Sublime MiseryYoutube video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vYEZ5T9vRb4
First English, dan Nederlands.
Money. Let's start there. Because it's simple, there's no denying it: we need it. We're all money junkies.
Money goes from hand to hand. Money is traded. It's traded in for clothing and jewelry and posters, for dvd's and plasma screens and antiwrinkle cremes and hair-dye and flowers and design furniture and brand sunglasses - in other words, for visual spectacle; it's traded in for restaurant visits and ice cream and cake and red bull - taste sensations, oral spectacle; for cd's and festival tickets and headphones and musical instruments - auditory spectacle; for prostitutes and pool visits and sauna passes and relaxing massages - tactile spectacle; - - in short, for spectacle in all forms, shapes, sizes and weights and for everything that makes that spectacle possible. It can then be proposed that the function of money is to satisfy our desire for spectacle. Every experience and every event is a s
january sixteenththese days,
i often wake in the early mornings
and find that the biting winter chill
freezes my eyelids open.
when i exhale,
my breath is dragon-fire
burning through my throat.
when i breathe back in,
the coldness slides through me
and i do not shiver:
i have drunk and swallowed the winter
until my stomach no longer
twists or turns
in bouts of jaded protest.
every day, i stumble forward
like a train barely staying on the rails;
i am a well-decorated soldier,
battle-scarred and traumatized
and haunted by ghosts —
or i’m just another girl
who pities herself far too much.
today, i am not a tragedy
of the Greek sort,
just a mundane story of woe;
i am not a sad lullaby,
just a mournful crooning dove-song.
but not yet am i the most
for no such sounds have graced my ears,
these ears that don’t know
what they want to hear,
so instead, they've stopped listening.
Radio Silencedrenched in the left-over
self-same obedience; follow
follow road down to granite slabs
concealing tombs of forethought
your footsteps leave nothing but agonizing
in their wake.
see how powerful confusion
marks the language of my rebellion?
it's a war of words that scar
and mar the pages. honey-golden dust-devils
and elderberry slips all collapse
under my outrage of emotion.
garbled phrases cloak and choke me;
your sandman's castles are my ruins.
call me astray, where phone booths
are still standing, and the wheat fields
suck me dry.
I took you for granted, I'm not giving up,
not giving in to loose transmissions and lovelorn missives.
I recall your soldiers too quickly to recollect
how moons shrivel up and swell
the heat is coming like a tidal wave of vultures
and the dust-devil died in dead air; shall I bend
or weather it?
freedom and the absence of thought circle
just as the ripple effect hits us in full-swing
and she high-tails it out of this sinkhole.
I don't blame her, except I do
PruningMy grandfather said
That if my hanging house plant
Vines too long on one side,
It'll weigh itself down.
Today, I intervene
With my pocket knife.
After trimming the elbow
Of a particularly strong stem,
I wince at the wetness on my finger,
But I haven't cut myself.
Petting the still-intact foliage,
Because in helping,
I made it bleed.
Its branches reach,
And toward the sun.
Solemnly I dispose of the clippings,
Then go to wash my knife
And my hand.
no means noI.
i can come off as being needy
needy- like the time he pressed up against me
and said it was okay
'this is what people who love each other do'
his shy words gripped me
‘i love you’
tighter than his grasp that night did
at the time
it was hard for my head to wrap around
what his skittish words really meant
because love is a tentative word
i love falling asleep
(the same way i fell for him)
knowing there are stars above
strategically placed to protect me from
i love the way i can feel
as if a shoddy blanket
(or a pair of arms)
can warm me for a fortnight
i love the way music leaves an imprint
(like gentle kisses to a pearl collar bone)
that won’t quite wash away with
hard scrubs of soap
(or the guzzling of bleach)
and i love eating ice cream-
i don’t think i want him to love me
like how i love ice cream
i want to be more to someone
than something that tastes good
on a sweaty day
Night thoughts of a changing manSometimes when I can't sleep,
I look out the window from my apartment.
Tonight, there is a man under the broken streetlight.
An orange light tells of a cigarette that slants
from the corner of his mouth.
I can tell his eyes are on me.
I can taste vinegar in the air,
smell ammonia coming from the sink.
It never goes away.
I feel like he's stealing my breath.
I want to look away but I can't,
I wish I could show him what I did
in the bathtub,
but the stains are already scrubbed away.
Next time, I'll make sure he sees.
Undeniably, unmistakably her.
where oxygen is scarce, breeds angeri've had enough showers
to wash away all traces
scrubbed raw my skin
feelings of shame
over scratches and bruises
i never left there myself
sour milk sweetiemy dear petunia,
your hair smells like flamingo shit.
you were six days showerless
and you said to me
"life is just a big merry go 'round"
as you squeezed me saltily.
you're the reason that seasons change ...
you're my mother's pot of peonies from home depot,
packaged and pretty,
the ones that turned
periwinkle to piss-brown
on the first day in our garden.
petunia, you're my plastic cherrypie,
ponies and carousels,
my cheap perfume paradise;
pesticides and jazz, poor
peasant-princess with papillon
blush and peach-puke thighs,
pout, pout, sigh,
plaster horses in your disneyland eyes
i love you i cry,
HibernaculumYou've an old brown coat and black leather boots
laced with dirt.
