at least I´ll have the time to quack a few lines
about my crumbly week
wishing you a butterfly on your shoulder,
singing a lullaby
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
(a lot of ppl know i have a few usernames... yellow, tenaciousA, buttersidown, and one i wont say because of search functions and one particular functioning searcher... blast and damn, one day soon it wont matter... HOWEVER... i'm putting these poems, originally written under the buttersidown moniker, and some special responses here, because... well... because I want them here... anyone who takes the time to read all this should really have kids or something... you have FAR too much time on your hands :P .... with love... me)
04/22/04 "Trainwreck"
And to my Father, I become another listless daughter soaking up the Son like a gray dwarf, like a pea pod, like all those things that hold magic in their seams. And to my father, I become that to believe, to love and to hold and to sweep up shrieking when the tide comes in. And to my father, my father, weak and sure, weak and binding me in his gray faith of universal proof, theorems really, touting that We Are All Already Dead so…, why worry?
We are all already dead. We are worm food. We are dirt. We are dust. And we are condensation.
Raise the blade to your own throat and get whatever it is you’re getting over, over with. Kill yourself and with a paintbrush splay the blood up on a billboard for everyone to see. Because everyone who sees will agree that you never understated anything worth stating in the first place (although they might say, although they probably will say…. “well… she always did ten-gallon-hat God“).
Love itself may be nobody’s martyr, but all of us martyr love just as plain as Jesus mothered sin. So… yeah… I’ll climb up onto that precipitous platform. And I’ll cry a raccoon’s mask onto the cake my face is made of…. and I’ll slip my ankles toward the sky and let the platinum dye-job drip like new soft wheat toward the new soft ground broken… and hide my smile while you take my picture. Then we’ll go get a cheeseburger and fries and everyone will wonder why I’m all dressed up. And after that? After that, we’ll go watch water snakes glide through their boxed abyss, and we’ll hum tunes into each other’s ears, and we’ll hum tunes into the very centers of each other, and we’ll drift off… the tragedy thwarted once more, the new day’s pump now primed, now sure.
And in dreaming I’ll wish I had the ability to split myself into two. Then she and I, we’d sneak out in the darkest part of night and scale back up the ladder to the billboard, the platform. That flat perpendicular to everything larger than life. And one of us would have remembered the knife. We’d draw platinum blonde straws, the shortest one winning, the shortest one falling gently to the iron bars, calling her sister come, come bury the knife. Bounding, slicing skin to ribbons in lip-locked grace. Going, their passion finally a communion, chalised in gold and an always-green blue.
And then the long one? The loser? The long loser would laugh out loud, drenched to puddles in red because she’d finally be Everything that her Father’d said. She’d be dead. Dead by her own hand and not by the Marlborough malaise that her everyday life had become. And, oh my God, would she dance in the rain of her sister’s blood?
And
to their father,
their father,
weak and sure and binding…
she’d become…
she’d become…
a raving lunatic
the chess match done.
….from setaside2...
indeed chess matches set with blade
their games over before they're bade
good day to you, sir, madam, take the spade
we'll bury our bones, our love, our sensual shade
take them all, packed up, paid.
no burial at sea more than flotation
the earth's edge serration rotation
with all false, I say FALSE, martyrs preaching location, location, location
sully the elocution of the thought
bring about the execution and the sieving of the soul
settle your anticipation and your burdened cot
counter and demand and counter and parlay and counter and ripost
the sword and defamation, the castration of the prostrate blindsided and sideswiped before the bowl.
beckon with torn tears
bring the hand in the come to me defiance
salute, tap that blade to forehead,
and begin your twin bladed enchant
meant to prove and to bend
to move and to rend
to tear apart all who may satiate your fears
and if your ferocity and your passion may be swayed by a pierced lung
air escaping from two places and blood the one
may your operatic cry splinter wood, crack the glass and send their minds reeling
fractured and unknowing heatstroked in the ovening sun.
there will lie the hero, the martyr,
remains in pieces, in whole, upon the fertilized loam
fossilization, mineralization, your face will turn to stone.
may it be an opal that sets your eyes
and may it be the gypsum that stole your breath
and may the silver that flees your veins keep the werewolves at bay
while within the last secret room within the heart, the sapphire is kept.
strange how love appears so human when clad in armor while splayed in the shade of the waxing evening, leaking its innards into the mound
I shall take up the sword, the shield, and tenderly foot this softening ground
and one day I shall catch up to those who committed this act upon my love
my blade shall flit and fly, my shield, my dove...
one by one they will fall without a cry
without sense, without fire
and without a sound.
