she fancies herself a princess
but her prince is running a tad late
no white rabbit to keep him on track

she sits in her tower and waits
for the prince shows up to rescue her.
but no one ever comes

her anticipation is desperate
her heart is shattering  
the story unfolds

she scrubs her arms
bleeding into the bathroom sink
are dark ink stains.

her lyrics scrawled across her arms
no better way to keep sanity
than to lose your mind

don’t need a pen and paper
to write my story down
just give me blood and tears

she whispers,
"i doubt he even knows my name"



xoxo

This brown buff speckled throstle of a bird sits in the higher most branches of a yet to be leafed poplar tree . . . and sings. Such a song in the April morning air it greets the day, celebrates the rising sun. Above a suburban street the bird’s song catches the reverberation of a double row of houses, their windows bouncing sonic reflections of unaccompanied melismata.
 
Olivier Messiaen loved this bird for its répétition égale. Walking the mountain woods around his summer home he would wonder that the grive musicienne could make so exactly repetition after repetition of a complex phrase. A proto-minimalist perhaps? The male mistle thrush appears in several ***** works but most prominently in Saint Francois d'Assis singing luminously on the clarinet.
 
Although this is the ungregarious male singing away on this spring morning his name carries a female designation Turdus Philomelos. Poor Philomel, whose name means one who loved song, she was a princess of Athens lusted after by King Tereus who took her to a cottage in distant woods and ***** her. Then, he cut out her tongue.
 
Vengeful Philomel alone in the woods, but a most resourceful and artistic young woman, she set about weaving a tapestry that told all.
 
‘She set up a Tracian loom
And wove on a white fabric scarlet symbols
That told in detail what had happened to her.’
 
She sent the finished piece to Tereus who promptly ordered Philomel's death and that of her sisters (one of whom he was married to). As the girls were about to be slain they were changed magically into three birds . .
 
Joanna Laurens play The Three Birds takes the only fragment we have of Sophocles telling of this strange tale. Laurens is both musician and linguist and the text is a marvel of strange sounds and rhythms as the sisters communicate with each other in their personal private language akin, it is said, to Jersiese, an ancient Breton dialect.
 
So thank you dear song thrush for this morning's wonder: a song *sans pariel.

Oh why,
would they
do that?

Why
would they tempt me like this?

Why did they cut the pickle in half when i have no one to share it with?
I will eat one half today
and save the rest for tomorrow i guess.

I can already feel it
The pull,
The drag.
We're heading back to how we used to be,
There's no good left in us,
There's no love left between us.
I want out.
I want to run.
I want to hide.
I want to live the rest of my life.
Trust is lost,
Love is forgotten,
Tears are dried.
There's nothing else,
There's nothing more.
I'm walking out,
I can't do this anymore,
You're not who you used to be,
You've lied to me,
There's nothing left,
Goodbye,
Good luck.

All armies are the same
Publicity is fame
Artillery makes the same old noise
Valor is an attribute of boys
Old soldiers all have tired eyes
All soldiers hear the same old lies
Dead bodies always have drawn flies

You will hurt when a certain stillness turns to silence
and your thoughts become memories
trapped inside you like figurines in a glass case,
delicate and stunning, and reflected in windows behind you.
Halfway through the day, when the sun throws prisms
upon each angle of such memories,
when they look more beautiful than you've known,
smash them, for they were never so lovely.
Maybe they were mistaken for dreams
or wishes you made when you knocked on the heavens.
Then scatter them among the universe.
If you let them go, they will light the night sky.