It's out into the pouring,
pouring rain, out with reason, and in with the
shifting, turbulent seasons.
You're a brave
soul who dared play with a mean world,
but you didn't know all the old
rules or all the new tricks.
And what comes next now that you're
troubled and spent, all weathered and bent, coming apart
at the seams, with no to patch you
up, and no one to make your button eyes shine?
your heart is an empty womblast night he said with a paper cup of warm whiskey
sitting between his palms like a prayer on acid
that your love wasn’t as palpable as hers
and you never felt like smashing anyone’s tail lights
and steeping them in a cup of warm water and
letting the glass cut your throat as it goes down
sleazy and easy in the red light district.
cracks in the ceiling remind you of the palms
of his hands- cracked and full of pictures
you can hardly decipher unless your high,
not as palpable, your heart is an empty womb.
Bullet BaptismYou’re a cowardly sack of shit.
Embracing bullets you aught dodge.
Donning your camouflage
Where nobody would bother with your face.
And yet… Here I am.
Providing you cover fire.
Yearning to lasso the courage
To spear you in your pathetic back.
Protecting your pathetic ass.
Get your mind right,
Change your strategy,
And let those bullets
Pierce your armor.
Come clean, you could have an army behind you.
I looked into the sky,
and I saw through the blackness,
a moon trying to peek through the clouds
forming a blue halo
around a patch of grey.
I looked into the sky,
and there were the islands,
around the moon,
the halo shining off of them,
trying desperately to hit each patch,
giving each greyness it’s own light,
and these thousands of islands
shined down on me.
And then I saw the whale,
Its tail poking through the locked clouds.
It seemed to circle the halo,
forever looking away.
There was the whale,
and I could only watch.
.a train cries out
into an unstirred night.
its passengers scream;
a town deaf to despair
and blind to uncalculated resolve
travels swiftly through their disparity.
the man on the tracks is silent.
god's inveiglenothing right is left.
blue devotions quietly sink in ink,
in estuaries haunting the swell
and sigh of a lullaby raised beneath
a haloed moon. a pregnant sky moans
against the weight of her labouring
clouds; verses invent blame
on the suspicious hips swayed
by bodies translated in brethren
wind. a gospel of shadows in flight
estrange their own daily devotions in
d minor. poetry writes in this colour.
nothing left is right.
Set Me Free (Dreamkeepers fan-poem)Set Me Free
Can’t breathe. . .
Heavy bars between me and
Hand against the frozen glass,
I wish to die.
Can’t leave. . .
Desperate pleas for help unheard,
Locked alone away as if
A rabid beast—
But vainly do I rage
To break the backbone of this cage—
I cannot win.
And though I fight until
This savage fury tries to kill,
You won’t give in.
What use has a famous father for
The child that he ignores?
Even horns as sharp as mine can’t pierce
A heart as hard as yours.
Can’t see. . .
Closing in, the room becomes
A blood-black dream,
Chokes a life that once grew swift
The wild, beating, living thing
That strains to fly;
Chained to this confinement, I
Can only cry—
But in your eyes I see
Just what you truly think of me—
You’re so ashamed.
I tear the walls apart
And every clawm
PrognosisJesus is not your serotonin.
He is not Prozac; He is not even chocolate.
You have put Band-Aids
in crosses over your heart,
swallowed rosary beads like pills,
and prayed to a deaf God that He might
not exist just so you will be spared
judgment for suicide.
Jesus is not dopamine. He is not your high.
But when you are floating
in an overflowing confessional
and you cannot move to say His name
He will carry your sore soul
that you may let Him do the feeling.
Saltwater GrimaceCheshire callousness
reflected in your eyes,
chagrined and not amused --
do not kiss me, do not try,
float away like a dream in fog.
I am never sure just what
that mysterious smile means,
but your memories are leaking
through sea-glazed follicles, and
I am bound to their excess.
Smirking, you lose a little love
every inch of beach you breach,
surfing my sands like
a professional poltergeist,
haunting my currents with ease.
You have lured me here
to sift seashells and foam.
Our lies fulminate the conversation
to its peak -- you are
chagrined and not amused.
