We retold what had just happened with such exuberance and excitement that we conjured up some sort of time portal leading to exactly 9 hours in the past. Suddenly we were the three bored and unimaginative douches we'd been at 10 o'clock the previous night. And we wanted to party. I can't remember who suggested that we go back on the roof, but I'm sure it was Roll. He's the one who disappeared downstairs only to reappear seconds later with a satchel of various beers.
Walking out on that roof was like hopping on the surface of the sun. It was 8 o'clock, but it wasn't morning. The sun was high in the sky and my newly naked tit skin could feel itself cooking. Our flesh was roasting, our brains were toasted and for the life of us we could not stop giggling. We sizzled on shingles like three sun glass clad pieces of bacon sautéing in gin and freedom. I pulled my shorts into thong position, giving my upper thighs their first taste of vitamin D. This was met with groans from Roll and a purring sound from T-Nasty.
We laid there soaking up sunshine and sipping on sin until the pure freedom of the situation overwhelmed me. I hopped up and gave a drunken homage to Charles Chaplin. I did precarious acrobatic maneuvers on every corner of the roof, diving and tripping, rolling and collapsing, mooning imaginary voyeurs and dancing with fictitious maidens. In the midst of my madness I spotted some painters hard at work on an adjacent roof top. I screamed for them to look our way, then showed them my ass cheeks. Moments later I noticed the faithful congregation of High Street Unitarian Univeralist Church filing in to their Sunday service. They then got a pre-church sermon on why God was dead before feasting their eyes on my supple buttocks.
By this time, my liberation from the dictate of society was nearly complete. All that was left for me to do was fully expose myself on the highest point of the roof. So, I went inside and grabbed the afore mention poster of George Costanza and whipped off my undies. I then scaled the remaining portion of the roof and jangled my dangle in the cool morning breeze with the poster of Costanza draped around my shoulders.
Jealousy is a stinky cologne.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Next Part...
To fully understand the comedy of this scene I need to describe the condition of our apartment when the coppers strolled through. Monday through Thursday I would classify our place as barely livable; meaning the urge to clean up/get the fuck out of there is palpable, but not overwhelming. The first half of Friday is usually the cleanest the place ever gets because, who knows, someone who actually gives a shit about appearances and sanitation might drop by and that person might have boobies.
5 o'clock Friday evening marks the point when things start going down hill. It starts with the beer cans and solo cups and by Sunday we're sitting in a crack den littered with newspapers, dirty hypodermic needles and hula hoops. We try to do some light surface cleaning on the subsequent days of the week to make Friday's clean-up a little more bearable, but for the two or three weeks preceding the weekend in question we just said "Fuck it, we like wallowing in filth. This is good." For you Weather Channel junkies it was like we had a three week shit blizzard and were two feet deep in a thick blanketing of garbage. And not just garbage; see we like to steal things, usually when intoxicated, so we have random shit like 15 foot Mike Huckabee signs and various bar paraphernalia strewn about. This is what six officers of the law had to navigate though to get to Travis' room.
Oh, God, Travis' room.
Number one, he sleeps on a giant suede bean bag set up nicely in front of a 65-inch HD television. Behind the bag is the same exact red metal bunk bed you had at age 8. The room actually looks like something a wealthy 8-year-old would design. It's got a tiny trampoline so The Smell can do his cardio and a dress up closet stocked with riches from the Salvation Army and Good Will.
Wait did I say an 8-year-old? I meant an 8-year-old with a severe, severe drinking problem.
At the time of this incident we estimate there were over 100 beer cans and bottles in various stages of emptiness and three handles of different types of liquor chilling in every nook of the room. On a side note, T-Nasty's room has another odd feature, or features. His room has six closets. One huge one and five little ones. He likes them, though. He's always going in and coming out of them. Odd, I know, but when we ask what he's doing all he'll say is "Practicing.", whatever that means.
Anyway, you get the picture, we're slobs.
