There's a party around the block,
Where flamingos run and eggs fall from upstairs.
The roof is tumbling and the pool is overfilled with humans and animals,
There's a zebra and ten monkeys running through the house.
****** ******* is rising everywhere,
To the kitchen and the bathroom, to the backyard and the deck.
Balloons are scattered on the floor,
There's food fights in every room.
There's a car crashed into the wall,
People are running around in togas.
The music is blasting through the glass windows,
Everyone is jugging boos and sniffing toxins.
The bonfire is sparking with Barbie doll heads,
The smell of burning rubber spreads throughout the sky.
People are wild with horse masks on their heads,
They're fist pumping and thumping to the repeated beat.
Males and females are racing around **** in the halls,
Paint ***** and BB Guns are being fired on every window.
Glasses of broken bottles are lost in couches and beds,
People are swinging on chandeliers.
The walls start to buckle and shake,
Cops arrive but are being tazered with their own tazers.
The house is being tee-peed,
No one knows why the tub is on fire.
The music starts to get louder every second,
Tables and chairs are being thrown across the rooms.
There are piggy back rides on the front lawn,
Drug addicts are polluting the air with taboo smoke.
People are sliding down the stairway with helmets and pillows,
Many of the people are hung upside down unexpectedly.
Girls get dragged into the bedrooms,
Fights are happening here and there.
Some people are passed out anywhere,
Others are bungee jumping off the roof.
Furniture is left outside,
Lips are locking in the closet.
Fireworks are going off while people are dunking their heads in water,
Twerking is being done almost everywhere.
The house is a total wreck,
And the sun starts to rise over the horizon.

I don't know about you,
But this party was something new.

the sounds dance as we are, the music like a waterfall right by our ears, and we are a part of the landscape. the photographer zooms in closer and he sees us. he snaps a photo as if to trap the ephemeral nature in a bottle. we drink from said bottle the liquid of opulence we are basking in. as lush as everything around us seems, with one too many chandeliers and dresses and tuxedos that cost a fortune, we exist as fireflies in the night, our identities remaining letters in sealed envelopes locked in drawers. we flutter and sway, chortle and whisper sweet nothings, somethings, anythings to whoever charms us for a moment’s dance.

she observes and picks at the seams of her maroon dress as if she’s entranced by a thriller novel. it’s so easy to feel tuckered out sometimes, she muses. she is an escapist by nature. she’s taken up running as a recreational activity, and she doesn’t run to feel the adrenaline rush. she runs to be alone. she hears their voices and their sheepish laughs behind their hands. these girls that are too scared to be themselves even under a silly mask. a physical facade to make poetic the abstract one.

she’s about to leave when he bumps into her. he is intoxicated by the late night energy and he’s decided she is going to dance with him. his hands aren’t awkward and sweaty but they’re soft and seem to know what they’re doing as they glide down the small of her back and poise themselves for a rhythmic rumble. she chooses not to be a rhythmic renegade and she accepts after it’s started that it’s going to continue because he has this coy grin that she doesn’t feel like resisting. a grin that tells her to trust him and to take a ******* chance.

they rotate like they’re a part of the solar system, and afterward share a couple of drinks. they talk about the vastness of the universe and share the same incredulity that they will never be able to touch a star or ever fully adjust their eyes to the intensity and immensity of sunlight. it saddens them both to the same degree. he shares his love of languages and his eagerness to learn about the world in which we were born as infinitesimal shapes. she talks to him about how she loves hearing a good story as much as she loves telling one, and how without words and the capability of expression she would feel paralyzed. they shift under the same wavelengths, twin fire signs. they drink up each others demons until their glasses feel half empty and save the other half for another meeting or twelve. and half past twelve, they remove their masks and the cages around their hearts.