I will not kiss you.
mementoas i chain your ether
between what is surreal
and what is true
i will unravel you
like chiffon in remnants of
mother's pearl earrings and
chanel bottles of perfume
like father's aged black
leather box of dominoes and
snakes and ladders
you will hold a keepsake
of me, too
AfterNo ears to hear
Nor eyes to see,
No more fear
The world's gone quiet,
Blissful, dark and still;
Bones to ash, this is it:
Forget me like a moment's thrill.
a generous widowshe gave his favorite jacket to a boy on a bike
he came flying down the dark pavement
scattering mid-autumn leaves in only a t-shirt and jeans
she gave his pet to a family who walked by one day,
the three children scratched and the cat purred
and she was never a fan of animals anyway
she gave his car to a young woman with
a face so sad and desperate for a little sunshine-
well, she sold it for $800 but it still felt like giving it away
she gave every leftover piece of him she could
because every moment of a memory added to
the weight of being the half that was left behind
Quill and Parchment Ravenswood Cadavre entered the coffee shop and looked around. The restaurant had free wi-fi and most people brought in their own laptops, but there were a few public-use computers set up along one wall. Pulling out his wallet, he walked up to the register.
The girl behind the counter smiled when she saw him. "Hey. How're you doing?"
Her name was Melody and he had learned she was the owner's daughter. "I'm okay. How about you? Large coffee, please."
She began to make the drink. "You always seem to get here around this time."
The detective looked at his watch: 10:05. "I try to time it so I miss the morning crowd."
"At least you order something. We have a few people who come in to use the computers and don't even buy anything."
Turning to face the room at large, he spoke in a loud, booming voice. "They use the computers for free and don't buy anything? How rude!" H
FF7 - Glass DesertMother leaves me by myself near the waxing tides, and promises to pick me up again after she's finished bathing in the waning sun. I enjoy the beach. There's a clean sense of salty freedom which basks me in its earthy aura as soon as I step onto the sea of sand. This is true especially on days like these, when the glow from the setting sun crumples the filmy surface of the ocean and riddles a prism of light through the water, not unlike an imprint fossilized in golden amber.
Every so often a tapestry of slimy seaweed floats to the shoreline, as if upchucked from the swirling broth it used to call home. The seaweed itself is home to a great number of other organisms, each weaved into an intricate pattern, morphing the algae into its own ecosystem. I witness this very event happen, and a saltwater crab emerges from the motley broth to inspect it. The crab finds nothing of interest, however, and retreats back into the murk.
I find dead crabs and their shells often on the beach, strewn and
A Guide to InspirationDo you ever sit at your computer, staring at a blank screen? You want to add a chapter to your novel, add another verse to your poem, or draw a beautiful landscape, but you can't get yourself to do it. Your hand won't sweep that pencil over the paper. The words won't flow from your keyboard to your computer screen. It happens to everyone.
But fear not! I will share the many ways to gain inspiration and battle artists/writers block.
Music is good for the soul, and therefore one of the key ingredients to gaining inspiration. Whether it be Mozart or Lincoln Park, your favorite music can send you to different worlds if you let it.
But don't be boring and just listen to songs you've already heard! Experiment! Take a look at the suggested videos on Youtube (but be careful). Maybe listen to a song you've never heard, but that was written/performed by a favorite band of yours. Chances are, you'll run into a song you adore.
Once you've done that, just listen to i
Click ClockShe recycles. She came back together
and sent the clock for a cycle
through the laundry mat.
He came back sometime ago
and heavily spaced…. time went by.
She held a hand, stick, or stone.
She found a dream that he had written
caught some proof and shown it stranded.
He pulled the velvet blanket through another groove.
until it shined through on ends.
She’s a dream, but he don’t sleep
because he claims no theme.
He took the evening train
She was the same awhile ago
and her heavenly face……time went by.
She held an expression.
She found an idea that he had welcomed
came with no harm but kept her obsession.
Pulled the velvet blanket over each other smooth
until minds shined through on ends.
‘Wait!’ he says ‘I’ll mop the floor
and we can start it all over.’
The ornament hanging on the wall
sings on the anacrusis.
‘please excuse any mess on the counter’
He says in his clock-wise motion.
Breakfast is on the tabl
When you demand it.When I was a little girl
my mother used to tell me
"you will not understand
the magnitude of what you've said
until you've said it."
And, as promised,
I have come to tell you: I've said it.
I have come to tell you
I felt the vibrato
coax my deepest bones:
an immortal vex, a cage
of everything alive beneath my flesh;
the things that will stay alive
after everything alive in my body
has turned to ash.
I have come to tell you
I felt the magnitude build
in my chest like the flapping
of birds, dead things
I assumed would never
breathe life, that I would never
understand what it is like
to choke on their tiny bones
while I trip over my words.
I have come to tell you
these organs have pumped blood
more than they have ever before,
and I have, for once,
felt what it feels like to have life
in my veins- to have a fever when healthy,
to have ran miles while standing still.
