"edie" poems
This is an excerpt of exquisite letter that Kerouac sent to his first wife, Edie Kerouac Parker, in late January of 1957, a decade after their marriage had been annulled.
The world you see is just a movie in your mind.
Rocks don't see it.
Bless and sit down.
Forgive and forget.
Practice kindness all day to everybody
and you will realize you’re already
in heaven now.
That’s the story.
That’s the message.
Nobody understands it,
nobody listens, they’re
all running around like chickens with heads cut
off. I will try to teach it but it will
be in vain, s’why I’ll
end up in a shack
praying and being
cool and singing
by my woodstove
making pancakes.
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 12:43 PM UTC
For the first time on campus, Sisters on the Runway will strut and pose for domestic violence awareness.
Sisters on the Runway will be hosting its first annual fashion show from 7 p.m. to 9 p.m. tonight in the Business Building. All proceeds will be donated to the Centre County Women's Resource Center, Layla Taremi president of the organization, said.
Sisters on the Runway is a national student-run organization that raises awareness about women and children who reside in domestic violence shelters. There are over five chapters throughout the nation, each supporting the same cause to local shelters. It was founded in 2009 and has grown since then, Taremi (sophomore-marketing) said.
Aside from the fashion show, which is the biggest fundraising event that the organization hosts, Sisters on the Runway is also responsible for other events. The organization hosts a chalking event where they write facts about domestic violence on sidewalks using chalk. This is a way for them to raise domestic violence awareness, Taremi said. It also hosts a walk where all participants walk a mile in heels for awareness.
The show will consist of eleven female models and three male models, Edie Alexander, the event planner, said.
Alexander said the show is expected to showcase clothing from Connections, Dwellings, Diamonds and Lace Bridal and Harper's, who are also their sponsors. Looks Hair Salon will be responsible for hair and makeup for the models in show, Taremi said.
"There is no theme for the show,” Taremi said. “It will be a wide spectrum of clothing."
The male models are expected to walk the runway showcasing suits and tuxedos, Taremi said. Originally the show was not going to include male models. It wasn't until the owners of Harper's decided to contribute to the show by donating some men's apparel for the fashion show.
All the models participating have been building up their confidence for the runway, Alexander (sophomore-recreation park and tourism management) said.
"I'm excited for our first annual fashion show, I hope this brings more awareness to the Penn State community," Vice President Lauren Shearer (sophomore-supply chain management) said.
The organization’s goal is to get a lot of people involved through different events to help raise awareness of domestic violence, Shearer said.
"We’re trying to push people to come, not just Penn State students, because it's not an issue that doesn't only affects college students,” Alexander said. “It affects everyone as well."Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC
Where is my Campbell Soup Can? My Candy Darling, Edie Sedgewick, my "Factory"?
I was promised 15 minutes, it said so on the box, on the manual of life, now where is it?
Did I pass it? Dismiss it? Was it at the bottom of the ******* Jack box I so carelessly tossed aside?
I think not. I think it does not exist, and therefore I think Andy failed me.
Andy lied.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
She was always a chameleon soul
Black Orchid
Eyes, shadows, vulnerabilities
Of heroine chic,
Juxtaposed with an embracing
Self
Of mutual
weirdness
Meshing voices from
The past
Nostalgic memories for
Behind the camera
A lady photographed
A younger self,
Mirrored reflections of
The lady she had graced
Into through the
Ages,
Where contemplative deliberations
Iconic wonders, flashed through
Her mind
With each click the metamorphosis
Click;
one
two
three
Twiggy, Edie, Kate
Transformations; a sorcerers magic,
Contradictions;
body
mind
soul
Mirages amidst reincarnations
Never a remnant of the same
For, the lady behind the lens
Unseen
A ghost veiled in black;
The Black Orchid.
© Sia Jane
Dedicated & written for my darling friend Cara <3
For she shall know love <3
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC
Edie was caught in the claws of copulation.
She was attractive, with no roots showing
on the top of her scalp.
Great **** great *** could hold a conversation.
Everyday, she got into her workhouse of a car,
more home than her dingy apartment, and drove
to her first "appointment."
But on this day, the appointment that loomed ahead of
her had her shower cold and her face white.
She drove past an old movie theatre
and an abstract and title company with
the fanciest sign in town.
It was Edie's favorite.
She glanced out the window.
A regular ******* standing on the sidewalk was chatting
up a woman who looked bored stiff
and there was a young man a few jumps
away who couldn't hold his liquor.
"Pathetic," Edie muttered.