It's the quietest time of night
Where the moon has peaked
All is hushed
And you're supposed to be asleep

But your mind plays games
Making noise that keep you awake
Mocking your restlessness and fears
Little monsters play tug-of-war
And swing from moonlit chandeliers

I Find comfort in the dark
A pitch black tranquility
But little monsters search for a thought
To keep me awake unwillingly

Heart steadies like the sea
Holding on to the evanescent dreams
Waiting for the pounce of little feet
Jumping on on you like a trampoline

They've finally tuckered themselves out
From running about
They curl up beside me
And count their sheep
Beside little monsters
I sleep

With closed eyes I see
Chandeliers swinging free

                A dream

my belongings number three
Plate, spoon and aged setee.

the soft light
made
by the jingle jangle of chandeliers
is hiding the fact
that the crystals are plastic
not glass

the red carpeted halls in rich silver
are synthetic
and painted


the people who sing
are so obviously
pre-recorded
lip-singers

..that the sound is ugly



the majestic
queen
wears a great crown

made of tin and rocky road



and as the jester steps down
with his grin made of real malice

the beauty you cast
is the reason
why everything

else

looks


...fake

rows and rows of decadence
chocolate covered dreams

gold and purple velvet
exotic coffee steams

haute coutre on sterling racks
staffed by aphrodite

cherry blossoms in the air
art to serve the mighty

gilded goblets fat with rubies
thick potions to control

ivory pipes on opal stands
pink smoke from their bowls

mahogany and marble
amber glass aglow

tinkling diamond chandeliers
furniture art nouveau

elixirs and magic rings
magenta fire in a jar

thick and heavy gold
tiffany eggs for a czar

pastel parisian cakes
hand-stitched italian shoes

hornback crocodile leather
master barber fine shampoos

bespoke tailor in a corner
adonis with fine liquor

any delicacy or art
for any type connoisseur

richly wrapped and waiting
your opulent desires

soak them drink them in
bask in their fires

all priceless things
based on human lies

worth less then dust
compared to love in
someone's eyes

People’s feet are hurting,
dresses and shoes are a size smaller than theirs.
They’re taking chances, and going to dances
and the truer selves are calling for help.

They’re dressed in their nicest,
their inner screams are the quietest.
Under the gleaming smiles,
their broken, imperfect selves are quietly calling for help.

The smoothest white marble floor lies,
in the reflection they seem to be perfect
while they’re numb inside.
Living corpses are calling for help.

They’re breathing slowly,
to cope with the swift dancing.
The masses are strategizing and scheming
on how not to call for help.

All is calm and feelings are suppressed.
Suddenly!
Chandeliers are falling,
glass is on the dance floor
and hoofers are calling for help.

Crystal chandeliers
shelter an aviary restaurant
just beyond our patio.

A pair of purple finches,
having heard the place well-chirped,
drop in for a hasty lunch
and flit away full and fortified.

A cardinal taxies in to sample
the black oil sunflower seeds,
then revs his engines for the flight
to a chilled Magnolia branch -
scattering  snow tufts as he lands.

Birds of every kin and feather
spread the word from branch to tree
that you just can't beat the tasty fare
at the little wire and glass café
beneath the crystal chandeliers.

*February, 2011

They'd been friends for months... Meeting in a thunderstorm... Together days and nights before... From under chandeliers to dark club corner booths... Movies, music, cruising around town at night in the Camaro... Drunken dancing on the porch at 3;00am.... Beachcombing on hot summer days.. Deep conversations... Talk and yearnings for transition, pain, fear, anticipation of the unknown dreams that have haunted her whole life, that only he understands... Hangovers weathered on the couch... Late for work mornings after too much wine.. Feeling full of smiles that night, wine, lots of talk, deep talk interrupted only by moments of silence and thought.. Old music on the radio... It's snowing hard and long, blowing the leafless branches against the house.... Sounds of ghosts outside, transparent nails *****, scratching, with every gust... Wanting, needing, desiring to be let in... They both felt it.. Lonely quivers against the cold leather sofa.. The snow blows harder outside... The house trembles.. The lights go out with a loud crackling pop in the fuse box... They jump, and fall closer together on the couch.. Laughter erupts, as the wine absorbs all fear... Memories of summers moments. The sun on their backs turn to cold flashing shadows from blowing branches.. Sounds get louder, eyes widen... He rests his hand on hers, needing comfort... She trembles... Genders collide then disappear in the darkness... He touches her for the first time as the woman she's always longed to be.. They kiss and melt almost in tears... A transformer explodes on a pole outside... No attention is paid... Their hearts and bodies are consumed by love, nothing else matters, the whole world stops and takes a deep breath.. They touch, sensing things so new, so natural and familiar. Excitement and pulses that can not be imagined or explained... Sharing things neither had even knew existed before.. A love so special, so deep, so unique that they sink beneath the silk bed sheets, and disappear completely... Snow stops falling, wind stops blowing, they are both now blind, both deep in love, and both happier than they ever dreamed they could be...

