5-11-00
She was overtaken by the sadness again. It happened a lot nowadays. She thought she'd overcome it for awhile, but the chemicals in her brain wouldn't calm down. She felt the distance growing in her. Miles and miles of deserted road stretching, yawning between her and the world. She grasped for some thread of hope, love, anything. But all there was was gravel to scrape her hands as she fell to the abandoned pavement. Where was everyone she'd grown to love? They'd all kept going.
"Wait!" she'd called, but no one could hear. They didn't have the right kind of ears. She thought she could see some of them in the distance, or was that a mirage? A trick of the hot sun beating down on her, blinding her. She trudged along the road, but every step she took, they seemed to take three. Why wwon't they wait for her? What has she done to deserve this feeling of absolute longing? Why does the road always have to be so empty? These are questions she feels she will always ask, but will never know the answers to. for now, she will keep stumbling down the road. Will she ever be able to run? Or will she lay down and wait for the inevitable vultures? Only time will tell.
11-12-00
A businessman is standing at a bus stop reading the paper quietly on a Friday morning. He thinks to himself, "Only one more day to get through and then there's the weekend, just waiting for me." He folds the paper and leaves it on the bench, checking his watch.
A child sits in front of a grainy TV eating cold oatmeal, alone. He waits impatiently for his mommy to come home from her second job because it's late and he hates it when it gets dark. There's scary things lurking in the shadows. He knows because he's met them. They would swoop him up in their arms and breath their stinky terrible breath on him and tell him they're going to eat him. He always managed to get away, usually when his mommy would smack the back of his head or the telephone rang. It was always one of mommy's friends. They would want to know when she was going to be home so they could come over. Then they'd lock themselves in her room and not come out for a long time. The little boy didn't know who they were, they all looked the same: big men with cold faces. One time one of the men touched the little boy. It made him feel bad, and he could see the man was really a monster in disguise. He told his mommy about the man being a monster, but she didn't believe him. He didn't tell her that the man had touched him.
The businessman taps his foot, watching the street, waiting for the bus to finally arrive. It was usually late and he'd been meaning to send a letter of complaint to the city. It finally came though, and he boarded, handing the driver his card. The driver had a blue stamp of a paw print today. He took his place in his favorite seat by the window. He always sat by the window, or else he would get carsick. A young man across the row from him was talking to himself. "I wish I'd brought my headphones," the businessman thinks. He tries to look out the window, but he feels the young man's eyes on him.
The child becomes an adolescent. His monsters are still with him. He sees them on every street corner, standing in front of every locker. He doesn't see people anymore, only monsters. He wishes his mom would stop bringing home those disgusting men. Some of them pay the adolescent to give them blow jobs. He doesn't understand how they could want his mother and him at the same time. They leer at him with ugly faces. All he can think about is getting away. He just wants to leave this place, and maybe his monsters won't follow him. One night he steals the money his mom had saved up in a jar under the sink. There isn't much, but maybe he can get to California with it. So he boards a bus and travels all the way across the country with it, and is penniless when he finally reaches the sunny beaches of the west coast.
The businessman finds an abandoned newspaper on the floor of the bus, dated a week ago. He opens it up and a heading boldly states that California's crime rate is slowly but surely decreasing. He shifts, trying to ignore the burning stare from the young man across the row from him.
The adolescent becomes a young man. He has to live on the street, sleeping in alley ways, rolling around in bum piss and spilled alcohol. San Francisco is cold at night. He watches the men and women pass by in their suits and warm coats with their lattes. He knows that underneath the costumes they're all just monsters. He wishes one would just gobble him up, take him away from the pain of life. He peddles for food and water, his body emaciated and pumped with drugs he snatches off of the other street people. The world is always dark. He only sees shadows now, shadows of evil things lurking, barely snagging at his clothes with their bloody claws.
The businessman stands, pulling the string to signal the driver. He tries to ignore the bum who has stood also, still staring him down. He gets off the bus and starts down the block toward his nine to five job of corporate slavery. The bum has followed him off the bus, lurching his way through the crowd after him. He speeds his pace.