As the coppers are trudging up the stairs I start searching the hodge podge of empty take out boxes and clothing on the floor for a shirt to cover my finely sculpted chest and abdominal region. I want to put the policemen and dyke at ease and if my naked torso screams anything its intimidation. I get the shirt on just as--lets say Officer Leslie-- waddles in the room with five smug motherfuckers with badges. To be honest much of what happened next is a blur. I don't know if the reality of the situation set off an adrenaline explosion in my brain or if I jostled loose a hidden pocket of gin somewhere when I ran to Roll's room, but my head was spinning.
Macon's finest launched their investigation cautiously with questions such as "Is that how you get to the roof?" Yes. "Have you gentlemen been drinking." Heavily. "We're you drinking on that roof?"
Seeing where this line of questioning was going we informed the officers that we were drunk, not 3-years-old and that we had indeed been drinking on the roof and may have become over exited by the awe inspiring realizations which witnessing our circular blue spacecraft rotate into brilliant beams of sun light had thrust upon us.
At least thats what we tried to say. In actuality I think we said, "Does there really need to be six, seven...five...SIX! policemen in here right now! Do you really not have ANYTHING better to be doing than giving us SHIT!" And so on and so forth. Travis reached the breaking point when a young, tall officer who we even now refer to as Rook broke the case wide open with his observation, "Well, those beers didn't drink themselves." To which Travis said, "No shit! We did, but just because you see empty beer cans doesn't mean they were all drank in the last 24 hours!!!!" You may think I'm trying to make myself look better by adding all these curse words to what we said. You would be wrong. Normally we would have been civil, but even after we'd admitted to causing a ruckus and apologizing these six mongoloid crime fighters wanted to stay and chat about the general appearance of our, of OUR apartment and they wanted to do it with thinly veiled insults that only their unfuckingbelievably clever minds could ever catch. Travis responded with the classically exasperated line, "It isn't against the law for me not to clean up after myself, is it!?" No, Travis, it is not.
Finally after winning the battle of wits with the six uniformed high school drop outs in ambled their leader who was probably lagging behind after getting hung up on how to operate our door knob. At my breaking point, I blurted out, "Do you really not have anything better to do right now?" A valid question since we live in Macon a.k.a. Georgia's ghetto. His reply caught me off gaurd. He stopped, stuck his thumbs into his gun belt, cocked his head at the ceiling and seemed to be earnestly pondering the question. He then swiveled on his heels to face me and said, "Slow morning."
With that, all the tension in the air went right out the window. King cop asked us about our majors, dyke cop tried to lick Travis' vagina and Rook commented on a poster of George Costanza tacked to the ceiling. They eventually filed on out, leaving us with a warning not to go back on the roof and to laugh our asses off while giddily retelling a story which had happened just three minutes in the past.
This is taking so long to tell so I'm going to have to finish up later.
We went back out on the roof.
5 o'clock Friday evening marks the point when things start going down hill. It starts with the beer cans and solo cups and by Sunday we're sitting in a crack den littered with newspapers, dirty hypodermic needles and hula hoops. We try to do some light surface cleaning on the subsequent days of the week to make Friday's clean-up a little more bearable, but for the two or three weeks preceding the weekend in question we just said "Fuck it, we like wallowing in filth. This is good." For you Weather Channel junkies it was like we had a three week shit blizzard and were two feet deep in a thick blanketing of garbage. And not just garbage; see we like to steal things, usually when intoxicated, so we have random shit like 15 foot Mike Huckabee signs and various bar paraphernalia strewn about. This is what six officers of the law had to navigate though to get to Travis' room.
Oh, God, Travis' room.
Number one, he sleeps on a giant suede bean bag set up nicely in front of a 65-inch HD television. Behind the bag is the same exact red metal bunk bed you had at age 8. The room actually looks like something a wealthy 8-year-old would design. It's got a tiny trampoline so The Smell can do his cardio and a dress up closet stocked with riches from the Salvation Army and Good Will.