An average run-of-the-mill bar slouched behind
them and there were ridiculous looking people
spilling out the door.
But only those who had survived the night before.
Across the street, a newspaper dispenser ***** and chained
to a light pole stood content as its contents spilled from
it's belly like the guts of a dead gazelle.
Like the guts of it's readers.
Like the guts of a building out an open window.
Edie's ******* were sore and hurt after the
manhandling of last night.
They began with a ***** that got straight to
the point and then they did too.
He had advertised himself as "sweety but meaty"
and Edie discovered later
that his genitals were uncircumsized and below average.
Oh well.
Submission.
She had a headache in the morning and no aspirin.
Her decision was to stop later and get some.
But before then, she had something to take care of.
Something big that needed to be handled.
Something she hoped would be brief.
"Something," she thought, "that's for **** sure."
She pulled into a front spot in her black '98 BMW,
fixed her make-up, then her hair.
Edie closed her eyes, took in a rather large
amount of oxygen,
exhaled and stepped out of the car.
She had a hankering for eggs after all.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 7:24 PM UTC
encased with passion & desire,
love & lust he waits for her still,
a muse
he's restless & listless, his heart beats,
& bleeds, catch up, catch up,
a muse
leaking lover lost through, a dripping soul,
red raw, vulnerable, closed,
a muse
a fragility so unknown to her, a naivety,
oblivious, at risk from all men,
a muse
he couldn't have her, so he destroyed her,
she disallowed all men in,
a muse
denial & unfazed, she's dazed, confused,
he watches from the sidelines,
a muse
this obsession won't hit him,
or maybe the day she is gone, he will,
a muse
drugs were a power, greater than her,
releasing caged birds, an angel above,
a muse.
© Sia Jane
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
Edie strolled into the restaurant, her favorite place
as a child.
The diner was decorated in a 50's theme
and looked like it was a drunken night's
regurgitation of the one in "Pulp Fiction."
She sat down in front of her father,
who had been watching her ever since she pulled up.
"Jesus Christ, Edie. What did those shoes cost you?"
Edie was wearing a pair of pink heels with
Louboutin trademark red soles.
"Enough," Edie spat, with obvious contempt for her father's concern.
The waitress approached,
sat her plump buttocks on the booth
next to Edie's father and took their drink order.
Two coffees, two waters, and an orange juice.
"I want you to meet my new girlfriend, Edie."
"What the **** do you mean by that?"
"Have dinner with us."
"No, thanks."
Edie's father took a deep sigh.
"I know this is about your mother---"
Edie threw a ten on the table, and
strode quickly to the door.
Elvis, Marilyn, and Frank look-a-likes stared
curiously at her full-figure.
Edie sank into her car with tears rolling
down her cheeks.
She drove to a convenience store and purchased
two bottles- Tylenol and Jack.
She threw a couple swigs of each back and raced
towards the Turner Motel, where her next
client waited eagerly with a sweaty forehead and a
chest panting like a diseased dog.
Edie let it fester.
Apr 7, 2011
Apr 7, 2011 at 5:52 PM UTC
In a fleeting panic
my body aching
my head in manic
I was fitted for depression
by my fashion shrink
cosmic blue straightjacket
boots of shocking pink
Day-Glo eyelashes
and a faux stole of mink
I walked the streets of Soho
and climbed the Factory walls
a girl betwixt
a boy between
everybody’s darling
till morning came to town
in my corset of denial
I took cover in the rain
and sang naughty little ditties
seeping from the recesses of my brain
I tripped my way to Bellevue
where a thousand plastic junkies
awaited my return
I fell into their fancy
and we frolicked amidst our lies
and hopped aboard an east bound train
to a velvet paradise
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 12:49 PM UTC
*“I’m in love with everyone I’ve ever met in one way or another.
I’m just a crazy, unhinged disaster of a human being.”*
Edie Sedgwick
---
I am the undone woman,
mistaking myself
for the girl,
others always see,
even at the call of my name
I most often, walk away
I rise & fall with the tides
standing in the abyss
shedding tear drops alone
gazing at black skies;
a full snow moon
I am a piece of the sky
a jigsaw puzzle
completing this Universe
I too inhabit
I am the cracked mirror
shattered pieces;
seven years bad luck
but as the cat,
I have nine lives
of counter attack
I am all the lovers
who pass through me
caresses that have graced
my inner thigh, the ecstasy
we reach simultaneously
during the love we make
In the absence of another
pieces of myself dilute,
I only know myself
by the ink I bleed
as I write these words
you read.
