Tractor hum sounds like honey

And I’d mow lawns for minimum wage to pay for visits to Dimebox, our movies unfolding poetically, where rooms are no more but glossy centerfolds, where your mother is correct, where snow is a bodily fluid and a petticoat…is a satisfied lap.

I could ease on four-color switches. Or amp up the purple florescence, the radiation flashing red among other letters. The light has fixated on a poor babe’s visage, whose clear eyes are spinning unreal images in ceiling strips of a buffalo herd, coruscating aqua, dancing spider trees and kitchen-utensils amidst a mossy, dented baseball fence. This all dwindles before a curtsey. I spin my hips in a polka-dotted skirt, so soft against a thigh, I am laying under the power line machinery; your hand is softer and softer than the grass while the sky turns up more and more, as the moon settles in for dinner with a tree for a fork. A pink comforter embraces all these colors and beings. Yet we find refuge in the ant hills. Yet you need a sharp pen to carve Elle a chaud le cul, or something fancy-French that means She’s hot in the pants. Can you play Bright Eyes? I learned the 14, 12, and 13, up and slide, sidelines wash with sensitive fingertips.

My mouth is dry; I have no words.
I am nothing but a swindled maiden with no bunk or drink. I am wandering and useless.
And if I am a stolen bundle of goods, should I not have purpose?
Should the supply of your diet soda diminish?
My dream isn’t full yet. My rain hasn’t soiled our whites.
I’ve got my foot caught under yellow cord, babe. I can’t pursue this sweet lemonade trampoline-game, though I would like to win and drench sugar allover the porcelain bottom of my cup. I deserve to sip on something less acrid. Yet the reality is, I chose the luxury of hard liquor, I needed to pat some on the cheeks and feel the desolation burning in throat and cerebrum. At times it rocked the world to sleep. And occasionally I slept with the world; the drink tucked me in, pulled covers on my pathetic body, leaving all the appropriate wrinkles and crevices – the kind you liked to tug straight.
As I trample checkered linoleum in my rain boots, waiting for it, waiting for the weather to favor me and we, I put on a khaki pretty-coat, whence I attempt hell. As I walk I cut out dollies in special embroidered paper. I set them in vases; nice simple ones. We notice over the years how dense the collection has grown.
The bottle I keep in my pocket says faintly in print: “No refill.” And who likes to be limited?
It’s right there for me to grab. I can almost taste it, because I can easily screw off the cap and indulge myself.
I could ride off to Rio or Ibiza or Guam, or Morocco, or a lengthy-named city in India. I could pack my big heavy bags and saddle up, pilgrim, with my hot pink $3.40 flip-flops, my cardigan sweater, my vinyl cherry red paint box, my boxes of words, my travel candles and Proactiv and teen spirit and Truck jeans and the special hoodie you gave me and all the supply of pink napkins one would ever need. I could.
And we could shred up coated bills of reform. We could not conform.

We could dance like the light of sequins upon mirrors.

Zum Wedding Dress

So I stopped by Twice Blessed today. I purchased the most snazzy red ballet flats for THREE WHOLE DOLLARS! (plus twenty five cents.) And I found a few other things that I am getting tomorrow after school (and after art club >.> need my hours to get inducted into NAHS POSSIBLY). I also dug up a Pope John Paul II pin, and, ha, Omar is wearing it lavishly and proudly on the SWEET CRASHED BREAST of his new blazer =D

Things that we wanted to capture but didn't for lack of camera:

Sequin lightplay

French Zum wedding dress for $20

Antique chair in the corner.

Yet, I am buying that oddly hued mint green blazer and the cuff-sleeved hot pink one that stops at my forearm, and the ultimate, beautiful wedding dress... which I'll wear to Homecoming.

We also headed into Big Daddy's bbq. It's a 70's-esq restaurant, with the word Jesus written on a paper towel dispenser, and dead head sihlouettes on the ceiling vents and a Goldie Hawn poster and vintage music and a bubblegum machine that dispenses a few rare clear balls containing one or five dollar bills; many Rolling Stones and Beatles posters and cool emerald bar stools for the tables and turquoise-and-white checkered linoleum.

And an hour and a half later, after being dropped back home, I went to P.F. Chang's again and talked to the manager about a server assistant position (the one Kenney recommended), and I am going to be called for an interview. Some dude there said bye to me; he looked at me when I visited Sunday, meaning I'm hot stuff and I'll get lots of tips!!!!!

Yes.

She and the jews, brother. So hip.