by Lj Mark, 3-24-15

can’t be sure.
can’t be sure.
can’t be sure that it’s dead until its heart is in your hand
can’t be sure that you’ve won until the competition is all dead,
hearts in your hands,
can’t be sure so don’t turn your back on the bodies.
can’t be sure(surety: n; the state of being sure
surety: n; certainty
surety: n; ground of safety
surety: n; is when it’s all over
when the moment is crumpled at your feet
and the guts of the present are clenched in your hands
like the trophy you’ve ached for since the past.
surety: n; is when it’s all over
when you bleed wax from the candles in your chest
and the ball ends so abruptly
chandeliers clinking over fallen dancers.
surety is when it’s all over,
the jig is up and the game has been played
and all the characters are dead on the stage
but the fool who gives the final line.
surety you’re sure,
because your hands have grown now so large,
rolling knuckles and long fingers
enough to hold all the strings
and now you know what they meant when they told you watch out for the puppeteer
[[it’s you, it’s you,
you’re the puppeteer and the malevolent god,
you’re the one that they told you stories about at night,
the one that pulls naughty children to bits
and laughs at the good children because how long will that last,
how long before you’re stealing and murdering and ****** and]]
surety you’re sure,
starving with a distended gut
the guts of the present too insubstantial when what you want is
to eat blind justice whole
surety you sure are pretty,
prettiest hangman i ever did see
a noose and a knot, we can waltz all night long,
sing me the convict,
the convict’s song
surety it’s sure to be,
surety it’s sure -
the universe has ways of getting what it wants,
has ways of dragging everything it hates
down to its gut
to rot and die at the bottom of the universe.
to rot and die in a pile of stardust.
survival’s a game and you’re losing fast,
but ******* if you’re going down you’re going down swinging,
you’re going down with cracking skulls
and you’ll take the world down with you.
surety you’re sure to leave
the world in a pile of stardust.
surety you’re sure to be
the killer in the operahouse:
the best and the brightest shot through the throat before they can sing the last verse,
because the end is always the worst part,
the conclusion where all the worries are ended because they never tell you how
the villain hung himself from loneliness.
the hero died purposeless with no-one to oppose.
so don’t end until you end it right
don’t end until you tell the ******* TRUTH.
death is not grand and ****** and beautiful.
death is the pathetic puff of stardust
stirred up by your last breath
as you rot and die in the gut of the universe.
surety you’ll show them how
the universe meant to die

and blind justice weighs your heart.)

Thirty feet tall Madonna, is one of the things-

My ultra-stylish city that grew up,

Rave, raunchy catwalks beneath those chandeliers-

The Toyota drives by the Manhattan Beach, amidst bikini wardrobe.

When I read those Taxi-dance barbettes-

I wish I could lost in their growling gowns,

All my wishes fulfilled one day and flew me down there-

My boasting finance job and some pals were African browns!

It was that ultimate visa down the Fashion Avenue-

Most of their lipstick glosses were supported by Chelsea revenue.

I could not breathe the invisible virus against my immunity,

The enigmatic pleasures that lived inside the skyscraper community-

I had no qualms while cherishing the barbeque restaurants poisoning,

My fascinations without imaginations had no logical reasoning-

Many of us at Saint Clair’s ward#3, NYC, were at once there fugitive-

Now moaning like chickens to be butchered, we are all *** positive!


