Mischa Barton
Was given a headstart
On Dolly Parton
In a sackrace


And Won.

A man saw the whole world as a grinning skull and
cross-bones. The rose flesh of life shriveled from all
faces. Nothing counts. Everything is a fake. Dust to
dust and ashes to ashes and then an old darkness and a
useless silence. So he saw it all. Then he went to a
Mischa Elman concert. Two hours waves of sound beat
on his eardrums. Music washed something or other
inside him. Music broke down and rebuilt something or
other in his head and heart. He joined in five encores
for the young Russian Jew with the fiddle. When he
got outside his heels hit the sidewalk a new way. He
was the same man in the same world as before. Only
there was a singing fire and a climb of roses everlastingly
over the world he looked on.

The smoke of his cigar brews quietly of sour tobacco in the dark. Mischa took the liberty of the next drag, their nimble fingers trace against his coarse hand in a language Aradia knows so well of temptation.

The smoke of his cigar brews again in silence when it left their mouth with a pop. The tip of their lips curled ever so slightly, as “Aradia,” whispered like a spell.

The once unnamed man answered with a kiss.

His kiss was heavy with aftertastes after aftertastes, of kisses that longs to be undone, of Nina Simone’s sultry voice in late summer night, and of newfound ranklings that rung under the sway of his tongue.

He spoke no love of Mischa anymore, and how feeble he is.

when i met you, i thought you were good.

it was the summer before my freshman year and i was spending a lot of time at memorial park, because i could walk there from two different houses and still find somewhere to stay for awhile. i liked to sit under the tree and read, or just people watch, because i felt almost exactly like a ghost. neither here nor there, yet somewhere in between.

i can almost remember all the details if i lay in bed and think hard enough. a greyish umbrella. a mangy puppy. and a copy of a book which i eventually grew to hate (the picture of dorian grey.) those are the only details im entirely sure of time after time without fail. i had been reading the book under my tree, and it started to rain. i remember getting up to go into the library for awhile when everything happened.

i could hear someone screaming, calling out a name, and then i saw you running down the hill towards me. you were such a scene kid now that i think of it. i could see the panic in your eyes, and i guess you could tell, because of all the people in that park, you came to me. i wish now i had looked away like everyone else.

in half sentences and stammering cries you told me all about how you had been walking your puppy and he had gotten away. you were worried because the park was substantially big and he was not. i was nervous to help you, but like i said, i thought you were good. and so i got under your umbrella and we started walking.

we walked around calling for him for about thirty minutes, looking under the bridge, in the trees, even down the streets. there was no sight of him. you were handling it surprisingly well though, asking me questions about myself as we got to know each other. eventually, i suggested that we just make lost posters and then come back. you got nervous, and i just thought you didn't want me in your house, so i offered to stay outside. you reluctantly agreed, and led me towards your house. i still pass by it sometimes. you aren't there anymore, and the family inside seem nicer.

when we got to your house you got quiet. you had been talking the entire trip and now you just suddenly seemed to clam up. you avoided my eyes when you ran inside and i felt myself getting very confused
when you didn't come out immediately i sat down on your curb. when thirty minutes passed i knocked, and when an hour came and went i figured you were inside crying and didn't want to be bothered. i knocked one more time before starting home.

i was halfway down the road and, admittedly, thinking about you when i heard the patter of feet. i stepped to the side to let the person pass and saw that it was you. in your hands was a mangy puppy. while you fidgeted you told me how you had lied and how you're puppy was okay and that you were sorry but you wanted to meet me. i should've known them you were bad, just based off of how well you had lied. but i was 14, and you were cute, and i was flattered.

from that day on we pretty much hung out every day during summer. i learned so mucb about you, and some of the things you told me scared me. you were 16. i was 14. i didn't know. i didn't need to know. it started out with innocent secrets, just things like first boyfriends and girlfriends and stuff like that. you made fun of me when i told you i hadn't had my first kiss, and then you were my first kiss. you told me where to place my hands while i kissed a girl and what was okay and what was not. you were a lot of firsts for me that summer, and a lot of firsts after.

school started and it was hard to see each other, but we still talked almost nightly. my mom was getting mad becausw i texted too much and when i got my phone taken away for the first time i was worried. i didn't talk to you for three days. in that time you sent me 1000+ messages and blew up my myspace account, along with about 37 missed calls and a voicemail full of you crying. i didn't know what was wrong so i ditched track and went to your house to see if you were okay. i wish i had just cut you off then sometimes.