Wait did I say an 8-year-old? I meant an 8-year-old with a severe, severe drinking problem.
At the time of this incident we estimate there were over 100 beer cans and bottles in various stages of emptiness and three handles of different types of liquor chilling in every nook of the room. On a side note, T-Nasty's room has another odd feature, or features. His room has six closets. One huge one and five little ones. He likes them, though. He's always going in and coming out of them. Odd, I know, but when we ask what he's doing all he'll say is "Practicing.", whatever that means.
Anyway, you get the picture, we're slobs.
As the coppers are trudging up the stairs I start searching the hodge podge of empty take out boxes and clothing on the floor for a shirt to cover my finely sculpted chest and abdominal region. I want to put the policemen and dyke at ease and if my naked torso screams anything its intimidation. I get the shirt on just as--lets say Officer Leslie-- waddles in the room with five smug motherfuckers with badges. To be honest much of what happened next is a blur. I don't know if the reality of the situation set off an adrenaline explosion in my brain or if I jostled loose a hidden pocket of gin somewhere when I ran to Roll's room, but my head was spinning.
Macon's finest launched their investigation cautiously with questions such as "Is that how you get to the roof?" Yes. "Have you gentlemen been drinking." Heavily. "We're you drinking on that roof?"
Seeing where this line of questioning was going we informed the officers that we were drunk, not 3-years-old and that we had indeed been drinking on the roof and may have become over exited by the awe inspiring realizations which witnessing our circular blue spacecraft rotate into brilliant beams of sun light had thrust upon us.
At least thats what we tried to say. In actuality I think we said, "Does there really need to be six, seven...five...SIX! policemen in here right now! Do you really not have ANYTHING better to be doing than giving us SHIT!" And so on and so forth. Travis reached the breaking point when a young, tall officer who we even now refer to as Rook broke the case wide open with his observation, "Well, those beers didn't drink themselves." To which Travis said, "No shit! We did, but just because you see empty beer cans doesn't mean they were all drank in the last 24 hours!!!!" You may think I'm trying to make myself look better by adding all these curse words to what we said. You would be wrong. Normally we would have been civil, but even after we'd admitted to causing a ruckus and apologizing these six mongoloid crime fighters wanted to stay and chat about the general appearance of our, of OUR apartment and they wanted to do it with thinly veiled insults that only their unfuckingbelievably clever minds could ever catch. Travis responded with the classically exasperated line, "It isn't against the law for me not to clean up after myself, is it!?" No, Travis, it is not.
Finally after winning the battle of wits with the six uniformed high school drop outs in ambled their leader who was probably lagging behind after getting hung up on how to operate our door knob. At my breaking point, I blurted out, "Do you really not have anything better to do right now?" A valid question since we live in Macon a.k.a. Georgia's ghetto. His reply caught me off gaurd. He stopped, stuck his thumbs into his gun belt, cocked his head at the ceiling and seemed to be earnestly pondering the question. He then swiveled on his heels to face me and said, "Slow morning."
With that, all the tension in the air went right out the window. King cop asked us about our majors, dyke cop tried to lick Travis' vagina and Rook commented on a poster of George Costanza tacked to the ceiling. They eventually filed on out, leaving us with a warning not to go back on the roof and to laugh our asses off while giddily retelling a story which had happened just three minutes in the past.
This is taking so long to tell so I'm going to have to finish up later.
We went back out on the roof.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Schmoked Meat!?!?
I'm hammered. It's the only way I can be true to this secret/public diary posting. I really want to write about the amazing diversity(old wooden ship) thats been going on at my apartment the last 2 days, but I I don't have time to discuss the wrench toting Mexican toddler with matches (a.k.a Section 15) and the Scotsman. I gotta talk about the life changing experience that was Prague. Pronounced Pra-gooey for you public school wankers.
You know what? Fuck it, I can make this one gigantic analogy.
