Monday, November 5, 2007
Trilogies. Account of a Ridiculous Panic Attack in 00
Trilogies.
My eyelids are exploding somehow, I know they are, in little bits, tiny miniscule explosions that dissolve the flesh around my eyes... too much caffeine in a few granules of instant coffee.. far too much. The wall clock at 10:58 3/4 is right there inside my devastatingly cold and loud eyelids and I'm SO PISSED about trilogiesI can't contain it. My stomach is careening towards my knees and my toes feel like childrens fireworks.
Trilogies. Back to the Future, Rocky, Rambo... ok, more than just trilogies, James Bond and Superman, too, then.
Clueless, clueless. Maybe I am, maybe they are.
The Songwriters, I mean, where are the musical trilogies?
Maybe they're out there and I don't know about them. MY GOD I've got to find them. Got to get them, all of them. Same bat characters in new bat stories carried over carried on carion.
My eyelids are exploding somehow, I know they are, in little bits, tiny miniscule explosions that dissolve the flesh around my eyes... too much caffeine in a few granules of instant coffee.. far too much. The wall clock at 10:58 3/4 is right there inside my devastatingly cold and loud eyelids and I'm SO PISSED about trilogiesI can't contain it. My stomach is careening towards my knees and my toes feel like childrens fireworks.
Trilogies. Back to the Future, Rocky, Rambo... ok, more than just trilogies, James Bond and Superman, too, then.
Clueless, clueless. Maybe I am, maybe they are.
The Songwriters, I mean, where are the musical trilogies?
Maybe they're out there and I don't know about them. MY GOD I've got to find them. Got to get them, all of them. Same bat characters in new bat stories carried over carried on carion.
Necromancers on Holiday
Their triangles hang in circles
on chains around their necks
Witches from Sweden
Listening to R.E.M
drinking Coke Light
Their naughty kids
Praising God
for no snow
on the island
exposing their pink thighs
on white plastic beds
sacrificing
to the Sun
Their wizard fathers in Ray Bans
Tom Cruise of Druids.
on chains around their necks
Witches from Sweden
Listening to R.E.M
drinking Coke Light
Their naughty kids
Praising God
for no snow
on the island
exposing their pink thighs
on white plastic beds
sacrificing
to the Sun
Their wizard fathers in Ray Bans
Tom Cruise of Druids.
B-Story 2000: "Free Mushy Peas"
"Free mushy peas with every order of pork faggots."
She didn't know what pork faggots were. She didn't want to find out. And as appetizing as smucked-up peas might be to these Brits, Britney would have rather choked on grits day in day out than give em a go. What was she doing in the land of fish and chips? She, a girl who'ss ideal of a square meal was a McDonalds hamburger patti (without the bun--just katsup and pickles). And as for comfort--well, she longed for an orange plastic-coated booth where she could curl up to her Seventeen magazine while listening to some Kenny Rogers.
"Can I take your order, love?"
"I don't know. This menu is just so...so complicated."
"Ri-iiight..." and with that, the waitress turned and walked off slowly.
Britney shut her eyes and sighed.
""Mueseli. I just want some fruit mueseli."
The waitress came back and clamly sat down next to Britney in a hard wooden chair. The both seemed to be waiting for something to happen, but nothing did. What seemed like hours later, both their butts beginning to numb, a bus boy came to theri table and asked if he could take theri order. The waitress didn't hesitate to request a list of the silly-named foods on the menu at the Royal Spoon and Duck. Britney didn't know what to say in the silence that passed, so she sputtered an order for coffee.
"White?"
"No. Brown. With some milk please."
"Riiiiiight" repeated Finnigan several times as he headed for the kitchen. Next to Britney "Flora" (according to her silver-highly-polished name tag), sat completely motionless, staring at the princess Diana porclain plate collection.
"It's a B-story" she told Britney thru mouthfulls of toad in the hole washed down with cold baked beans and pint upon pint of John Smith's.
"Uh...huh?" choked Britney, risking sounding a bit rude, or dumb, or both.
"B-movies, yeah? They were all over the place the year you were born. Well, now it's happening to you, only the resurgance is in B-stories, love, you're not worth the directorial effort of a film. So this is your lot. You're a character in a B-story. It's happened before, it'll happen again. You've heard of the Neil Smith Show?"
"W...well yeah."
"It's nothihng like that. Don't get your hopes up."
Britney dropped 2 fat, squat, meaningless coins down for what was essentially an enormous bol of coffee and left the Royal Bag of Muffins, or whatever it was called. She couldn't keep it straight.