Did you know that…

Pop diva Madonna is a gay icon and the gay community has embraced her as a pop culture icon. She was introduced to the gay community while still a teenager. It was her ballet teacher, Christopher Flynn, a gay man, who first told Madonna that she was beautiful. He introduced her to the local gay community of Detroit, Michigan, often taking her to the local gay bars. Flynn encouraged Madonna to walk away from her full scholarship to the University of Michigan and to move to Manhattan.



The disease of AIDS…
Was first uncovered in homosexual men
From Manhattan


Synopsis

What happens when your dreams turn into reality? It’s a paradigm that you celebrate, live life to the fullest. There is however, life that exists beyond this celebration, sometimes good and sometimes not so good like you expected. And when it becomes not so good like you expected, you spat with bitterness and associate the term bad. Anything against your wish and will is then bad and one day you might fall into live with this bad. All I can say is that they are individual retrospection.

This is what Manhattan Dreams exactly captures. The first half can successfully open the door of fascinations that a college teenager in search of a lucrative career and living might jump into- “Style, fashion, exuberance, beaches, skyscrapers, stardom and what not!” Everything is colorful about Manhattan, even the way it is spelt and pronounced. A financial job inside a long cherished skyscraper, international friends, restaurants, pubs, smoking, the kind of gay evenings are not only meant for Hollywood films but can happen to someone like you. And then one day, the world economy complains your presence there as a fugitive, you are fired from your job and your world crashes to a clinic or a hospital confirming you *** positive. What will you do then?

That is what you are getting from the second half of the poem. As if the drama has reached a ****** like after the interval in a film. There seems a sudden pause in life from where there leads the road to uncertainty, disappointment and delusion. This is where the poem ends, because this is where the human mind stops thinking often. A never before kind of bitterness cataracts the dreamy visions and the object of your dream becomes an excuse of your current defeat.

Manhattan Dreams is not a criticism of the gay culture. Neither it attempts to de-criminalize the society nor does it pollute the appeal of Manhattan at all. It is the victim’s individual retrospection in the other side of his celebrated life which is no more a celebration now. The stylish Manhattan is both a dream and a reality. It has nothing to do with your personal glory or agony. Depending upon the situation in your life it might serve as your forefront or background.

october sings to the grey hills
where the cloud fades and drifts
into the summits
like white turrets of a purple sea
captured in the moonlight,

the moon’s chandeliers glitter
with candles.

the house is better for an open fire
plumping silk cushions
on a ragged sofa,
(they are best worn out with love)

midnight wears an evening gown.

the rain sinks into the
white walls and the
beech hedge,
has its own pitter patter
like bare feet running
through a wood,

the sky's hair is high upon her head.

Like a puddle of conciseness I gazed within, I saw something,
not of reality, was this a nightmare in a teacup of reflections?
But as it evaporated I saw that wondering gaze among the
blind effigies that looked into nothingness.

I wondered my view upon the multitudes of shaded white,
what I hadn't seen as my overlook of what was inner most
close to my perceiving. Then I saw it, how did I not envision
this before? Was my gaze swollen with the shallow husks of
those clambering around me. Like an afterimage fleeting.

It was as if it was jumping in shallow puddles, for just a time
not to make waves in a sea of nothingness. For even the slightest
motions collected on the shores of others perceiving.
I was in a chess match, in a board of rookies..
Where those before me once me? I collected myself.

                  "Was I a pawn or another player in a field
                                                  of knights who had fallen,


I was weaving like spider silk, afterimages of where I
had once been. I had become accustom to the intricate
notions of what could and could not be grasped upon.
The blank ones even though of momentary emotions,
when it or they perjured upon them.

Then I noticed, they became more than just chandeliers of  
static light. Emotions were collecting in the corners of what
were vacant sockets of vision. I was no longer alone in this
place of shaded memories. Knowing that they were not of
the purring kitten collections, more of the great white playing
in a kinder garden of seals.

I watched as they consumed each pool, that which was
vacant now fell dissolving into tears of memories fading
beyond there contemplation. But as each painting of
memories was dissolved they were smirking as if they
or it knew I was watching the destruction of their actions.