The best way I can describe what happened to me in Prague is to tell you a story which rendered me, for a short period of time, in the same state of mind I was for my entire stay in the Czech Republic. Two stories in one, more bang for your boredom.
Last weekend I went to a party celebrating the Chinese New Year (thanks again Tie and Hang out Nazi) and partied till the booze was drunk and the fire was all burned out. Me and T-Nasty proceeded to walk home and build our nest on the roof to wait for the sun and his two scoops of raisins. We were equipped with the essentials. Gin, tonic and limes? Check. I-Pod complete with speakers, loaded with sunrise type tunes? Check. An unhealthy disregard for other people's sleeping patterns and powerful vocal chords? Check!
Watching the sun rise to the flaming lips was right up there with the first time I did ecstasy, you should try it some time. We've all learned that we are spinning precariously on a relatively tiny blue marble that orbits a ball of flaming gas, but that lesson really does not hit home until you've seen the sun creep over the horizon while pickled in gin. My instinctive reaction was to howl like a fucking werewolfbansheedemon in the most humble and dumbfounded manner possible. So thats just what I did. Travis even joined in with his own breed of howl.
Across the street someone tediously training themselves to walk or talk again at the rehabilitation center heard this primordial yarp and had a health care official alert the authorities.
Having just washed down bear claws masticated by ape like mandibles with large amounts of coffee, they no doubt sped, holsters unbuttoned to our humble abode. The Padge was going googley eyed in his rooftop lawn chair when I spotted not one, not two, but three squad cars parking across the street by the rehabilitation center. I instantly freaked, hopped up and crawled inside to wake up the only somewhat sober person in the house.
As I tripped my way across Travis' war zone of a room the doorbell rang. "Fuck!", I said and double timed it to The Smell's room. The Smell sleeps like a hibernating brown bear who receives a daily anal suppository of NyQuil. I practically had to give him brain damage shaking him to get him awake. I explained that the Police were at the door and he needed to talk to them because my gin soaked mind could only formulate the phrase, "Hey, man, I got a lighter if you got a cig.", and that sentence would have gotten me nowhere with the fuzz, ya know?
So Roll throws on a holey T to complement his flannel boxer shorts and sleepily wanders downstairs to answer the door. Waiting there is 4 cops lead by a squaty dyke bitch who wants to know how to get to the roof. Roll motions her to come in and starts back up the stairs to T-Nasty's room where he and I are waiting like two fuck ups in a middle school principals office.
Fuck, I feel I'm on a roll here, but I am too exhausted to finish this story and connect it to my Prague adventure right now. I'll finish this tomorrow night. (Death.)
You know what? Fuck it, I can make this one gigantic analogy.
The best way I can describe what happened to me in Prague is to tell you a story which rendered me, for a short period of time, in the same state of mind I was for my entire stay in the Czech Republic. Two stories in one, more bang for your boredom.
Last weekend I went to a party celebrating the Chinese New Year (thanks again Tie and Hang out Nazi) and partied till the booze was drunk and the fire was all burned out. Me and T-Nasty proceeded to walk home and build our nest on the roof to wait for the sun and his two scoops of raisins. We were equipped with the essentials. Gin, tonic and limes? Check. I-Pod complete with speakers, loaded with sunrise type tunes? Check. An unhealthy disregard for other people's sleeping patterns and powerful vocal chords? Check!
Watching the sun rise to the flaming lips was right up there with the first time I did ecstasy, you should try it some time. We've all learned that we are spinning precariously on a relatively tiny blue marble that orbits a ball of flaming gas, but that lesson really does not hit home until you've seen the sun creep over the horizon while pickled in gin. My instinctive reaction was to howl like a fucking werewolfbansheedemon in the most humble and dumbfounded manner possible. So thats just what I did. Travis even joined in with his own breed of howl.
Across the street someone tediously training themselves to walk or talk again at the rehabilitation center heard this primordial yarp and had a health care official alert the authorities.