Bound. more love for you
…from coleen..
who is you beauty? begs this beast
you remind you remind you remind me
of a brilliant fox that left our warm cozy fox hole
billowing with pillows and dylan and wine
he was charmed he was charmed he was
charmed away from our precious den by the pied piper
humming a mythical tune about cod pieces and ssshhhhhh.....
and i wandered and i wondered and i followed
best as best as best i could
looking up at the sky above for traces of the comet's shimmering trail and to the horizon where his boldness bled into the mountains
only i stumbled over what happened to be my heart on the ground
gathering myself to myself i was gathering
and being more careful and careless all at the same time
only somehow my brilliant beauty i am missing you
remembering to forget my way home
listening to the melody lost in the snow
and this secret
our secret
your secret
is safest with me
later…
"Dust Devil Pitch "
I am the bride
on the funeral pyre
wailing and carrying
though I held the knife
that went into my dear dying
husband's blind eye.
And the townsmen all leer
at the tear in my sheer
at the gash in my cheek
i got being thrown in the slammer
when my face hit the padlock
that still swings on the hook.
Yes, I am the bride
binge-purging my love
for an ominous man
who comes like a ghost
to my bed everynight
and haunts my happiness
with laughing delight.
And in dreams my fist hits his face like a stop light ignored.
And he smiles, grabbing my ass, calling me petnames, making small
petty
dust devils pitch
fits that mean absolutely nothing
no how
to no one.
I can do naught but spin and spit.
(The rings on this carousel ride
are but hammer handles.)
I hold my hands wide
keeping centripital forces
from forcing me into tornado swirl.
And I CRY, oh my dear God how I cry.
It's supposed to be dead
so go on, love... die.
…later still
"no velvet rope here "
I am talking about the Train Wreck, Dude...
The thirty-car pile-up on I-25?
The skyscraper on fire?
That, no matter how hard I try to be the cool one who didn't look
(Cuz, cool is cool, baby, and fuck, It hurts way less to drive by a silent fire, face turned to the side, than it does to watch it burn with NO hose, and NO cell phone.)
Yeah, but anyway, I still fucking look.
And my imagination straps on it's high-heeled Nike's and takes a long walk
Between the pyre builders
The Fire Engines
The Fashion Police Cars
And Tonka
Emergency
Response
Trucks.... (The kind with the little plastic people driving? Yeah. You know.)
I don't know what's in that building.
Last I saw was some Dude with a
Zippo and a little Yellow can of lighter Fluid.
Allow me this,
my light green dream,
Father Love,
Father laugh-like-a-moon-beam.
As it would seem transcended,
lies to a daughter lost
The daughter found at seventeen
all soul-wrecked and bent, rent
taunting death like a boy...
Trailing leaves from an arrangement's tree...
Buy me an ice cream, Pistacio, please.
Come back, Father Love,
let me sit in your lap.
I'm an older one now,
and I promise I won't bleed.
I'll tell you stories,
Papito mi amore'.
Sing you songs
and let you read
while you scratch seven sad circles,
your arm loose about me.
And I Believe.
Despite the worms
the squirming frogs
and breaking eggs
that plagued your dreams.
i'm glad i took the time to read these pastanazi.. i espeically like "dust devil pitch" ..
It's supposed to be dead
so go on, love... die.
thnx for sharing
Down the street you can hear her scream youre a disgrace
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
Sometimes the first finger points and it goes
"Oh come on. You knew. I knew. Didn't you?"
You promised me bliss in those cheek-turned kiss missives,
and the ground where you round up the fists and the fissures?
It's really quite solid from my view permissive.
Permitting me see things from right where I stand,
while I hold out my hand and I ask you to dance.
Ignoring the blood in your shoes.
The wild left eye.
The pang to the sigh.
The arrow... sticking out of your back.
It was easy to do.
To find flight in hope's mirrored promise?
I wish that I didn't, but...
I needed you, too.
So, the first finger, yeah, it knows how it goes.
To the front, to the out
To the "you should've known."
And under it, here,
we find more than one. Three.
Each all of them pointing
directly at me.
she lied
spider lipstick
surrounding
her eyes
to herself
to her ties
bound
frozen in mind
in a church
where the yin and the yang
grew a nice set of fangs
and bit down through logic's simple calling
Here, another one lay
on another one's length
like the air drinking dew
from God's Good and Green Earth.
It's the salt, oh the salt!
What a fabulous thing!
A crude rolled gold seeping
from a purple peach song
that this petite little woman
oh, so loves to sing.
"It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly, who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiams, the great devotions, and spends himself in a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement; and who at the worst, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory or defeat."