Knowing what I had seen, I was the knight on a field of
pawns. They were innocence in playground of land mines.
Each step was unconditionally their continuation or the
inevitable disillusion to extinction. My morals were as in
life as in death, never to let harm befall those of needing.

**To Continued in the final part 4

I lay on stained mattresses amidst oil paintings and mirrors
Lattice veils of mascara run down my pallor cheeks
As I stare down at the blood pooling in my outstretched hand
Reflections stare down at me, winged ******* and soldiers
All eyes across the room staring down with me, to the checkered floor
My pale pink toes brush the tile, the soles black smudging the gloss
White, blaring, chandeliers above, candelabras with jeweled adornments
Gracefully falling downwards like tears, my own indenting upon satin sheets
Wrapped tight around my legs, falling loose around my shoulders
Caping me, hanging open at my ******* bruised and swollen
Though I've no babe, and so, I clench my eyes against the staring
Chiding me, beguiling me, burned in behind my eyelids there,
you. are.
Whispering like chiffon, along with the fabric of my dress beneath your manicured fingernails
Tracing the edges of my gooseflesh and regaling me with tales of woe
and wonder, of the conquests of art, fine frames and fantastic auctions
Our freedom, held capricious on the winds of chance, before
Now love, our love, your love, provided such an opportunity, a chance to fly away
This you mumbled to my neck with adoring kisses
as relieving as fresh rain against my skin, hands tuning the zipper along my back to play such a fine melody like a phonograph
A pretty thing, to be molded by such hands, with as much regard as handling a Monet painting

I see it clearly after all

Among walls of books
and a sea of chairs,
I enter the fortress
where I am the princess.
A number of heads
bow down before me
acknowledging my presence
by the sound of papers shuffling.
The familiar textures
of paperbacks and
hardbounds worn out
by the waves of time
kiss the tips of my
fingers, as I offer them
my hand.
A trumpet of
clearing throats
call my presence
to acknowledge the
entrance of.
Across the pathway
between counters
and chairs, with
finely lit ceilings of
fluorescent lit chandeliers,
our eyes met.
Among a sea of chairs
and walls of books
I enter a fortress
where I found my prince.

Falling stars make chandeliers and I wish upon each piece
To hope among a million dreams that my chances may increase
Within the creases and cracks of time as future becomes present becomes past
That you won't count me out even if you count me last

My hand, it reaches out for you like many a lover before
Closing my fragile, feeble eyes and opening my hearts door
In all and all in with the wager for a hint of you
No promise to be found in the stars or in the cosmic hue

Love is written on the blackboard of the universe
While passion's written on bed's backboard, gifting touch like verse
And as I lay in roofless rooms I look towards starlit skies
I wish for you and only you to stay eternally

Sing my song of forgetting,
Of lips never wrong, never upsetting,
Sing the wine-infused air along,
From the violin’s grapevine song,
Purely gifted as the altar wine and alms
Of the Santa Maria della Visitazione,
A cadenza from the catgut of stringed waves,
     The vibrato in polyphonic staves across the lagoon,
          Amid the psaltery sway of submerged algae plumes,
               Like the strident tails of the horses of Neptune,
Or the teardrop-surge of the glass chandeliers of Murano,
The same powdered hue of Venetian sky,
As bluebirds fallen into their own drowned tune,  
As absence awash over the sun-scattered tombs of Olympus.

Sing with a felt-tipped tongue,
So my song of forgetting is never undone.