Having just washed down bear claws masticated by ape like mandibles with large amounts of coffee, they no doubt sped, holsters unbuttoned to our humble abode. The Padge was going googley eyed in his rooftop lawn chair when I spotted not one, not two, but three squad cars parking across the street by the rehabilitation center. I instantly freaked, hopped up and crawled inside to wake up the only somewhat sober person in the house.
As I tripped my way across Travis' war zone of a room the doorbell rang. "Fuck!", I said and double timed it to The Smell's room. The Smell sleeps like a hibernating brown bear who receives a daily anal suppository of NyQuil. I practically had to give him brain damage shaking him to get him awake. I explained that the Police were at the door and he needed to talk to them because my gin soaked mind could only formulate the phrase, "Hey, man, I got a lighter if you got a cig.", and that sentence would have gotten me nowhere with the fuzz, ya know?
So Roll throws on a holey T to complement his flannel boxer shorts and sleepily wanders downstairs to answer the door. Waiting there is 4 cops lead by a squaty dyke bitch who wants to know how to get to the roof. Roll motions her to come in and starts back up the stairs to T-Nasty's room where he and I are waiting like two fuck ups in a middle school principals office.
Fuck, I feel I'm on a roll here, but I am too exhausted to finish this story and connect it to my Prague adventure right now. I'll finish this tomorrow night. (Death.)
Monday, February 18, 2008
Babes in Beerland: Part Tři
May 19, 2007 at 8:00 AM was the thirstiest moment of my whole life, yet my body had and will never want to expel liquid any worse. This is my one and only memory from that day until 2 o'clock. The posse decided it would be best to nurse our throbbing melons with some fresh salty cliff air, so we took a short train to the island of Howth to relax. We walked around looking at all the pretty things, like weird new plants we'd never seen before and humongous cliffs that dropped hundreds of feet to the ocean. It was great. I think we all felt we were seeing Ireland for the first time even though we'd been there for over 36 hours. I wrote a poem about it. It was pretty gay.
Today we saw the coast
It was the freshest air I've ever breathed
So green, so pure
I hope my beginnings began there
Fish & chips are fish & chips
Guinness is still Guinness
put them together in an Irish pub
and you'll feel Irish as fuck
The hangman had the upper hand
but dawn became the day
we saw a book so old and fine
my pubes turned halfway gray
The Book of Kells was a tedious task
and I bow to the monks who wrote it
but 9 Euro is far too much for a page of Christian bullshit
On to Prague we four go to understand not one word
but beer be the worlds mutual language and our voices will be heard
Oh yeah, we also went to Trinity College before heading to the country to see the Book of Kells. That thing some serious patience and skill, too bad the Bible is poppycock. Sorry monks, better luck next life.
We had some fish and chips and a few Guinni(?) at a cool little pub in Howth and headed back to stinky Dublin. Needless to say we were all pretty tuckered out, but we pressed onward, headed to bar town and tried to recreate our magical first night. Nope. We might have drank 3 beers and called it a night.
The next day we had about 5 or 6 hours to see stuff before we hopped a plane to Prague. The day started ominously when Nathan had a frighteningly awkward exchange with a French dude at our hostel. Nathan had just woken up and was trying to put on his pants when this guy gruffly mumbles at him. Not knowing what he said, Nathan ignores him. The guy then stares Nasty down and blurts out "I said , Good morning!", to which Nathan reciprocated with a squeak. It was much more intense than it sounds, trust me. It was also a sign of things to come.
After the three amigos had breakfast and I got dressed we visited St. Patrick's Cathedral, which had Johnathan Swift's death mask in a glass case. I'd never seen or heard of a death mask, so I was pretty creeped out when I read it was a plaster cast of a person's face immediately following death. I could not stop looking at it.