Old Lace and Roses Tea Room

[my room is clean and dark and my star curtain is ruffling at the vibration of the rain.]

i miss my grandmother's house. it was always just like that.

dark, smelling of mothballs, and dry, and soft allover. even the stair. the carpet was thick and brown and it would creak in select spots. the studio room had yellow curtains with small windows, and there were precise tools for scraping clay. a tall white manequin, naked, stood there beside the collages of the peanuts gang, winnie the pooh, and a scary animate TV with eyes. man, were those walls scary.

the whole place was infested with interesting things. all vintage. and there is a frightening toy from germany that makes this whirring nightmarish noise. it's a spin top that lights up and does awful whirring.

i never realized how much i have always wanted to capture the essence of that house. the piano room is most memorable though.

you said it "seems like a perfect vintage setting for a movie".

now i just recall more.

yellow green shiny velvet wallpaper. two glass cases in the corners with miniatures and dinnerware from across the globe and other travels. a dying piano where most of its fellow limbs have been amputated - keys that don't work and keys that half-work. thin crepe-like curtains covering a tall window where i can see the cracked, long driveway.

and a christmas tree. that never leaves, in the living room. the couch in there is surrounded by photos of me and weddings and us as babies. old portraits of french parents from the 1800s. that couch is the same as the wallpaper on all four squares of the piano room. some refuge it is.

i know how we'd run through the french doors in the kitchen and through the ones extending the office to our favorite place, and we'd jab at the piano; we'd gaze into the golden mirror right when we entered, we'd hear stories about how so-and-so survived the depression during the old war by living in a dainty apartment with white shutters and not buy sugar and only have a small supply of unwanted groceries.

we used to venture there for long hours, exchanging cheese cake and the latest irregular bowl glazed with marbles from art class. i liked the word "bake". and we'd run around and dig through medicine cabinets, and take looks at gradma's jewerly now and then. she always smelled of chantilly and cert's. she'd give us mints from her dusty wallet often. it was one of those beaded coin purses that you snapped shut with two interchanging pearls.

within all the reminicing, while i was on the phone on my back porch, i found myself digging a little river in the grooves of the cement with a broken match stick, the red-tipped end. and i recalled how i used to dig rivers in my garden with shovels and pour water in them, have a tea party in cardboard boxes and bring toys along.

every little kid wants to be God.

Note fetish massacre

At least they aren’t green.
My Russian brother eats that color on Holiday mornings.
If his name is Ivan, he is electric.
An architect once told me, “It’s not about building.”
My mother once told me, “it’s all about sex.”
We’re here now, it must be
If only we knew where to go next…
I hate it when I get pen against my pinkie.
Like when it slips? When I use pen I always end up with marks on my hand.
An ode to the umbra, or the satellites that pierce us. You and I. Thirty lines become an epic. Inhaled behind shelter and confidence. Oh confidant, so electric, among the eclectic parades that leave me under your influence. Down there where the tractor hum sounds like honey and I’d like to keep you near to heart. I fear for us, but rush in. I only aspire to give and take. And I’ll supply you enough diet coke to make our dreams true. Much love to be returned, NAME.
SERVE THE BEEF
YER BREAKIN UP THE BAND, YOKO
MUCH LOVE.
We’ll be named The Beefs
But the question is how will one make them?
I haven’t said “I love you” in days. I haven’t kissed him in days, but today he made me. On the cheek. Took two minutes but I did. He stares a lot. At girls. I helped Azn open his locker. He talks odd and quiet because he is from Louisiana.
Talk about meter. See spot. See spot run. Which one? Impartial. Fill in the blanks.
Birds has potential while strolling down an industrial lane. I make sycophant studies bow down to me, their skeletons like loud crickets in the blades. An atmosphere so parallel and against the black and white – we kick the cat out, and go back to plastic swing and in-between moon turn. Unlike 360º. Tell me more.
I’d love to again and again. About and about. You make me weak at the knees spinning behind us. To be so, eclectic would be a dream. It would be intensity. To swing and turn together, last night I had a dream.
I imagine lightly detailed paragraphs mingling with cinnamon cymbals, and our flawed perfect stance would shimmer like raisins under sickly sweet processing plant. I’d eat your hair if you didn’t mind.
This I would love, as I am under the influence of your words and undue spirits. I want our hair to intertwine as I turn to you for inebriation. Skin to be glass. Tongues of gold. We’re chained. You and I, to stain white rooms, and it will be more like a song.
And I’ll mow lawns for minimum wage to pay for visits to Dimebox, our movies unfolding poetically, where rooms are no more but glossy centerfolds, where your mother is correct, where snow is a bodily fluid and a petticoat… is a satisfied lap.
Where we’d sleep through the winter on black sheets, and we’d never take photographs cause we know what we’ve done and where we’ve been, and on the docks I’d work the night shift so the mornings were ours, and we’d never sleep, but I’d wake up to a morning star. And the sun. And I’d write my sad poems about someone far away, but with the money I’d make I’ll cover you. We’ll buy a boat and learn to fight the sea to an island in the sun, where the crabs eat men, there…
Odd shapes out of simple lineage – speechless speech teachers, lost voice drunk on turpentine – canvas letters cause all the paper is used and we’d rather paint tonight anyway.
Here is where I make my day from paper, as “Gypsy Death & You” never stops. Never stops. Last night, in my dream we held hands in a white corridor, lit by the wall’s hue, we came to a white room and sat. There, we stared out a wall, which was a window. Beyond it a blue sky and the sun. That was all. And I woke with a smile, restless. Tell me more. Tell me straight.
My words are lacking, they are foreign and tasteless and nonexistent noms. I’d like to pursue walls.




