my*space

Friday, October 06, 2006
lake fulmor
This morning before I have sleptI will summon the rooted reaches from my bedwhere they branch their webbed veins asfar as my heart sinks, to feel that caress.The roots of my teeth are growing warmwith my remembrance of these dream catchers.They will rescue me from being sweptinto the shallow waters, where the treading is easy.

Wednesday, October 04, 2006
10-4-3am
We're emulsified in these cognitive attempts,hindered by our consonants.Will you find a word to measure me?Will you lay a sentence over methat will rectify the carcass of my life?No, you don't believe that letters spelled through meCan amount to this. My freedom.I know how to find the vowels in the thorns.I can loose myself from any snarl,dispatch the codes with these well placed vowels.smile.

to my best
Perhaps despite the haze of ballistic intoxicating affection you are being robbed. Is it so far fetched to imagine that the one you repeat over and over your broken heart is just a scratch? A flaw in your shining surface? O, I wish you would see that the laughter he fills you with is made exuberant by your capacity to feel joy. You enlighten him through your perceptive love.I wish you would fall for your own impassioned resonance with beauty. If only our own warmth couldhold us over until we fall asleep.I will happily accompany you on these excursions with phantom promises, but only because you know that we know, that you are the road and the feet and the breath that carries you down.If you decide that this passion is too much I will remind you of the vastness awaiting your undevided attention.

Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Forced to post by Jack Scratch written by Hollie
Yes, there is something absolutely aching in your presence.I act in a voice clotted with self-dissatisfaction.There is a room with kind and subdued painted walls, it might beThe office of some doctor we'd both been seen by, with the pretenseOf gorgeous facilitation: the momentary Release in small packages towards the figment of family--It's there and all too unpracticed and dissatisfactory for what I want you to have.I'll try again. I've seen you on the bridge, over the river, throughThe stilted environments we've both grown up with fictionally, yet still strive for within our minds.I see you behind the hedge, lovely apparition of what we both could potentially be.Funny, we live like such creatures of habit, but what is thisThat loads my hands down, my vision of you--Sulking against a kitchen cupboard, with all the strings thrown out and the Bright contours of your face still crying out.Do you hear the slow movements of a dolorous summer turning into fall?With the caked-on histories of our separate inadequacies?This is the way we speak, after the deception of our histrionic selves fade.In nothing we sit, nothing but the love of what's past and our mutual cares.I would overcome your god but he talks to me too. It's seductive, and all I wantIs to run away, take you with me. We'd go to the Cape and sit an inch in the water, With no one around, shriek at the horseshoe crabs and grab at the hermit types, and take tea for cheap In the lovely, re-done Victorian house down the street. And the scones and sandwiches would be delicacies, And we'd both adore them with no afterthought at all (I'd walk with your for hours, show you things).I imagine you in this small piece of my memory. I feel you belong there with me, beyondThe harsh exhaust of needed personal activity, needed for the observation of honestlySuperfluous people. Zhalih, I wish I could take you there. I wish I could go back there, honestly, but do you know? (as a side thought)That you always hold the space hostage, leaning against the counter or even attemptingTo make yourself comfortable atop a porch-fence pillar, before you even try to scoot over.The self-inadequacy you feel does nothing to dissuade the viewer from perceiving the beauty that you are.I look at you and it makes my heart warm, because you are one of the only people I've ever known who deserves to be so beautiful.

Sunday, October 01, 2006
Robinhood
Every townHas its ups and downSometime upsOutnumber the downsBut not in NottinghamI'm inclined to believeIf we were so downWe'd up and leaveWe'd up and fly if we had wings for flyin'Can't you see the tears we're cryin'?Can't there be some happiness for me?Not in Nottingham

Monday, September 11, 2006
Shelly Vine
Shelly Vine, you rest your limbs againts the posts with the flowers. You wish you were too weak to plant. You don't like the pressure that comes with having strength.People say you "aught to" and you should.You don't like to feel obligated to live just because you were born.Resistant to your rigid ways, your flesh is blooming. I won't tell you that I see tomatoes in your cheeks.You watch from the window, things you don't want-any of it-people, shapes how they spill over the lines.Not your mouth, nothing moves that single thread out of it's place.I wish you weren't neat.Your hands in the dirt could growsome shade, but you would rather let your white moon nails glowon the sofa like the pearls of your shell.I wish you thought soft things strongand hard things old. I wish you would give it all up for a hug.

Sunday, September 10, 2006
my peach
Petering out
on sunlit tile
paved apart
-ments, cut out style.
My corn fingertips are
ripe soft yellow,
my heart is pursed,
my legs are mellow.
I'll arrive like the fruit
from a bough at your reach.
I doubt your indifference
could weather my peach.

Monday, September 04, 2006
Sheep, a HollieZhalih poem Current mood: bouncy
Discourse is futile when met with yourbrutal stupid apathy, it isn't always my fault.Your eyes blight the wisdom that grew where they met with mine.and now I'm on a hill, looking downwardtowards a field of sheep. Gut's empty and I say fuckall the time. You're mine.White dots skid the surface of my glassy eyes, and I sigh like a dejected lover, andnothing breaks this surface,I am full of reflections that walk away, that move with the clouds and change, as we do.The windows that drag without us--


Sunday, August 13, 2006
would you
He wished that I would not, but I would.
Would that I knew which way and how to go about it.
I had the sense from early on that there were beginnings
and happenings to have and other such velocities
that only I, in this lifetime could catch.
What other reason could you give for resistance to
these ateroecious beginnings?
So you see, though I am still behind, lapping up what is left of
the breadwinners, instead of naming my own land
or calling out others on sinful involvments,
I will go on, and perhaps on this very unyeilding earth.
Do you beleive me, illiterate as I am?

Saturday, August 12, 2006
boy
Show me it on the way out whatever it is.
Hold off on the plank for a bit and rest in these gold stirrups.
Tall boy, ride the waves of this country rubble, off with the scrapers
and the towers of our rusty grounds.
We'll take off into the yellow rivers
our teeth gripping the speed, while the blurr gets bigger,
faster fleeing the cut out plaster shapes
that take us into parts. Crashing, whole like song,
like all those songs that drown out the traffic.
Hold me to the motion, until we take off,
don't slow down, don't wish to return to the houses,
and the squares and the living rooms.