"The brave man is by no means the hero. He is merely the one who did what must be done despite of and within his own fear. His triumph is not in the fact that he was stronger than most, or persevered more than most, it is the pure fact that he survived. This is not an heroic undertaken. This is an human undertaking."
the lady knows of what teddy speaks.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
A powder blue bitch in a red dress listened
to the pale purple fits of a lime green whore
in a technicolor-yawn-hued hat.
She thought her yellow hose needed a run.
And she thought she might always be pink and alone.
Instead she lay down with her shiny gray day.
Press-printed in gold leaf line with a teal moted eye
Rolled in light dusty sage and his wind blown arms.
And she sighed a most lavender lust.
And she slept pitching rust.
Originally posted by PastaNazi "It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly, who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiams, the great devotions, and spends himself in a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement; and who at the worst, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory or defeat."
las rosas blancas siempre harán a esta chica buena se ruboriza
y la mano sobre mí hace mi prisa buena de sangre
y su voz me encanta, mando la boca a repleto
donde una cabeza tenida en una luz de detención se siente
joder verdadero fresco
the oddest shade of deepest blue wraps around, a new hue... a new you... my darling mirrored mist of smoke and fire whose mother never calls on birthdays... all these years so stand-alone, so tall, a support unhitched, do not look back... a blind spot, a choked esteem
a gasp
my mouth a gap
through punctured lung
ice-pick hands
my heart filled with blood
Originally posted by PastaNazi the oddest shade of deepest blue wraps around, a new hue... a new you... my darling mirrored mist of smoke and fire whose mother never calls on birthdays... all these years so stand-alone, so tall, a support unhitched, do not look back... a blind spot, a choked esteem
a gasp
my mouth a gap
through punctured lung
ice-pick hands
my heart filled with blood
Originally posted by PastaNazi morning ripple
my pancakes need syrup
you know where to get some good stuff?
how do you do mrs. butterworth,
how do you do today?
Down the street you can hear her scream youre a disgrace
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
mrs. butterworth smiles, sorta
gotta pack up things that aren't mine
and don't belong here anymore
bitter bitter
not so sweet
'tis the way in these things, i suppose
Comments
and
oodles of noodles miss toodles... enjoy your insanely long weekend... again... you lucky duck
about my crumbly week
wishing you a butterfly on your shoulder,
singing a lullaby
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
04/22/04 "Trainwreck"
And to my Father, I become another listless daughter soaking up the Son like a gray dwarf, like a pea pod, like all those things that hold magic in their seams. And to my father, I become that to believe, to love and to hold and to sweep up shrieking when the tide comes in. And to my father, my father, weak and sure, weak and binding me in his gray faith of universal proof, theorems really, touting that We Are All Already Dead so…, why worry?
We are all already dead. We are worm food. We are dirt. We are dust. And we are condensation.
Raise the blade to your own throat and get whatever it is you’re getting over, over with. Kill yourself and with a paintbrush splay the blood up on a billboard for everyone to see. Because everyone who sees will agree that you never understated anything worth stating in the first place (although they might say, although they probably will say…. “well… she always did ten-gallon-hat God“).
Love itself may be nobody’s martyr, but all of us martyr love just as plain as Jesus mothered sin. So… yeah… I’ll climb up onto that precipitous platform. And I’ll cry a raccoon’s mask onto the cake my face is made of…. and I’ll slip my ankles toward the sky and let the platinum dye-job drip like new soft wheat toward the new soft ground broken… and hide my smile while you take my picture. Then we’ll go get a cheeseburger and fries and everyone will wonder why I’m all dressed up. And after that? After that, we’ll go watch water snakes glide through their boxed abyss, and we’ll hum tunes into each other’s ears, and we’ll hum tunes into the very centers of each other, and we’ll drift off… the tragedy thwarted once more, the new day’s pump now primed, now sure.
And in dreaming I’ll wish I had the ability to split myself into two. Then she and I, we’d sneak out in the darkest part of night and scale back up the ladder to the billboard, the platform. That flat perpendicular to everything larger than life. And one of us would have remembered the knife. We’d draw platinum blonde straws, the shortest one winning, the shortest one falling gently to the iron bars, calling her sister come, come bury the knife. Bounding, slicing skin to ribbons in lip-locked grace. Going, their passion finally a communion, chalised in gold and an always-green blue.
And then the long one? The loser? The long loser would laugh out loud, drenched to puddles in red because she’d finally be Everything that her Father’d said. She’d be dead. Dead by her own hand and not by the Marlborough malaise that her everyday life had become. And, oh my God, would she dance in the rain of her sister’s blood?