What a perfect setting to tell this love story just like the land her heart was barren and Georgia O Keefe
Speaks of it perfectly “Such a beautiful untouched lonely feeling place such a far part of what I call the
Faraway” how many times had she dreamed of being able to lay her head beside another on the pillow
But still the years increased and no prince rode into view against the backdrop of what others saw
Just as weary empty barbarous land the artist O Keefe with fine acute sense ability blended contrasted
Harshness to bring forth exquisite beauty from bovine grazing herds to one individual that left only its
Whitened scull stared with empty eye sockets on the cruel reality of an unforgiving land but even this
Spoke an unequivocal announcement of beauty rugged startling severe the sun sky and earth told the
Story of quiet irreversible glory magnificence magnified multiplied would capture and enthrall even
Greater than when this creature lived and breathed as well her life would whisper the sweetest accord it
Was like a life time had forgot then with richest hues the flames leapt to daring and fulfilling life truly
She was driest tender what moisture there was derived from tears of regret and longing just a tender
Touch With feeling and passion it came to full expression when she stood at the end of this great field
The sun Dried weeds started to stir from the rising breeze she stood there beside a lone tree and as this
Picture Took full hold of her soul in the distant horizon her answer of a lifetime of longing arrived on the
Wind he dropped his biplane gently upon the face of the field a golden rush overtook her feelings like
A Flower without water she was in a state of drawn feebleness and want now her skies were filled with
The wonder clouds of rain they came in a fury after the long draught she didn’t know this clearly but she
Sensed it with womanly intuition two kindred spirits now would come to know fulfillment because at
The Center of everything love is predominate and it’s not just a feeling it’s a person he goes to the very
Core and center of existence he sees and truly knows when the sparrow falls he all so knows when we
Fall in love first because he arraigned it took it from the fragile frail wisp of thought gave it a birth place
In the heart and as it grows it ends up ruling a life of love and devotion but for misses Beal it was just a
Another day for Jon tungsten it was just a time to do a little barnstorming in Santa Fe the fall had been
Full and promising now it became even more gratifying and promising this land at first considered a
Tortuous place gleamed and was unalterably a dreamscape how tenderly wonder touched and wound it
Self around your emotional well being but for the moment our heroine returned to her job a quick
Telling of the hotel La Fonda where she worked “La Fonda is a Santa Fe landmark, just steps
Away from history and art museums, a variety of galleries and shops, historic churches and, of
Course, the Plaza. The historic inn’s Pueblo-style architecture features thick wood beams, latilla
Ceilings and carved corbels. Special touches such as hand-crafted chandeliers, tin and copper
Lighting fixtures and colorful tiles add character and charm. Beautiful hand-carved and hand-
Painted furniture and displays by local artists create a rich ambience. La Fonda has always been
A Local gathering spot and a hub of activity. World War II journalist Ernie Pyle wrote, “You
Could Go there any time of day and see a few artists in the bar…a goateed gentleman from
Austria or a Maharajah from India or a New York broker… You never met anyone anywhere
Except at La Fonda.” So as chance would have it the pilot adventurer and hotel manageress
Would also cross paths under favorable circumstances due to him having a slight mishap with his
Plane and without it this story wouldn’t have unfolded he was only slightly bruised the only
Evidence was a sling that held his right arm but it meant a delay and a stay so busy was her life
In doing for others little did she know the tables were about to be turned who could count the
times that she had watched the couples holding hands holding deep long glances going out on the
Floor to dance and longed for the same to be her life there is some who believe there is a
universal
Attunement and alignment at work in our lives it seems so here she the great tree that bare no
Fruit his life lived fully but at the center there was emptiness all it took was a cordial meeting out
On the patio dining section among trellises hanging flowers a full golden harvest moon and a
Sweet autumn breeze only a greeting was made but in the depths that only the soul knows a
Connection had occurred somewhere there was the smallest muffled sound a foundation had
Moved unseen but powerfully moving a new building stared to be built the next time a little
Longer conversation then a dinner was arraigned one was wowed with tales of the barnstormer
Life while at the same time a root had fastened itself to a wild ones heart the steady stability that
Showed out of her life was for some reason the most attractive thing he could imagine her life
Made his life take form and made a base where truth was undeniably lived grandly a love so
Great could only be told in the ski with barrel roles loops and dives clouds white and puffy and
Blue that is almost incomprehensible the days washed in to their lives like the land that told its
Secrets through beauty conjured against stark backdrops elegance pristine acute almost painful
Was the soft divergent quality revealed but before they could fly off into the western sunset fate
Would raise its heavy hand and an accident would claim her love as it did so many others of that
period so she donned the black widows apparel but rich beyond words was the man who had the
brightest blue eyes he was her guardian her keeper no longer did she long for love it had stepped
beyond the azure blue and every time a plane passed over head she was thrilled and amazed with
The life she had known when a heroic flyer took her far from her down to earth life spelled out
Heaven in such glorious terms like the gentle sound of a Spanish guitar drifting out on the plaza
Her life is filled with a haunting music that is the knowledge of all who love and have been loved