when you opened the door that afternoon you were wearing a long sleeve and your eyes were puffy. you hugged me tight and cried, and let me into your house. we layed on your bed and listened to music while you occasionally cried, and when you leaned over to kiss me i accidentally touched your wrist. you pulled away from me and i felt bad so i offered to leave.

when you told me you had done a bad thing, i thought you meant like stealing money or letting your dog mischa out. i didn't know what you were about to show me. i still remember how raw and red your wrists looked, and how much i wanted to cry but couldn't stand to see. i didn't know what self harm was. I WAS 14. you cried again and told me i couldn't leave you again, and i apologized for being grounded. you kissed me again, but harder, and then took off your sweatshirt and bra. i didn't know what else to do, but it seemed okay because you wanted it. i don't feel like talking about the rest.

that's how things were for awhile. you and i spoke every night, and hung out a lot, but you didn't want to be chained to me. sometimes when we hung out you would tell me about some guy you had wanted to **** but didn't, or how you had gotten drunk and almost hooked up. i never believed you, so i took to beating on walls and keeping quiet. i think i might have loved you too much to see that you were ******, which in itself is pretty ******. but i wasn't allowed to leave you. until the night you decided you would try and leave yourself.

i had just left your house and i felt strange. the air was thick and heavy and i felt something. i went home, and ate, and i probably called about a dozen times in the span of an hour because you weren't answering. i convinced myself you had gone out to a party, and tried to sleep. i didn't talk to you again for two months.

the first month was really ******* me, but i was starting to accept that you had moved on when your name danced across my screen for the first time in weeks. you asked me to come over, and so i did. when you opened up the door, you were wearing a sweater again. i knew what it meant, so i didn't ask. we sat on your couch and watched tv half heartedly when you told me you had tried to **** yourself. i didn't know what was going on, so i just sat there quietly. you talked and talked and talked, and i didn't know what to do. eventually, you looked at me and said "but it's okay now. you're here." and so we watched tv and kissed and i felt heavy. heavy. heavy.

and that's how it went for a few years, until you moved away or stopped talking to me for a few weeks, only to show up whenever you wanted and leave in the same way. it's so ******. i still remember the last time we talked a few months back.

we had gotten to the point where we were almost friendly, friendly enough to talk about our lives. i told you about my significant other and how i knew that i was in love with her, and although things were occasionally hard she was worth it and more. i was happy until you asked me quietly if you had been worth it. you asked if i know how much i meant to you.

you were asking me to tell you how you felt about me when even you didn't know. it was like handing someone a book with no ending and expecting the reader to just know that everything was okay. but sometimes things aren't okay, and the people you plan on marrying are already on the highway looking for the nearest exit.

i stayed quiet, suffocating under the pressure of your question. you cried a little, and yelled a lot, and then proceeded to try and destroy me the way you were good at, with lies and angry words and accusations of never being there. but i was too tired so i stayed quiet. eventually i heard you whisper good bye, followed by the line going dead. i hadn't heard from you since.

i blocked your number. i threw away your things. i started to forget you. and things started to be okay. i didn't think about you until today.

but today i got a phone call, from a number i didn't recognize. and because i wasn't thinking of you i answered. no words. no anything. just silence followed by the line disconnecting.

and i started to feel bad

The big-hipped Italian dominated the small Portuguese maiden—
Like a stick with a ball, like dueling shadows in the showcase spotlight—
Like a handful of matches
I’m talking about the inner light where the raindrops fall, Mischa’s got it now—
The left-handed task guided her over the rainbow—
So solemnly we kneel to the squealing goddess, the apple of infinity’s eye
The big-hipped Italian won’t give me a kiss—
That’s not true, we were kissing all night until I pulled her wig off
Now I’m worried about her smooth ***,
Looking like a star filled crystal ball on a Gypsy’s parlor table—
I was wise then, but then how long has it been since Crystal learned the wiser—
Pull her wig off like an old ***
Mischa’s got it now in reruns as I gallop in on an old horse,
All theaters are closed today due to cobwebs
The ******* are running the show now and they’ve all gone on strike—
The missing scene is that of the children, children, sweeping down like hail—
The left-handed task is a miracle to perform,
Just budding in the ***, going to school forever—
She is cremated, her fortune sewn throughout the new grass—
Mischa’s got it now—
The left-handed task is a little rogue spell that casts an eye on the apples green in the field
She is holding my hand and showing me the way to her limo on the yellow brick road—
I saw Kerouac do this,
I can do it too—
I love that fake blonde,
The plastic bottles and express trains like cameras in the eyes of god but who knows it but her lover kissing someone else in the spotlight,
I saw the camera turn and it was you
Facing me to perform a thankless left-handed task,
Your specialty, the trick you do with a handful of kitchen matches—