All that stuffy church air made us thirsty so we made like the Irish on a Sunday morning and went to the pub. Robbie and I broke from our steady diet of Guinness and Balmers cider and each got a Kilkenny Red, sat down and tried to make sense of the Cricket match on the tele. Flabbergasted, we asked a young Indian looking Brit what in the blue hell was going on. He gave it his best shot, but after five minutes of explaining rules he gave up in favor of critiquing our appearance. Apparently tattered jeans, t-shirts and patchwork facial hair is not a good look over there. Guess the whole slacker mentality never came to roost in Europe.
We then packed up at the hostel and got a cab to the airport. When we told the cab driver we were going to Prague he began to weave horrible tales about beautiful Czech women who seduce young travelers and hand them over to robust, furry men who demand large sums of money. All very disconcerting. Nevertheless, we were exited to be going somewhere completly removed from our own culture. That excitement was quickly replaced with fear and helplessness.
Our Goodbye was an angry good morning
and an intense stare to boot
we stumbled around St. Patrick's house
feeling a bit like four mutes
One mere glance at Swift's death mask
and my blood ran cold as ice
That solemn, grave and silent face
would turn strong men to mice
One last pint of farewell brew
and we need to shave our faces
Our whiskers are shameful, our goatees disasters
which bring our families disgraces.
In Prague await beautiful sirens
who want not love but Euros
When they bat their eyes and wiggle their asses
we must reply, "Fuck you, Ho's."
But of this planet's people, the Czechs drink the most
so we tip our cups and raise our glasses to utter a hearty "Prost!".
Today we saw the coast
It was the freshest air I've ever breathed
So green, so pure
I hope my beginnings began there
Fish & chips are fish & chips
Guinness is still Guinness
put them together in an Irish pub
and you'll feel Irish as fuck
The hangman had the upper hand
but dawn became the day
we saw a book so old and fine
my pubes turned halfway gray
The Book of Kells was a tedious task
and I bow to the monks who wrote it
but 9 Euro is far too much for a page of Christian bullshit
On to Prague we four go to understand not one word
but beer be the worlds mutual language and our voices will be heard
Oh yeah, we also went to Trinity College before heading to the country to see the Book of Kells. That thing some serious patience and skill, too bad the Bible is poppycock. Sorry monks, better luck next life.
We had some fish and chips and a few Guinni(?) at a cool little pub in Howth and headed back to stinky Dublin. Needless to say we were all pretty tuckered out, but we pressed onward, headed to bar town and tried to recreate our magical first night. Nope. We might have drank 3 beers and called it a night.
The next day we had about 5 or 6 hours to see stuff before we hopped a plane to Prague. The day started ominously when Nathan had a frighteningly awkward exchange with a French dude at our hostel. Nathan had just woken up and was trying to put on his pants when this guy gruffly mumbles at him. Not knowing what he said, Nathan ignores him. The guy then stares Nasty down and blurts out "I said , Good morning!", to which Nathan reciprocated with a squeak. It was much more intense than it sounds, trust me. It was also a sign of things to come.
After the three amigos had breakfast and I got dressed we visited St. Patrick's Cathedral, which had Johnathan Swift's death mask in a glass case. I'd never seen or heard of a death mask, so I was pretty creeped out when I read it was a plaster cast of a person's face immediately following death. I could not stop looking at it.
All that stuffy church air made us thirsty so we made like the Irish on a Sunday morning and went to the pub. Robbie and I broke from our steady diet of Guinness and Balmers cider and each got a Kilkenny Red, sat down and tried to make sense of the Cricket match on the tele. Flabbergasted, we asked a young Indian looking Brit what in the blue hell was going on. He gave it his best shot, but after five minutes of explaining rules he gave up in favor of critiquing our appearance. Apparently tattered jeans, t-shirts and patchwork facial hair is not a good look over there. Guess the whole slacker mentality never came to roost in Europe.
