that train and took much of a liking to me. It was nice to feel the attention again, but every time I did, I could really only remember the compliments and sayings and kisses Jami gave to me.
I was still in love.
I was trapped in a purgatory. I had said goodbye, forever; but my heart screamed for her.
Then the astounding happened. She texted me. “Marshall?”
I began to pour water from my eyes and sob silently. “Jami, I need you,” I screamed to myself.
It was slow. There were a lot of revelations between both of us. Truths, some great, others... destroying, obliterating. But she was back. She loved me.
I loved her.
Always, and forever.
The most gorgeous, the most perfect woman in the world. Mine.
Jerry and Elaine are sitting in Monk’s diner on the Upper West Side.
The place still has that old Manhattan feeling: a film of grease on the
booths, pink packets of Spelnda at every table, and the waitresses, in
their frumpy yellow uniforms, have no manners and less patience.
Jerry is lifting a white mug to his mouth, slurping milk-diluted coffee
between his lips, “Y’know Elaine, it’s fine to say you believe in nothing,
but even nothing is something.” Elaine is only half-listening, all
morning she’s been worried about the rumored round of layoffs
eminent at Pendant Publishing, where she’s been reading
manuscripts for the last seven years, and she doesn’t have much
interest in another one of Jerry’s philosophical observations. “But
Jerry,” she says, in a slightly annoyed tone of voice, “if nothingness
awaits us; if when we die we simply cease to exist, then that is true
nothingness. The absence of an afterlife really does imply that there’s
nothing." Jerry raises his eyebrows, lulls another sip of coffee around
his mouth, and mulls this over. For a few mornings in a row he’s been
waking with a new sense of smallness that he’s never felt before; even
in a city as cold as New York, Jerry had never thought much about his
infinitesimal place in the chaotic clockwork of the universe until
recently. “Okay, so maybe you’re right, when we’re dead we’re
nothing. But if you asked me what I did today I would tell you I did
nothing, but what I really did was wake up, and read the paper, and
come here to meet you for coffee – that’s all something. Therefore,
even if we’re not aware that we’re dead, even if there’s no afterlife,
being dead is still a state of being.” Elaine sighs, her mind is off on
another island – if she does get laid off will she have to downsize her
apartment? Or worse, find a roommate? She takes a deep breath,
wondering if there’s a way she can facilely change the subject when,
much to her relief, George walks into the diner. He’s wearing a red
winter parka, which strikes both Elaine and Jerry as odd given that it’s
sixty degrees and sunny outside. He slides into the booth next to
Elaine, runs his hand across his bald head, and in a tone of existential
bereavement moans, “It’s not working for me Jerry, it’s just not
working.” “What is it that isn’t working?” “It all became very clear to
me that today the every decision I’ve made in my life has been wrong.
My life is the complete opposite of everything I want it to be. Every
instinct I have, whether it be something to wear, something to eat,
has been wrong…” Jerry and Elaine look at their friend, unsure of what
to say. At that moment one of the waitress approaches the table, gives
George a knowing look, and in her two pack a day voice says, “Tuna on
toast, coleslaw, cup of coffee?” George looks up at her, he’s about to
say yes when suddenly an alien impulse stops him. He crinkles his
forehead and says, “No. I always have tuna on toast. Nothing has ever
worked out for me with tuna on toast…” The waitress, looking slightly
bemused by George's neurotic tone, pulls the pencil from behind her
ear and the order pad from her apron pocket. “I want the complete
opposite of tuna on toast. Chicken salad… on rye… untoasted… with a
side of potato salad… and a cup of tea!” The waitress scribbles this
down, gives a quick nod, and hurries back towards the kitchen.
Elaine, shaking her head and laughing, says “Well, there’s no telling
what will come of this.” Jerry is half-smiling, his elbow propped up on
the table, his hand holding his chin. “Let me ask you something
George, do you think nothing is something?” George stares back at
Jerry silently, not sure how to respond. Elaine grabs a hold of George’s
arm, squeezing it with a measure of alarm and says, “George,”
pointing toward the bar, “that woman keeps looking at you.” George
looks in the direction of her point at the tall, thin, blonde woman in a
powder blue dress, her long alabaster legs extending down to a pair
of black spike-heeled shoes. “So?” George says, and Elaine, in a tone
of gentle encouragement responds, “So go talk to her.” George rolls his
eyes – his friend should know by now that his uneasiness in crowds
and lack of self-confidence renders such a suggestion as erroneous.
