2nd 2000 diary

Licking his blisters
he insults her again.
The Dead Sea Rotting on her surface
she doesn't feel it--
she knows
he wants her to hate herself
the way he hates himself
so she can love him
the way he loves her.

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.

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.

You cannot become what you can be

if you stay what you are...

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

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.