You are in the living room at dusk
Haphazard towers of moving boxes rise around you
The furniture has been dismantled and
You divert your gaze to the underwhelming formation
Of cardboard and tape
As your mother screams and throws the cat across the room
In retrospect, it reminds you of an album cover
For some emo basement band
A collage of childhood in hues of brown
Or a glimpse of red flannel
Cardboard castles, a little boy
Holding a paper sword
Taken on a disposable camera in 2004
And reappropriated for it’s nostalgia in 2014
The boy you caught is not amongst your rescue party
You veil your disappointment poorly as you climb into the passenger seat
And it filters through the holes in the cloth like grey light
You blame the fatigue on your mother alone
Though it isn’t entirely her own
"Cavetown wrote a song about your ex and we played it all summer long" pt 2. I remember wet grass and pavement, chainlink fence and the high school running track that was a few blocks down, but I cannot for the life of me remember what the the front yard of that house looked like. All I can picture is a curb and the street I grew up on in the deeper East side.
A good warm flannel
Makes me immensely more pleased
Than most people do
It's flannel Friday.
Behind your soft warm brown eyes
your soul is cold and jagged
Underneath your perfect blonde hair
Your brain is cruel and unforgiving
Under your snug flannel
Your heart is rock hard and freezing
rockin flannels and hoodies in mid summer,
hair long, attitude sharp,
makeup? get that out of my face,
dresses ain't for me,
shorts and tops are my key,
while i may be strange,
out of the blue,
seem like one of the guys you would meet on a sport team,
what do you call something like me?
i'm a tomboy~
Dream of good impressions,
A false advocate of a positive outlook,
Predicting attitude will get you locked up,
In a prism of dishonourable desire.
The deal is,
Five assorted personalities,
Assault every aspect of yours,
Run you dry,
Then have the audacity,
To question your lack of faith.
And on that note,
Your personality dissipates,
And your motion merges with that of the sour voices,
That you thought were constructive.
Let's tie a clothesline over a bonfire
and drape our favorite flannel shirts across it
so the indelible scent of autumn nights
can carry us through the day.
My love and I were just seasonal lovers
I lost all faith in him
he was a scourge to his sensitive pride.
Today we are in a different country
Our smiles is now upside down
Our laugher is seldom heard,
Between us is the Brooklyn Bridge,
When he uses to look at me
his brown eyes tell his soul
It’s going to be colder outside,
For lovers like us,
He with his flannel pajamas
And I with my heavy pink robe and
it's going to be a lonely winter
My pencils are breaking-
Pens have spilled too much ink
But at least I'm still writing.
The flannel I have,
From chilly apartment-
I've worn that all week.
There's a cigarette burn
In one sleeve,
The buttons have come unhinged
During midnight runs to the corner
For cheap chocolate
To salt my appetite.
But at least I'm still writing.
I leap from place to place,
Eyeing hoods passing by,
And I imagine guns tucked away.
The sink leaks,
There's not enough sun.
I'm high on debt
And college school books
Rot in the corner.
I guess my degree
Has gone putrid too.
My life's gone dingy and dark,
Suffocated by polluted winter.
Dreams can't remember.
But ******* at least I'm still writing.
Writing life//New York
— The End —