The young man rushes after the businessman. He doesn't know why he's chosen this one, he only knows what he feels. He can't think anymore, he only feels. An animal following instinct. He lunges forward and snatches the businessman by the back of the collar and yanks him into a nearby alley. He hears the businessman's stifled yelp as the collar of his clean pressed suit cuts off his air. He hears him saying something, but the words are muffled, far away. He reaches in his pocket and whips out the small knife he stole from a pawn shop. He whirls the businessman around and stares at him dully, his eyes glossed over by heroin, crack, drano, or whatever he last put in himself. He hands the businessman the knife and says only three words: "Please....take me."
The businessman is pale white, unable to speak. He has the knife in his hand, he can feel the cold handle between his fingers. There's something dark crusted on it, maybe blood. He stares at the pitiful figure before him. For some reason, his fear melts away, watching those eyes. Replacing the fear is rage. He doesn't want to be laid off. He doesn't want to have to find another job, if he even could at this point. "Why are they even dragging it out so long?" he thinks. "I know they're just going to lay me off, send me on my merry way." He can't see the young man anymore. All he can see is every stuffy boss he's ever had to work for. Every dick he's had to suck to get where he is. He only sees pain, rejection, sorrow. His hand is clenched around the knife, his knuckles white. He raises his arm, grabbing the young man around the neck with his free hand.
The young man sighs as the monster comes toward him, jaws open wide. He closes his eyes, and only gasps quietly as the cold steel plunges deep into his throat. At first there is bright red, his eyeballs exploding with red. Then there are no more monsters. There is only black.
Quiet, peaceful black.
10-1-01
What are you doing tonilght? Are you going to make yourself up? Do your hair? Put on your favorite dress? Are you going to go out and put on a little song and dance for people you don't know? Will they clap for you? Will you love their applause? Do youhate yourself for loving it? Will you touch yourself and moan, loathing the way it makes you feel? You can't get enough of it, can you? That degredation. It's a part of your being. It is your soul. The soul that writhes with pleasure and pain, yearning for the love of others deep inside you. Their love deep inside you. They, deep inside you. You spread your heart open and wave it around enticingly, like a whore's bussel. "Take it," you whisper hoarsely. "Please," you beg. Yeah, you beg. On your knees. Chin the dirt, licking the toes of those who would love you. And will they kick you in that bowed, pleading mouth? Knock all your pearly perfect teeth into your moaning throat?
Will you like it?
Will it make you come and scream and cry? It will. You'll love it and make it yours. You'll swallow every shard of tooth, cutting your soft insides. You will bleed. You will moan. You will cry. You will look out of glazed eyes. Up, up, up to the sky. There, glittering stars will shine down on you and warm your broken face, and ask you, their child, born all of the same gaseous explosion. They will cry out in anguish and let fall their tears down onto your chilling body, and they will ask one small thing of you, of doG, they will ask what I ask.
Why?
4-23-02
Ed Note: This does not belong to me. If you can guess who it belongs to, you get a cookie.
I'm the thinker and the fisherman and I'm trying to remember when but it makes me dizzy. People tell me what to say, what to think, and what to play. It's time to die a little, give it up, you are a part of me. Trembling at the thought of feeling. Consequences dictate our course of action and it doesn't matter what's right. Deaf and blind and dumb and born to follow. Veil of virtue hung to hide your method while I smile and laugh and dance and sing your praise and glory. I need you to feel this, I can't stand to burn too long. I am just a worthless liar, I am just an imbecil. I will only complicate you, trust in me and fall as well. I will find a center in you, I will chew it up and leave, I will work to elevate you, just enough to bring you down. I'm shameless, nameless, nothing, and no one now. This is love. This is my love for you. Get up. Now. Say you won't go. So suffocate or get out while you can. No one told you to come. I hope it sucks you down. It's twice as clear as heaven and twice as loud as reason. It's deep and rich like silt on a riverbed and just as undisturbing. I'll kill what you want me to, take what's left and eat it. Take all or nothing. Life's just too short to push it away. So I take what is mine, and hold what is mine, suffocate what is mine, and bury what's mine. LET THE RABBITS WEAR GLASSES! It's not enough, I need more, nothing seems to satisfy. I don't want it, I just need it, to breathe to feel to know I'm alive. Ranting and pointing his finger at everything but his heart. We'll miss him. Venemous voice tempts me, drains me, bleeds me, leaves me cracked and empty, drags me down like some sweet gravity. I wanna feel the metamophosis and cleansing I've endured wihtin my shadow. All you read and wear or see and hear on TV is a product begging for your fat ass dirty dollar. Lead me through each gentle step by step by inch by loaded memory. I'm alive when your touching me, alive when you're shoving me down. But I'd trade it all for just a little peace of mind. One great big festering neon distraction, I have a suggestion to keep you all occupied. Learn to swim. PRYING OPEN MY THIRD EYE! Saturn ascends, choose one or ten. Hang on or be humbled again. If there were no desire to heal the damaged and broken met along this tedious path I've chosen here I certainly would've walked away by now. Finding beauty in the dissonance. All this pain is an illusion. Be my reminder here that I am not alone in this body. I hope you're choking I hope you choke on this. Over thinking over analyzing seperates the body from the mind. Withering my intuition, missing opportunities and I must feed my will to feel my moment drawing way outside the lines. Mention this to me, mention something anything and watch the weather change. I must crucify the ego before it's far too late I pray the light lifts me out before I pine away.