We then packed up at the hostel and got a cab to the airport. When we told the cab driver we were going to Prague he began to weave horrible tales about beautiful Czech women who seduce young travelers and hand them over to robust, furry men who demand large sums of money. All very disconcerting. Nevertheless, we were exited to be going somewhere completly removed from our own culture. That excitement was quickly replaced with fear and helplessness.
Our Goodbye was an angry good morning
and an intense stare to boot
we stumbled around St. Patrick's house
feeling a bit like four mutes
One mere glance at Swift's death mask
and my blood ran cold as ice
That solemn, grave and silent face
would turn strong men to mice
One last pint of farewell brew
and we need to shave our faces
Our whiskers are shameful, our goatees disasters
which bring our families disgraces.
In Prague await beautiful sirens
who want not love but Euros
When they bat their eyes and wiggle their asses
we must reply, "Fuck you, Ho's."
But of this planet's people, the Czechs drink the most
so we tip our cups and raise our glasses to utter a hearty "Prost!".
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Life is a Game
Start right here and roll the dice
move four spots for being nice
whore yourself and roll again
bend your soul to make a friend
Lay your spades in patterns pretty
trump your conscience, take the kitty
Hearts are left in Baltic bliss
Risk the kill, not a kiss
Pick a card and read the words
give them strength with faith unstirred
Pass the point and get the dough
Purchase peace for final throws
Shoot for ladders, snakes and all
Heads of class know how to crawl
The game of life's an easy win
Just trade your self to fit in.
move four spots for being nice
whore yourself and roll again
bend your soul to make a friend
Lay your spades in patterns pretty
trump your conscience, take the kitty
Hearts are left in Baltic bliss
Risk the kill, not a kiss
Pick a card and read the words
give them strength with faith unstirred
Pass the point and get the dough
Purchase peace for final throws
Shoot for ladders, snakes and all
Heads of class know how to crawl
The game of life's an easy win
Just trade your self to fit in.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Emo Poems Continued...
The Sun came out today,
Fuck metaphors, I mean that fiery orange ball
The frost thawed from my brain
and despite myself, I was happy.
I had no choice.
Just a little warmth and a little light
made me feel more than alright
The back of my brain took a stretch and a yawn,
Told my ass to get a move on.
My nose perked up and sniffed again
taking in old forgotten friends.
My ears thought, "What a tease, birds chirping in the trees. Don't they know this will not last, that their feathers will be ruffled by another wintry blast?"
And if my ears are of the prophetic sort and tomorrow turns gray and that bitter wind returns, will everything be O.K.?
Or,
Will I sink again into the folds of my bed? Drown my mind? Fall further behind? Or will this moment in the sun be enough to carry me through and stave off the rust.
Fuck metaphors, I mean that fiery orange ball
The frost thawed from my brain
and despite myself, I was happy.
I had no choice.
Just a little warmth and a little light
made me feel more than alright
The back of my brain took a stretch and a yawn,
Told my ass to get a move on.
My nose perked up and sniffed again
taking in old forgotten friends.
My ears thought, "What a tease, birds chirping in the trees. Don't they know this will not last, that their feathers will be ruffled by another wintry blast?"
And if my ears are of the prophetic sort and tomorrow turns gray and that bitter wind returns, will everything be O.K.?
Or,
Will I sink again into the folds of my bed? Drown my mind? Fall further behind? Or will this moment in the sun be enough to carry me through and stave off the rust.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Repetitive Emo Poem
this is how I twist and shout
this is how my guard lets down
this is how my pain seeps out
this is what I'm all about
this is how I burn white light
this is why my sheets feel tight
this is how I cry at night
this is why I shrink inside
this is why I hate myself
this is meaning of self help
this is whats been put on shelf
when you've traded will to melt
this is how my guard lets down
this is how my pain seeps out
this is what I'm all about
this is how I burn white light
this is why my sheets feel tight
this is how I cry at night
this is why I shrink inside
this is why I hate myself
this is meaning of self help
this is whats been put on shelf
when you've traded will to melt
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