And
to their father,
their father,
weak and sure and binding…
she’d become…
she’d become…
a raving lunatic
the chess match done.
….from setaside2...
indeed chess matches set with blade
their games over before they're bade
good day to you, sir, madam, take the spade
we'll bury our bones, our love, our sensual shade
take them all, packed up, paid.
no burial at sea more than flotation
the earth's edge serration rotation
with all false, I say FALSE, martyrs preaching location, location, location
sully the elocution of the thought
bring about the execution and the sieving of the soul
settle your anticipation and your burdened cot
counter and demand and counter and parlay and counter and ripost
the sword and defamation, the castration of the prostrate blindsided and sideswiped before the bowl.
beckon with torn tears
bring the hand in the come to me defiance
salute, tap that blade to forehead,
and begin your twin bladed enchant
meant to prove and to bend
to move and to rend
to tear apart all who may satiate your fears
and if your ferocity and your passion may be swayed by a pierced lung
air escaping from two places and blood the one
may your operatic cry splinter wood, crack the glass and send their minds reeling
fractured and unknowing heatstroked in the ovening sun.
there will lie the hero, the martyr,
remains in pieces, in whole, upon the fertilized loam
fossilization, mineralization, your face will turn to stone.
may it be an opal that sets your eyes
and may it be the gypsum that stole your breath
and may the silver that flees your veins keep the werewolves at bay
while within the last secret room within the heart, the sapphire is kept.
strange how love appears so human when clad in armor while splayed in the shade of the waxing evening, leaking its innards into the mound
I shall take up the sword, the shield, and tenderly foot this softening ground
and one day I shall catch up to those who committed this act upon my love
my blade shall flit and fly, my shield, my dove...
one by one they will fall without a cry
without sense, without fire
and without a sound.
Bound. more love for you
…from coleen..
who is you beauty? begs this beast
you remind you remind you remind me
of a brilliant fox that left our warm cozy fox hole
billowing with pillows and dylan and wine
he was charmed he was charmed he was
charmed away from our precious den by the pied piper
humming a mythical tune about cod pieces and ssshhhhhh.....
and i wandered and i wondered and i followed
best as best as best i could
looking up at the sky above for traces of the comet's shimmering trail and to the horizon where his boldness bled into the mountains
only i stumbled over what happened to be my heart on the ground
gathering myself to myself i was gathering
and being more careful and careless all at the same time
only somehow my brilliant beauty i am missing you
remembering to forget my way home
listening to the melody lost in the snow
and this secret
our secret
your secret
is safest with me
later…
"Dust Devil Pitch "
I am the bride
on the funeral pyre
wailing and carrying
though I held the knife
that went into my dear dying
husband's blind eye.
And the townsmen all leer
at the tear in my sheer
at the gash in my cheek
i got being thrown in the slammer
when my face hit the padlock
that still swings on the hook.
Yes, I am the bride
binge-purging my love
for an ominous man
who comes like a ghost
to my bed everynight
and haunts my happiness
with laughing delight.
And in dreams my fist hits his face like a stop light ignored.
And he smiles, grabbing my ass, calling me petnames, making small
petty
dust devils pitch
fits that mean absolutely nothing
no how
to no one.
I can do naught but spin and spit.
(The rings on this carousel ride
are but hammer handles.)
I hold my hands wide
keeping centripital forces
from forcing me into tornado swirl.
And I CRY, oh my dear God how I cry.
It's supposed to be dead
so go on, love... die.
…later still
"no velvet rope here "
I am talking about the Train Wreck, Dude...
The thirty-car pile-up on I-25?
The skyscraper on fire?
That, no matter how hard I try to be the cool one who didn't look
(Cuz, cool is cool, baby, and fuck, It hurts way less to drive by a silent fire, face turned to the side, than it does to watch it burn with NO hose, and NO cell phone.)
Yeah, but anyway, I still fucking look.
And my imagination straps on it's high-heeled Nike's and takes a long walk
Between the pyre builders
The Fire Engines
The Fashion Police Cars
And Tonka
Emergency
Response
Trucks.... (The kind with the little plastic people driving? Yeah. You know.)
I don't know what's in that building.
Last I saw was some Dude with a
Zippo and a little Yellow can of lighter Fluid.
And a Pearl Jam T-shirt on..
So who knows?
Allow me this,
my light green dream,
Father Love,
Father laugh-like-a-moon-beam.
As it would seem transcended,
lies to a daughter lost
The daughter found at seventeen
all soul-wrecked and bent, rent
taunting death like a boy...
Trailing leaves from an arrangement's tree...