I am your canvas,
a picture book
coloured outside the lines
you call me your art
&, when,
the coffin door
closes shut,
you will know
I am nothing more,
than a Factory Girl,
misidentified as;
a thousand forms of fear.
© Sia Jane
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 10:37 AM UTC
*He comes on like a messiah
But true colors show he's just another warhol
Hanging second-place decorations for all his candy's & edie's
Meanwhile I'm overdosing on his love in the bathroom stall*
Now I'm forced to sit and watch you leave
As I desperately point out
That the trees aren't bare yet
And it feels like I'm drowning in a helmet made of weeds
And I know you never wanted to take on my disease
These tears are fierce but these eyes are weak
And I'm left to paint the years with a crooked branch
And a palette of whatever shade I chose to bleed
All because you won't let me follow your lead
I'm screaming at the top of my lungs, but you refuse to hear the noise
I guess this is the moment when men become little boys
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 12:50 PM UTC
I
That idol, with black eyes and pixie-cut, with
aristocrats nobler than artists, holier than New York City
hipsters; his selfishness running through her veins,
purple and blue like blood, or tarnished by amphetamines
in waves of ferocious sadness and yearning.
At the border of her life- young hope twinkles, fades
and dulls out- the girl with chandelier earrings, deer
legs, dancing in silver reflections of tears gushing
from the aftermath of shattered dreams dressed up
as vivid illusions.
Ladies who stroll outside of society, girls
plucked from art school, with trust funds, superb luxury
wardrobes, jewels on show but riches hidden in the
ground of trusting valleys in burnt gardens- young and
broken with eyes full of flashing lights, sullen, princess
of costume and keeping hidden. Gently ignored and
choked, unhappy.
What boredom, without your "genius."
It is she, the little girl, dead before innocence-
The young artist, alive, does not stoop- his life
creeks but for a second. His inspiration empty
and studio up for sale. Her shutters pulled down
and the key to superstardom in the lock forever
because the soul is empty.
The city's silver fountains drowned and cried for her
fabulous elegance.
II
I am the life who mourns like blue summertime.
I am the academic who waves manuscripts on
elusive "culture" and "style."
I am the pedestrian who looks up to the sky then turns
to the ground. Smoggy greyness and dead black
concrete pleads me to keep searching.
I might well be the same child; lost and unhappy
and hungry. Dreaming of touching stars but miles
from Heaven.
I am the artist. Manipulative creator and selfishness
embedded into the sinews of my heart.
The lamp shines brightly on these happy photographs. I
keep falling for these stupid books. Edie, oh, Edie.
You have gone and the world is ending!
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 6:10 PM UTC
You weren't the poetic one, but I just read Kaddish
and thought of you;
of 1998 beach photo, Sussex somewhere - as I
remember you, perhaps a bit younger;
of sweet peroxide blonde, hiding brunette. I was
naive to the dye 'til I saw 'the Hepburn shot' - that 1950
something print, you in Rembrandt light,
or the black beehive wig in family portrait—
1970ish— dicky bows and cocktail dresses - Dad, aged
seven, in a shirt and trousers;
of youthful snapshots: Portobello Beach, Edinburgh
(4), with parents in Kent (8), your gang of girls some snowy
place (14), painting the house with Raymond in Croydon (20);
of latter digital images, 2012, more gaunt and wrinkled,
but ever-beautiful - seemingly ageless, as you wished;
of care and trust and overdone vegetables, thin gravy,
brussel sprout production lines - beautiful, mundane memories
at Cowfold breakfast bar or Langley Green kitchen tops;
of seaside trips to Shoreham, Portsmouth, Brighton, dogs
homes and holding my hand past the loud ones;
of picking roses from the garden for 'perfume' - sticky
hands, wet floors and beautiful smells;
of early morning rude awakenings, met only with cheer
and offers of tea and toast - I still have your butter tray
(hospitable even in death);
of my brother's wedding, taking time to jive and seem
alive whilst everyone else was dying inside, despite the fact
that it was you, and you only, who should care the most (and
thus, if you didn't, why should we have);
and of that very temperament, infamous tempers never
shown—at least to us—just pure, kind acceptance and
forgiveness.
You weren't the poetic one.