What music do you listen to?
Do you like politics?
Who are you going to vote for president?
One of the wolves’ sisters. Ah, crap.
You’re about to waste a minute of your time.
Beep means yell!
She and the Jews
PETTICATZ+++++++++11oneexclamationpoint!2twototootout

All the pretty words

All the things we wanted to use in song and poem.

Thanksgiving in the institute
I'm going to buy a car from an open-air dealership at the left of highway 6
Skeleton
Le stage de wtf



Ridiculously enough, I can't recall the rest.

Sombra

A lack of redemption causes the stalk of bridges to welcome me, in their ancient muddy hands, browned by cholera and the many stains that come with time. I never imagined venturing past it, much less existing, like an unspoken tabula rasa (the things I find within small, drilled heads). You said I started to speak like him today. You also called me a fluid Dadaist art form; in every movement a concept was born; some non-Christian theology, an inspiration to those who couldn’t think more than what has been on the spoons. I shivered as I dipped that silver circle into red jelly this recent past. It’s been hard containing such a soft tab of a secret, a secret only because I choose to use a metaphorical term; though it’s more of a righteous plea from the bedpost, but then again, I have many pleas. And that doesn’t make the next child an excuse. He fits, although crowded where the elbows bend like a diseased spine, into a place I’ve not room for.

We can ring out towels all morning if you want, baby. All these dried jackets surround me in a whirl of good weather – and soon, le mer de noms arrive, right, swimming at an extreme angle along the rusty strips of front doors. And roof dormers will crinkle in the middle from the dripping of these noms, making it wet, raggedy, dirtily washed…all for good reason. Good weather. Oh how my sombra collects against pasted texture. I hardly move a pen towards your point. Because, messieur, you see these beads and phrases on a neon fiber-optic string; one that's thick for you.

But by no means, sir, will my candy-wrapper museum be transposed.

Colonel = Jesus

Another ingenius canvas idea of mine. P.S. - Pages 4-23 of chapter 1 in the US History book have much sexual connotation. Erected was used three times, and there are things like "pregnate with destiny", "virgin rivers", "The European appetite for slaves was further whetted when..."

OMG. But here's the great collassal idea.

--------------

You see, I manifested the phrase "crucifried chicken" (I'm the God of Winos in psychology class), and yesterday morning I got thinkin'. Man, that could actually be a very controversial drawing. So I added some more emphasis and came up with this.

A chicken, barren and naked and oblivious to society, has been stapled to a cross, bloodied and disembodied in ways. This is the ultimate focus, aimed more to the left. Then, high above you'll see a mass of clouds where the face of the KFC colonel (with a few obvious features of Jesus) smiles upon the scene. To the very right is a small image of a corner store window, where within is a piece of Crucifried-Chicken rotating in a mini-oven - $0.79 per wing - and a man is standing out front, cupping his chin in contemplation.

Oh, yes.

I am so doing that.

WHORE!

[and, no, you pass the torch.]

Propped-up mirror

still the puncture-stick drills an invisible hole in my buckle. near the pulp i cringe. scrape, scrape, mango aftertaste so sweet and cold can't put your tongue there - river, you say, flood me, i beg. sticking to frozen surface. this woman curls her hair and smooths the wrinkles from her dickie's cocktail dress, ready for a slosh of bloody mary on the lap and a squishy rub-down of liquid, all night, glitter-less garage bands hammering golden cymbals

it's not randy to tie this against the breast so taut; i know, silk black moon with full heels parading our circuits - canned peach behind tropical bones and scientific code names, i am unabridged here and you've coated all these particles with the silicon, microprocessor is complex, we must lace words with poison to make impeccable soup

we could get a hammock on a white beach like i mentioned before, where there are little patches of seagrass along the dunes that water bugs snatch at, near jelly fish graveyards... and it'll be evening and we'll just sit there flipping bottlecaps until we're kicked off the beach for obscene ludeness

dried up wings in the hotel, can you smell the microwave? cool a glazed plate in the window, as laundry sails out behind power lines and radio towers, we've had our night of champagne fetish between the filligree limelight - oh yes barstool, that means you. morning is clean and our skin is not. i've been pinned but not to the point of breakage...oh, bride, me.