I have come to tell you
my voice has boomed more than
it has ever before, like that storm
that was brewing deep in my lungs
The Pope's Penis, RevisitedYou undress for her,
a shy, antiquated custom
passed down through fathers and great-grandsons
generations of young men
undoing their belts,
allowing the loose ends to protrude like curious
The clatter of the buckle is trigger
to some; mothers whisper about the
memories in the deep, beneath your eardrums, and you cringe
it is so loud.
The buttons on the shirts they do
it isn't a fast action,
not the ritual ripping some men perform
in the dark.
It is an unwrapping.
you find that revealing your skin
is a tentative process of sweaty palms
and stiff fabric.
You make eye contact.
As the first buttons burst free,
you swear you can feel her hands
on you, tracing moonlight. Your
shoulders are reborn beneath her;
they broaden, darken when she moves.
You are wishing you didn't
have that tattoo.
When your belt loops and jeans
clatter to the wood floor,
your penis descends from you like
the soft clapper of a bell.
It hangs silent in the dark between
terra cotta Spain, rich and lush
and painted pottery lining
brick cobblestone streets.
puffs of dust rise as the man
with the caramel skin
races his horse,
shouting foreign words
that sound like spices:
As the bandit flees,
the worn leather boots squeak.
desert sand stings his eyes,
clay mucks up his steps.
Child beneath the flowersLittle child beneath the flowers
urge the seeds to grow and take root within you
Grow within the flowers child
and let me keep you with me always.
Each flower is a part of you
I smell your scent on every velvet petal
and when I touch your leaves and close my eyes
I feel your skin beneath my fingertips.
Little child beneath the flowers
wait for me there
Together we shall watch the roses grow.
The Redwood ChamberIn the redwood chamber,
a banquet hall of haemoglobin
decked with alveoli lanterns,
the varnished ruby galleon sets upon
its voyage in oxygen-powered crusade,
ready to breathe life into the empire
In the depths of the
muscle-iron grey engine,
vermilion heart-harps play to
the bobbing of the waves,
waves of rhythm,
waves of life,
waves to the combustion of
and gasping its red oil upwards,
back to the redwood chamber above.
The Inheritance and Imy dead father
still ages, buried
in the closet corner
inside the bruised black
of this halloween bag
one shell rustling
amongst the wing flaps
boys are tuned
as empty insects
from the inside
reborn as men
of whatever wind
our hollow reeds
empty, but so full
i sometimes wear
what was once
me, and see
how i'm hollowed
by the men
Sunset's CarcassThe last thing her husband did for her before he died was buy a bouquet of flowers. It was a small collections of roses – red, orange and yellow – with some leafy bits thrown in to flesh it out. She had always wanted this kind of unprompted gesture. It was supposed to make her happy.
The flowers were beheaded and their ravaged remains strewn across the floor. Most of the petals were crushed under his body. She noticed the blood on her hands and wiped them on her dress.
Perfect Strangers -- Half LifeThey knocked on each side of the door at the same time, cautiously. They knocked again, confused. The door opened, tentatively.
They smiled at the same time, almost embarrassed by their synchronicity. But they weren’t. They would never admit it, but both of them were secretly glad they had found each other, a perfect stranger.
They spoke no words, so as not to ruin the effect. And, in return, no words found them. Their eyes drank in each other, greedily attempting to slake the unquenchable, before the door closed between them, slamming them each back into their own respective worlds.
They both knocked on the door from opposite sides, startled by the instant echo. One pushed, the other pulled, and the door was open.
They shared a synchronised smile; secretly pleased to have found each other, perfect strangers.
No words were spoken; no need to. They sought only to look.
They knocked on the same door, opened it at the same time, smiled the same smile. Silence helped slake thei
And Towards the Skies They...
And Towards the Skies They Rise
a cut flower given time
and the gentle brush of wings
sheds its misplaced shrouds,
flushed by the showers of the spring.
towards the eye it climbs,
through every single blade.
Restored lancer of the clouds
amongst the saints' canvas jade.
the blushing fields then yield
a dappled reverie of paints,
presented answer to the wish
of the men who for men fish.
Sticky SituationsA young man at swim in the Cam
Found strawberries forming a dam.
The soft fruit and gel
Caused the poor boy to yell:
“I’m in the most terrible jam!”
In the sea,
by the sand,
it’s just me
but on land
there’s a crowd
My head bowed,
seems to grow –
And it’s grave:
though I try
I can’t save
or catch my
Kiss ‘em bye.
A fish thunks
in my rear
and bites chunks
to some parts
I hold dear.
Though it smarts
I just pray
that he… darts
In this state
I must stay.
I will wait
till the throng
think it late
and so long
to be where
And then bare
I will speed;
If I find
what I need.
once a peach,
is now brined.
(On the beach.
Out of reach.)
god is in the detailsi've come with a porcelain hammer
to break your silver heart
or at least to touch
and leave a weak residue
-like you did to me so long ago