You were; the ninth child of a ****** and his wife
the girl with the Scottish accent
the wife of an engineer from Mitcham
the mother of three, the loser of one
the stern face of discipline
the BT telephone operator, the masseuse
the grandmother of three boys
the ageless face of beauty
the one I remember best
You told me you couldn't recall your siblings' names -
I've looked into it. Ada, Jack, Edie, Emmie, Mabel, Joyce,
Raymond, Terence.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 11:19 AM UTC
Daddy got drunk
and wet in the well
Oh, poor daddy
Daddy got drunk
and wet in the well
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Daddy got drunk
and wet in the well
Oh, poor daddy
He told little Margie
Not to tell
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Daddy had Edie
on his knee
Oh, poor Edie
What he did to her
When she was three
Oh, poor Edie
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor Edie
Oh, poor daddy
Daddy got drunk
and wet in the well
Oh, poor daddy
Mama bit her lip
and got beat to hell
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Oh, poor daddy
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 10:32 AM UTC
Still hexed, unemployed, another daylong bout between too much silence and too much noise, I turn on the TV and watch our show. Season 4, Episode 13, "Whitecaps."
And it's the scene after the Russian mistress has called, and Carmella—played to long suffering perfection by Edie Falco—kicks Tony out of the house. The scene sticks with me, the way Carmella's body shakes, the deep grooves of her wrinkled face when she says she can't stand to be embarrassed anymore. And I'm caught off guard by two things, one simple, the other not so much. I think about how you must of related to Edie Falco out of the gate, on a surface level. You both share a prominent nose, one you were always self conscious about, but a nose you found beautiful on her face. I always wanted to ask you about it, but I never found a gentle enough phrasing. And the other thing, the complex thing, is how the whole scene runs parallel to our second break up, the bad one, the early morning fight. I remember you striking my chest over and over. I remember grabbing your wrists, trying to restrain you, and you wriggled out of my grasp only to strike your head on a cabinet. I tried to comfort you, and you wouldn't let me drive you home.
You walked. I couldn't find you. By the time I got dressed, you'd found some path unknown to me.
Gentle enough phrasing. That's why it ended one, two, three times, isn't it? My inability to be straight with you, to say how I truly felt without massaging the words to safeguard against any conflict.
I wish I could watch the show with you again. I wish it was 9:00 p.m. I wish we both had work in the morning. I wish we'd watch one episode too many with the dogs snuggling in our laps. I wish we could listen to them paw at the bedroom door as we undressed.
But we've jettisoned ourselves, haven't we? It's irreparable. I think of something you said about depression. You told me that when it was bad, really bad, you could never feel clean. I don't feel clean, no matter how much I wash. I don't feel clean, no matter the quality of deed, the grace of the statement, the preciousness of a future good memory unfolding in real time.
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 5:17 AM UTC
The Chelsea Hotel
We remember it well
An' its splendid interior decor
By never setting foot there
A very Bohemian Rhapsody
Two Dylans are thrilling
One Bob an' one Thomas
One life and one death
A song and poetic requiem
A Sad Eyed Beautiful moment
Another unquietly into the night
Embracing the dread valley below
Sweet Syd and Saint Nancy
Perished like lovers in drama
No light at yonder window
For a rocking Romeo and Juliet
Breathless in period splendour
Lovers in tragically beautiful embrace
Immortality in the perfect place
Edie set her room on fire
Our heroine couldn't get much higher
As the ceiling just got lower
Another window was another score
When the ceiling hit the floor
Unbroken she was beautiful like a woman
Dancing eyes across the hotel floor
Her world moving in that revolving door
The Chelsea Hotel has more to tell
That Hotel California couldn't rival
That's why it’s there in New York City
An island of dreams in a concrete ocean
Where all lost writers find a paradise
Checking in is our one remaining dream
Checking it out our beautiful possibility.
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 12:43 PM UTC
**Uncle 'erbert on the Joanna
Aunty Mabel on the mike.
Singing rollout the barrel
All Alf ****** on saturday nite.
Cousin Doris in the armchairs
Face to stop a ****** clock
Giving me the greasy eyeball
And a stare to knock me
round the block
Grandad 'arrys in the money
His nag came in at 1O to 1
Granny Edie's sweet as honey
She get sour when
all the money's gone.
Cousin Cecil pudding and pie
Kissed the girls and made em cry.
And when the boys came out to play
He kissed them too
Cos he's a bit that way.
It will end in a ****** fight
Mixing this loss is hit and miss
But they do it every saturday nite
It's just my family on the ****
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 2:12 PM UTC
I wear a
mask
when I'm with
you,
I can't help
how
you make me
hide.
Apr 23, 2019
Apr 23, 2019 at 7:46 PM UTC