“Well here’s your chance to try the opposite,” Jerry interjects, “instead
of tuna salad and being intimidated by women; chicken salad and
walking right up to them. If every instinct you have is wrong then the
opposite would have to be right.” George leans back, smirks, “You’re
right,” he tugs on the lapels of his parka adjusting it to his shoulders,
“normally I would sit here and do nothing and regret it for the rest of
the day, so now I will do the opposite and I will do something!” With
that he jumps to his feet, and with an unshakeable pit of trepidation
being to cross the dirty dinner floor toward the leggy blond. The walk
was only several feet, but somehow that expanse felt much greater,
recalling the nervousness with which he would cross a middle school
gymnasium floor to ask one of the girls to dance. “Excuse me,” he said
to the blonde, feeling like he had an anvil crushing down on his chest,
“I couldn’t help but notice that you were looking in my general
direction,” She smiles, pushes a stray strand of hair behind her ear
and through her red lipstick lips says, “Yes. You just ordered the same
exact lunch as me.”
I thought I'd never stop missing you.
I thought the echo of your voice would never stop in my head
That the words I love you
Would forever ring in my ears.
I thought I'd never get over the way your hands felt on me
the trailing of your fingers on my lips
their dance around my collarbone
and the way they dragged over my rib cage
leaving a trail every inch of the way.
I was sure that I'd never forget the constellation of freckles along your back
and the one behind your left ear
how beautiful they were
how they never bothered me
and how I loved them even though you didn't.
I knew I'd never forget the color of your eyes
so chocolatey brown
with a hint of green
and a splash of orange.
I thought I'd never stop missing you.
But the echo of your voice has since turned into a whisper
I've found myself unable remember what your laugh sounds like
and I find it annoying when I hear someone call their girl Angel.
I've slowly gotten over the way your hands felt on me
and I've come to realize
how rough the skin on your fingers was
and how the trails you've left are just scars I want to cover up.
I'm not sure where your freckles are
I think there is one behind your right ear
and on your stomach
and maybe a few on your shoulder
but I always found them messy and annoying.
I don't know what color your eyes are
you have blonde hair so I'm guessing blue?
I guess I've just stopped missing you.
And then you stopped and smiled, pretty girl,
painted in blonde hair. "Pretty city", she says,
and the only place my mind turns is the lonely
light, left on in the apartment across the avenue.
What if it was our light ?? What would our world
be, if that lamp lit our home ?? These vacations
we'd taken, memories we'd shared. The sand of
the thousand beaches we'd walked on, hand in
hand. That light left on, after the fight last night.
When we walked away. her clothes still on our
floor. Her smell...still in our bed.
shadows once more steal from sleep
of one troubled past's regrets
god of war holding intact
what life beyond
held for keeps, ending squandered
trailing from heel
lunar or solar matters
nothing to intrusive recall
nightmare's face joking in bedsheets, choking on sidewalks in day
puddle shines back the muddled
brown face and blonde hair
of her troubled form, instead
city's mirror lit windows
she stares at herself
reflecting decades younger
but she can feel
the ghost fires in water
kissing her neck from just behind
the past crawls down her spine as a shop sign explodes down the way
worry to Kaneda she
to hide under umbrella
waste washing down from heaven
on them in rain
through quiet alleys hidden
this sad patchwork
of city to a tower
where bodies and spirits collide
where who waits on the high floor senses her arrival in night
softly from her lips runs like
pills down the drain
Meijar, Miriam's keeper
eats the manic idea
with glowing green approval
and gives her sex
in the same green atrium
wet cement floor
before taking the one door
to the rooftop and beginning
the ritual calling of lost names, exploding in blossoms
green moon she knowingly sets on the rise
Julia across the sky