Buy me an ice cream, Pistacio, please.
Come back, Father Love,
let me sit in your lap.
I'm an older one now,
and I promise I won't bleed.
I'll tell you stories,
Papito mi amore'.
Sing you songs
and let you read
while you scratch seven sad circles,
your arm loose about me.
And I Believe.
Despite the worms
the squirming frogs
and breaking eggs
that plagued your dreams.
I believe
that you and I?
We'll meet again.
~me~
It's supposed to be dead
so go on, love... die.
thnx for sharing
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
peace
Sometimes the first finger points and it goes
"Oh come on. You knew. I knew. Didn't you?"
You promised me bliss in those cheek-turned kiss missives,
and the ground where you round up the fists and the fissures?
It's really quite solid from my view permissive.
Permitting me see things from right where I stand,
while I hold out my hand and I ask you to dance.
Ignoring the blood in your shoes.
The wild left eye.
The pang to the sigh.
The arrow... sticking out of your back.
It was easy to do.
To find flight in hope's mirrored promise?
I wish that I didn't, but...
I needed you, too.
So, the first finger, yeah, it knows how it goes.
To the front, to the out
To the "you should've known."
And under it, here,
we find more than one. Three.
Each all of them pointing
directly at me.
spider lipstick
surrounding
her eyes
to herself
to her ties
bound
frozen in mind
in a church
where the yin and the yang
grew a nice set of fangs
and bit down through logic's simple calling
on another one's length
like the air drinking dew
from God's Good and Green Earth.
It's the salt, oh the salt!
What a fabulous thing!
A crude rolled gold seeping
from a purple peach song
that this petite little woman
oh, so loves to sing.
to be back
in the arms
of a writer.
yes.
where was that floor? down there you say?
i never liked shag, perhaps you'll change my way.
funny how the moon hides behind the windowsill at this angle, it's luz cutting the shade above us, hitting the wall, blind to our mo-o-o-ove.
oh how we hide in the shadows with smiling smiles, how sly, how kung fu these wiles that allow us to escape the velocity norm.
what to grip what to grip oh tell me what. to. grip. hmmm?
and here before the eyes of earth a dream may begin... once, twice, thrice in a day... such is the way you sway when I say...
hello... and...
there you go...
and now the shag ain't so bad and the moon has risen high enough to peep in and gasp in unison. The creativity of the lunar echo. The joy of irony.
I count 646 craters in that face tonight, and all of them before my time... I see countless comets and ice, stars and marcosite in your eyes.
She's a pretty one for sure.
This night just might
have to continue...
for you.
you delight me, mister side... infathomably
"The brave man is by no means the hero. He is merely the one who did what must be done despite of and within his own fear. His triumph is not in the fact that he was stronger than most, or persevered more than most, it is the pure fact that he survived. This is not an heroic undertaken. This is an human undertaking."
the lady knows of what teddy speaks.
to the pale purple fits of a lime green whore
in a technicolor-yawn-hued hat.
She thought her yellow hose needed a run.
And she thought she might always be pink and alone.
Instead she lay down with her shiny gray day.
Press-printed in gold leaf line with a teal moted eye
Rolled in light dusty sage and his wind blown arms.
And she sighed a most lavender lust.
And she slept pitching rust.
That is all my bum. Aristotle was a critic.
I don't get in wars.
next year...
maybe i'll be a critic next year
peace, baby
en dos las diez de la tarde
super altos
y super flacos
cinco minutos después que
yo regresé en
para ti mi amore
y la mano sobre mí hace mi prisa buena de sangre
y su voz me encanta, mando la boca a repleto
donde una cabeza tenida en una luz de detención se siente
joder verdadero fresco
joder verdadero fresco
oh yes
with a cat fur smile,
point-oh-two-seven-three
long sighs wide.
I watch honor
bat at pride
like a mouse on a kitchen floor
limitless in size.
Honor losing face
through a space
under an oven.
Built to vent
potential threat,
and give a pipe
something to blow?
Now make it two cats.
Does the mouse have a chance?
Can they know how hungry they'll still be when it's gone?
How content they might be had it never ever come?
i had something to say,
all that comes out is,
meow.
a gasp
my mouth a gap
through punctured lung
ice-pick hands
my heart filled with blood
my pancakes need syrup
you know where to get some good stuff?
how do you do mrs. butterworth,
how do you do today?
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
And a huge good morning to you Pasta!
OXO
r.e.
gotta pack up things that aren't mine
and don't belong here anymore
bitter bitter
not so sweet
'tis the way in these things, i suppose
(hugs to you, too, r.e.)
These are good enough for a bump.