IV
I’ll start here and work my way to the bottom…
Pretty much what I’d do if I had you here with me…
I’ve been reading a bit about providence and fate and so on
And it seems that the matter is out of our control…
I mean, you say you’re mine forever,
But who knows how long forever will last…
Obviously the stars have not aligned so that our bodies can collide in space,
Only our minds sharing a gravitational pull…
I will keep sending you poetry and of course the novel
But my letters may start to get weird with frustration
Because as much as I relate to you
And feel like I am a part of you and you a part of me
Like some kind of quantum particles sharing the same space
While being in two places at once, I will want you the way a man wants a woman…
I imagine things were different when people wrote letters to pen pals
Or had long-distance relationships…
I mean like, I don’t know, centuries ago…
Then the two people most likely wound up getting married,
But this isn’t the 19th or even the 20th century, is it?
We are living in the future where two people can come across one another
On the Internet and get all into each other just like that…
I’ll probably start channeling my feelings through the detective in the story
Without even realizing it…
I was hoping to develop a poetic language
That only you and I would share but you’ve got me thinking
In more realistic terms
Because I believe a poem should tell the truth and the truth is
I think about you constantly…
I’m not in school and write al the time so I have the luxury,
Unlike you who has to focus on rather complex matters
In regard to your studies
But I’m glad you find the time to correspond with me
No matter where it all goes or if it just disappears into cyberspace
One day like a fantasy
That never even really happened…
I am not hopeful that we will meet one day and at the same time I am…
You talk about your life being confusing…
My life is not, but it’s not simple either…
I will have to keep pretending you are like,
I don’t know, a fantasy figure in my mind
Because that is the only way I won’t **** myself
If I can’t put my arms around you and hold you in good old romantic fashion…
I don’t how that comes across but I’ll just go crazy
If I have to make to this ****** computer…
Why can’t they build a robot like a Star Trek thing
That looks and feels like the actual woman you’ve always wanted to be with…
Our technology is lame because it sets up a relationship
That is just a tease and leaves a man totally lonely
Like he’s living on another planet entirely from the woman he wants so desperately
He can picture her in his mind
And almost hear her voice calling out to him…
“I’m yours forever…forever…forever…” fading into the darkness of electrostatic…
If this is love in the 21st century, I tell you right now, it ***** big time…

III
Muse with your finger in your mouth, licking cappuccino froth
I have never known an emotion could fly—
I have never visited a place as warm as your heart
My feelings torn to pieces and scattered to the wind,
You collect them in your basket and bring them back to me as gifts
I had only known flaming gifts before that—
How so miraculous that we began as faceless words on facebook
And have now become so warm and endeared to one another—
I just wrote some poetry that I spin the way a spider spins its web,
It comes so natural to me—
And your reply was sweet, but not as sweet as you,
But sweeter than your cappuccino
You redefine my reality from the cold gray I mistakenly imagined
Like a prison cell with no walls—
I wondered why I was dreaming of butterflies set free to fly
No longer pinned down in their coffin-like display boxes—
Muse with your finger in your mouth, licking cappuccino froth,
The words I use linger like echoes—
Your words resonate within me; now who is the muse?
You are, eternally—
I want to begin again just like you, like I just turned twenty-one—
I want to start over again like fresh sheets and make them ****** all over again
Like a ****** seeing the dawn as if for the first time after an endless midnight
After a long night in the desert finding fresh water
Deep from within the earth—seeing starlight as if for the first time
After days of darkness with no stars and now this new and never before seen constellation, this original zodiac, the Minotaur and the Muse—
Musing with your finger in your mouth, licking cappuccino froth
Count to twenty-one, that’s how many years I have loved you—
Now keep counting, how many lifetimes is that?
Muse with your finger in your mouth, licking cappuccino froth