5-28-02 1:25am ithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsithurts
somebody like you
Love is self mutilation. Puckered scars. That chest-caving-in feeling. Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do I do this to myself? Everytime I open up I die a little inside. It's like emptying yourself into the vacuum of space. If you open that hatch, you won't be able to breathe. Hermitville is my next stop. I wish. I'll open up again, it's inevitable. It makes me want to puke violently. I'm cynical tonight. I have to be cynical or it will keep on hurting. I have to protect myself. I wish my heart were made of stone, but it tears like paper. I can't even cry. I don't want to cry. I just want to pass by like it doesn't phase me. Butitdoes. It phases me greatly actually. I just don't want others to know that. But I'm a horrible liar. So I put my feelings all over the internet, two different places at this point. I tell all my friends about how much I hurt. They tell me they understand. They probably do. I can't hang with this. It hurts too much.
Heaven holds a sense of wonder, and I wanted to believe that I get caught up when the rage in me subsides.
Sometimes I feel like a whore, sometimes I feel above it all. Sometimes I'm apathetic, sometimes I feel too much. My heart and mind war with each other over how to react. I'm drowning in thought and emotion.
I feel like I'm writing dangerously retarded goth poetry, so I'm going to go wallow in music until I pass out.
5-29-02
So I'm cleaning out my room really well today. I came across some old writing back from high school days that I'm going to put up here. I'm editing them here and there where they need work. Laugh all you want...
"Johnny" was written as a monologue for my drama class in, I think, junior year.
The day I knew Johnny was going to die wasn't even a week before it actually happened. I came home that evening from whatever pointless job I had at the time to find my best friend drenched in sweat and some of his artwork scattered around him. I thought back to a book that I had read about some animals that make a sepcial nest and then lie down and quietly die in it. But Johnny wasn't dead. My first instinct was to call the police. Get him an ambulance or something. But something told me that it was too late. Maybe it was the respect of each others' privacy we'd had that made me stop. Or maybe it was the thought of my beautiful friend hooked up to machines that could only prolong the inevitable until the next time I found him curled up on the floor. I crouched down on my haunches next to Johnny and touched his face. He whimperd softly, but didn't move. I began to talk about trivial things, like how my day was, what I'd eaten for lunch, whom I'd talked to over a cup of coffee. I knew he was listening, like he always had before. Whether he remembered once he was coherant, or even understood at the moment through the drug haze, I knew that somewhere inside, he was listening.
This prolly actually belongs in the poetry section, but I'm taking liberty and putting it here. I have no idea when this was written, it's on a ripped piece of graph paper with someone named Tom's pager also written on it.
I stood as she laughed and ran
Ran around me in circles and circles
I watched her but my eyes fell short of her nimble feet.
Always one step ahead.
Pulling my eyes faster still
Around and around
Full of fear and anxiety.
She laughs and stares,
Cold pavement slapping pretty bare feet.
Then she stops and I stop with her.
Everything stops.
There we lay in solemn death.
Clutching each other on a pile of pillows and magazines
Staring heavenward our glassy, beautiful faces
Hers mocking and laughing, mine drawn and taught.
She kissed my cold lips that day,
Lazy smiles wasting my sight.