The chandeliers
The tapestries
Our golden curls
And deities
Shift dress and ice cream
Yelllow light and silent gatherings among us
And in circles
The sharks swam around us
Our anger became one
And in this dream our souls
Became symbols
And the sisterly flame
Stirred within

Sent out the invitations
Up and down the party line
With a tweak of the imagination
The party to end all times
If this don't get you misbehavin'
That right there would be a crime
So come one in fact come all, we'll help you spend your dime

Leave behind all your senses
And inhibitions at the door
Pull yourself up a lawn chair
All you drunks pull up a floor
This is the party of a lifetime
No one can ignore
And when it comes down to it, ain't that what a party's for

I knew there'd be a slight crowd
But I had no idea
That it'd be so eclectic
To include zombified midgets
Along with Henry the VIII
With a few beheaded wives and kids
That guy's a lady killer like nobody else's Biz

There's bearded circus lady's
Hanging off the chandeliers
Politicians kissing babies
Spreading a message for all to hear
The only problem is the message
Never is quite clear
Still the crowd stands on it's feet with the loudest cheer

I saw both the Bacon brothers
Eating a ham sandwich by poolside
As a plane flew overhead
Writing a message in the sky
The end of the world's tomorrow
You can kiss it all goodbye
Might as well continue partying if tomorrow we're going to die

At the stroke of midnight
Marilyn Monroe steps through the door
With a bag of party favors
And Elvis Presley in tow
No more need for the Disco ball
With his rhinestones all a glow
We hang Elvis high as the rest of us hang low

The party got so rowdy
The neighbors called the police
Who saw it as beyond control
So they called the local priest
The only ones that need saving
Are the drunks down on their knees
Ocefier arrest them then please help me find my keys

It's now the morning after
And everyone is gone
The biggest mess I've ever seen
And more out on the lawn
It's all one big blur to me
Of who, what, where was going on
But I best get busy cleaning before Mom and Dad get home

i never bought the whole dark academia thing.
sure, ****** and drugs and *** are torrid and dark when you're from a rich family,
when you've never woken up to the news of your childhood best friend being shot to death,
when you haven't seen your family and friends fall into the seductive cesspool of opioid addiction,
when half of your class was pregnant by the time senior year rolled around.
the academic upper class thinks what working class kids go through is sexier when the backdrop of the overdose is chandeliers and silk,
instead of a small town parking lot at 3am.
my aesthetic reality of academia is scholarships, it's leather jackets and nicotine addictions
it's having the only fifteen-year-old car in the campus parking lot and hoping to find a plug before the first week of classes.
it's not sleeping between work and class and partying. it's being the only one whose dad isn't buddies with the guy giving me an internship.
it's lonely. it's the crippling loneliness of not understanding upper class social cues,
it's reading crime and punishment in the slivers of time between work and work and class and more work
and emphasizing with raskalnikov so much it makes your teeth ache.
it's coughing up blood.
it's having health insurance for the first time in college and still not using it.
it's drowning, it's fighting, it's violent and heroic and painful and
never knowing
if you'll actually
make it.

Venomous slithering silk gown
Adressed the chandeliers in the
Marrakesh's dusky evening, just
To outshine the simmering glass

There were gentelmen and ladies
Chit chating politely, uninterested
Awaiting on a dinner to be served.

He noticed the scarf, she thougt to
Herself. Unending in memory are
Hoffman's grand thrilly fairytales.
I wish he'd gather the bold pirates
Of his conquering intentions and..