She didn't know what pork faggots were. She didn't want to find out. And as appetizing as smucked-up peas might be to these Brits, Britney would have rather choked on grits day in day out than give em a go. What was she doing in the land of fish and chips? She, a girl who'ss ideal of a square meal was a McDonalds hamburger patti (without the bun--just katsup and pickles). And as for comfort--well, she longed for an orange plastic-coated booth where she could curl up to her Seventeen magazine while listening to some Kenny Rogers.
"Can I take your order, love?"
"I don't know. This menu is just so...so complicated."
"Ri-iiight..." and with that, the waitress turned and walked off slowly.
Britney shut her eyes and sighed.
""Mueseli. I just want some fruit mueseli."
The waitress came back and clamly sat down next to Britney in a hard wooden chair. The both seemed to be waiting for something to happen, but nothing did. What seemed like hours later, both their butts beginning to numb, a bus boy came to theri table and asked if he could take theri order. The waitress didn't hesitate to request a list of the silly-named foods on the menu at the Royal Spoon and Duck. Britney didn't know what to say in the silence that passed, so she sputtered an order for coffee.
"White?"
"No. Brown. With some milk please."
"Riiiiiight" repeated Finnigan several times as he headed for the kitchen. Next to Britney "Flora" (according to her silver-highly-polished name tag), sat completely motionless, staring at the princess Diana porclain plate collection.
"It's a B-story" she told Britney thru mouthfulls of toad in the hole washed down with cold baked beans and pint upon pint of John Smith's.
"Uh...huh?" choked Britney, risking sounding a bit rude, or dumb, or both.
"B-movies, yeah? They were all over the place the year you were born. Well, now it's happening to you, only the resurgance is in B-stories, love, you're not worth the directorial effort of a film. So this is your lot. You're a character in a B-story. It's happened before, it'll happen again. You've heard of the Neil Smith Show?"
"W...well yeah."
"It's nothihng like that. Don't get your hopes up."
Britney dropped 2 fat, squat, meaningless coins down for what was essentially an enormous bol of coffee and left the Royal Bag of Muffins, or whatever it was called. She couldn't keep it straight.
Friday, November 2, 2007
2nd 2000 diary
A Page, May 2000
theres's not much in my 2000 diary. I was living in Cyprus working as a singer. I wasn't very happy. Most of the diary is just notes on what I'm doing and where I'm going. I did some big paintings back then, but the diary has just got a few doodles or paint spotches from murals I was doing. This is the only page I like enough to upload... actually... I just found a second diary from 2000... it seems I wrote and doodled alot. So, correction, this is the only drawing I liked from ONE of the diaries...
some poem
my smile is the deadest thing
borrowed from somewhere else
and ripped with insomnia I
sleep all day
a hollow
expression on my lips
if I touch my temple
with fingers like nettles
I can smell your
chest in hollowed
burrows
my hands ball into fists
beating my own face
for not seeing you
I can see the panic
when I shut my eyes
with my nails scraping at the skin
that dies between them
and falls like dust
hot and sweaty in my skull
the greyness stinks of that history
-only the barracks left
-and a blood-stained surgery
cement
some wooden planks
peeling toupe-faded paints
and Lincoln's pillow under glass
remember these tears in joy?
I learn to laugh
and I forget
how much there is to remember.
borrowed from somewhere else
and ripped with insomnia I
sleep all day
a hollow
expression on my lips
if I touch my temple
with fingers like nettles
I can smell your
chest in hollowed
burrows
my hands ball into fists
beating my own face
for not seeing you
I can see the panic
when I shut my eyes
with my nails scraping at the skin
that dies between them
and falls like dust
hot and sweaty in my skull
the greyness stinks of that history
-only the barracks left
-and a blood-stained surgery
cement
some wooden planks
peeling toupe-faded paints
and Lincoln's pillow under glass
remember these tears in joy?
I learn to laugh
and I forget
how much there is to remember.
texting in the naught-ies
the sex was good, but his badminton was awful,
so she left him, never to return again.
Occasionally, just to remind herself
of him and badminton,
she'd put on his mint-colored bat-costume.
It was surprisingly pleasant,
considering his playing.
Alternately, she would stare lustily at the knobs
on her cupboards and there was really very little
she could do to keep from swinging at them
with her bejewelled raquet.
so she left him, never to return again.
Occasionally, just to remind herself
of him and badminton,
she'd put on his mint-colored bat-costume.