II
You make music with your ***, ******* like a waterfall—
******* with the urgency of making an airtight case—
Your *** sends me out to the stars
To look back on a world that seems so small—
When I say the goddess ***** the universe into existence,
You know I mean because you are the source of the metaphor—
Thank you for your music that I hear in the silence
Of my own mind like some wonderful creation
Emerging out of deep dark space, and yes—
That deep dark space is your ******* widening
To loosen a steamy brown **** that falls and splashes
Into the cosmic abyss of Elohim’s toilet—
And your **** bathes my senses like a hidden waterfall
On a tropical island that is only as far as you pulling your knickers down
And squatting over the porcelain alter—
Your *** is my temple, your thoughts and words my scripture—
My poetry is your ****—
Baby, I live up your *** like a child in the womb
Waiting to be born anew every time you squat to **** and ****,
Morning, noon and night and in the middle of the night—
I am the poet, but you are the poem,
I am the writer and my every word hangs on your every ****—

I
Still hungry? I’m stuffed…
I need a smoke and some more coffee—
If you’ll be my skinny cigarette,
I’ll be your creamy cappuccino,
You are the only star in my sky—
I don’t know where you end and I begin,
So let’s smoke each other and meet in the middle—
I’ll lick your foam if you’ll light my match,
If you’ll dance on my pole,
I’ll scratch your back—how’s that for *** for tat?
I’m hungry for your jellyroll, but I’ll give you my éclair,
The kind with extra cream, eat me if you dare—
You’re the girl in my looking glass,
I’m sweet on the sugar up your ***—
Now how is that? I’m getting fat on your love
Like a spicy chicken dish—
But did you know that I eat with my hands?
And what do you eat with? Your mouth I hope—
Open wide and I’ll feed you the worm
Because you’re an early bird,
That’s what I’ve heard—
Let’s leave it at that…this is so silly
Is it so obvious that I adore you?
Babe, I wanna stick my whole face up your ***
And devour you from the inside.
For some people that would be shame,
But for me, yes, that would be golden…as you know

Ubermensch shares this impressive
position in The Rat's ultrafucking;                 with another important concept
of Nietzsche. There are many interpretations
of this fact.                Laurence Lampert points out that the eternal repetition
as an alternative to the Uber,                                   ****** as a serious effort.
This is partly due to the fact that even
Uber Mischa works as another global hope.
Ubermensch is in the future,                                            since Ubermenschen
does not have a historical form,
it still represents a kind of relentless redemption in the future.
Stanley Rosen, however,                                        points out that the doctrine
of eternal return is an esoteric curse,
which is found in Ubermen to save the idea
of ​​the responsibility of idealism. Not to end
with perfection, Nietzsche will be a prophet
of countless years in the past.             Others argue that if Ubermensh creates
a new value that is not infected by gravity
or the ascetic mind, it is a necessary step
to be ready to make an eternal parable of the same thing.

Prices include ****** and are the order of priority,
therefore, inseparable from approvals and discards.

However, I did not have the pleasure of pushing people to seek refuge
in other worlds and accept other world values.
Therefore, the superman seems to always
fail to create values ​​that do not share asceticism,
even though they are dedicated to all values.
The desire for eternal return is presented
as acceptance of low existence, recognizing
that it is still low, thus overcoming
the spirit of gravity or asceticism.

Others suggest that you must always
have the power of Ubermensch to repeat it.

In other words, Superman only has the power
to fully embrace all his previous lives, including
his faults and his evil deeds, ****** and, in fact,
return to his eternal life. For example, this energy
kills most of the Saranutra and most people can
not avoid other secular activities because they
are really sick and have no other choice: See 50
battle games. If the warrior is an idiot, the magic
crab's yeast has some resistance. • The influence of the son of Bruno AOS.
                                                        In fact, I hope it moves to the right
                                                        with the cherry button that
                                                        is unforgettable in the river.
                                                  Hit Argos, Agamemnon
and the collaborators
of the world,                         so that children love ******
and love their love.
I'm close;                        Make sure you serve the King of Saints,
not the masculine light: in hell,
they build their nest and the crazy female birds:
they are themselves horses. The *******
received a gift for her eldest daughter. Some
results for young people are not true.                      You can read it with food.
Invest in human resources.                               The city does not take a break.

You know the knife
Number of launches
Democracy and
The explanation of mickey
This is the true bone.
Today is a good person
Different Christian
With Cesare Borgia
With Alexander Niklist
Looks good ...
The proposal is simple.

"The army shouted,
arguing that they
were proud." Einstein's
boat did not hear
the beauty of the Italian
Renaissance and
the bad combination
that heard this idea.