i want to be the choker with the bell on it, saucy vixen words pouring like morton salt - no butter sunbeams at 2pm, it all fit onto the bread slice, and we speak words like "triste" and "une requiete" and make up dictionaries as we go, ten gallon hat filled with leftover tequila, your lips are gossamer against paper like so many cups of sleeping aid and ink

BAHHH SCRIBBLE

Okay, so I have two essays due on Monday. I finished 'em. You're not allowed to read because they suck - I mean, come on, who wants to write about their "scientific background" as an autobiography, or general philosophical questions like "THE SOUL & IMMORTALITY", especially when lately I have been too accustomed to using a prosey style? Which reminds me. I am leaving in an hour or two for supplies, and I probably will come back pen-happy and binder-happy. Oooh gosh I love school supplies. GRAPH PAPER CALCULATOR *ORGASM*

This year I won't really have time to make a collage on each notebook. Tragedies of life...ahaha...

Oh well.




Go here. I was feeling pretty artsy yesterday afternoon. Thankyas Omar.

Art pieces in the process of creation: (pssh)

Cityscape within decayed eye socket

Non-conformist being shot within straightly suited and uniform crowd

COPYRIGHT *COUGH* Yet I am such the prirate. Of music, that is. OHH MAN.

The end sort of

School is too much. And I haven't even bought supplies yet.

Newest Additions to the Patch

Electrelane
Iron & Wine
Neutral Milk Hotel
The Waifs

AND I want Maynard James Keenan for breakfast or Christmas, whichever comes first.



GIVE.

Stars & Sons

Hilarium.


William and Omar are fizzarkin crunk. I was tought how to gamble, I met Pablo/Buddha, the whiny rat-cat who is a boy with a dingdong and knows how to use it, and there was this horrible Michael Jackson movie playing on VH1. He was obviously black. The makeup crew must have just powdered the heritage over because suddenly he morphed into some godforsaken gray race. The majority of the time Diana Ross was like his other half, and he talked about lots of enchanting spiritual and soulful things. It teared us up, it did. And then he said, "A blanket... a blanket of love", and us three poet folk were like, "GODS. TURN IT OFF."

"Then he starts calling things blankets of hate, etc..." AHAHHAHA. RAWR SIGH.


We also figured out his son was named Blanket. What's next? Sheet? Comforter? I make all the sense in the world. Plus chippies. HEHEHE, CHIPPIES. It's physically impossible to blow up balloons. Instead we had chopstick wars with the sticks you use to put the balloons in. You know, coats from the thrift shop give me the love bumps, but they don't fit. "Dating for shy boys". William: "I'm too shy to read it!"

Arguments of poetry upsets gay employees.

Loud words.

RANDOM

BABIES

Bogus, yet loveable, and all the general facts in the world couldn't have twisted this to sense!!

Untitled Ballad

The snail is becoming the rose again
Sacrifices created out of shoelaces, eyelashes fluttering
like propellers of hair
We rise to the metal-band clean and fragranced propoganda
Make us slippery, fresh from the plastic bag
May I lay down?
Too much, not enough
Bed sheets welcome me into the squared maples
Dream reoccuring, we can't open the book again, sealant put
its foot down.

Keep me closer than a piece of meat in your stomach
I want to develop my own mushroom garden, we'll permit weeds
and junkyard dishwashers
Just for a twist
No lemon salad because that's too outlandish
But pick my teeth just in case.

Yummy

I heart Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.

They should totally go head-to-head against my other new lovers, Broken Social Scene -->

How cute, right? What's even better is, I bought SUPER-CUTE-HOE-AZZ mary jane flats; they're hot pinkk and soo cute!! I also bought a shirt from Delia*s, some black flip-flops, and vintage "torn" jeans. Yesterday Katey mentioned Toot Sweet on her blog - I checked it out; and I lovvve the place! Now I want the tweet-tweet sweat shirt and some earrings. All the good bags are gone. Sniff.

I need a shoulder sling.

------

Later

There is so much that is fabulous in de monde:

Chickfila, the Galleria, photography, Delias, expensive Burberry trench coats, Prada pumps, Brutalism, cubism, freaky poets, nifty art shops and weirdly designed architecture...a giant silver halo tied up in mid-air by power lines... the Water Wall, which is picturesque and refreshing after dense humidity. Stolen Converse shoes. Smile.

I'm in love.