It was surprisingly pleasant,
considering his playing.
Alternately, she would stare lustily at the knobs
on her cupboards and there was really very little
she could do to keep from swinging at them
with her bejewelled raquet.
more 2000
dreaming of anorexia and fame
waiting for the bath to run dry
we
close my mouth with your fingers
inside me
smelling of hazelnuts
your pants on the floor
shirtsleaves wrapped around her pillow
with her magic
feeling sexy today
with those eyes that shine orange in the sun
you like the music you hear
and you can't say no
waiting for your angels
who watch you
so busily
waiting for the bath to run dry
we
close my mouth with your fingers
inside me
smelling of hazelnuts
your pants on the floor
shirtsleaves wrapped around her pillow
with her magic
feeling sexy today
with those eyes that shine orange in the sun
you like the music you hear
and you can't say no
waiting for your angels
who watch you
so busily
THE YEAR 2000
the story of inner explosives
she couldn't concentrate with the wind blowing up her nose like that. She felt like a cat sneezing, trying to avoid it. The speaker under her was going into some kind of convulsion, she felt it untying knots in her throat and bursting in her stomach. She thought for a second of how uncomfortable and irritable her mother would be, sitting in the back of a stranger's souped-up jeep, drum-n-bass exploding out of her ass; may she rest in peace with the rest of her family, until another gust of strong air shot straight into the holes in her face, reminding her that she was actually happy to be there.
She had walked ina staight line like a convict avoiding any sudden turns, anything that would echo the chaos inside her tummy.
Nothing in her head, she pushed it all down insider her throat, knotted and bloated like her starving stomach that screamed back and forth insider her, pressing against the walls of her abdomen. She could see a jeep pull up in front of her. Now what? She couldn't turn, couldn't pause, afraid she would completely implode the second her body inched in any direction but forward.
Screens shot up behind her eyelids where she could clearly see the images of her dissected husband that had sacrificed himself for a country they both hated. She focused on his severed head, that head that had been in her arms, cradled like a disembodied baby only months ago. She hadn't opened her eyes after their last kiss, and hadn't seen him since he made that move sweetly coming forward, towards her face, leaning all that wasleft, poking out from under green hat and green collar, so unfamiliar, scratchy, new, belonging to someone else. The blur of his nose and eyes reaching for her, the small piece of flesh that reached between her lips, moist and sticky, nervous and exhaulting.
She heard his footsteps clambering up the back of the jeep, heard his hearbeat mix with hers, felt his legs beneath hers, rocking her, penetrating every inch of her.
He was dead, and as she felt herself flying off the speaker, tires skidding and angels holding her so softly, just as he had all these nights alone, she knew thay would be together again, in pieces, in whole.
she couldn't concentrate with the wind blowing up her nose like that. She felt like a cat sneezing, trying to avoid it. The speaker under her was going into some kind of convulsion, she felt it untying knots in her throat and bursting in her stomach. She thought for a second of how uncomfortable and irritable her mother would be, sitting in the back of a stranger's souped-up jeep, drum-n-bass exploding out of her ass; may she rest in peace with the rest of her family, until another gust of strong air shot straight into the holes in her face, reminding her that she was actually happy to be there.
She had walked ina staight line like a convict avoiding any sudden turns, anything that would echo the chaos inside her tummy.
Nothing in her head, she pushed it all down insider her throat, knotted and bloated like her starving stomach that screamed back and forth insider her, pressing against the walls of her abdomen. She could see a jeep pull up in front of her. Now what? She couldn't turn, couldn't pause, afraid she would completely implode the second her body inched in any direction but forward.
Screens shot up behind her eyelids where she could clearly see the images of her dissected husband that had sacrificed himself for a country they both hated. She focused on his severed head, that head that had been in her arms, cradled like a disembodied baby only months ago. She hadn't opened her eyes after their last kiss, and hadn't seen him since he made that move sweetly coming forward, towards her face, leaning all that wasleft, poking out from under green hat and green collar, so unfamiliar, scratchy, new, belonging to someone else. The blur of his nose and eyes reaching for her, the small piece of flesh that reached between her lips, moist and sticky, nervous and exhaulting.
She heard his footsteps clambering up the back of the jeep, heard his hearbeat mix with hers, felt his legs beneath hers, rocking her, penetrating every inch of her.
He was dead, and as she felt herself flying off the speaker, tires skidding and angels holding her so softly, just as he had all these nights alone, she knew thay would be together again, in pieces, in whole.
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