dev

dying_pretty77 @ 2007-08-23T00:47:00

2007-08-23T04:54:02Z

There are people in this world who are truly loved by those around them.

Those people, the smiles they bring. The feeling that follows them endlessly, is a sort of tranquility that nestles into your bones.

Maybe if we had talked to them more, maybe if we had just stopped by a few days earlier those people would still bring us that feeling.

But the world does not wait for our needs, and the world does not answer to the people that beg them for a slight push of attention in the good direction.

I’m choked up but I can't cry. I heave but no whimper comes to my throat.

She was crazy for so many years. Crazy, that’s what I called her.
crazy because she lived so wildly, so freely despite illness and neglect.

She babysat me on rainy days when my mom worked late. She cut my hair when ever it knotted too much. She taught me how to read tarot cards.

On night when I was older we'd drive to Uniondale and shop around thrift stores, listening to Bob Marley and the wailers.

This great person, found cold on my birthday, Gone from the world that made her.

So, the 'what if's begin to come to mind, and then the 'if only's, speculation I hate, because in the end, all we have is the reality of what is.

You were on the list of rarities of people I call family. You made me smile so many times, such a had thing to a come to.

The best people are taken away so quickly and so soon, and people wonder why i spite god. The hands of fate are just as cruel and unjust now as they've always been.

I will miss you, and I’ll regret the things your family, and I could have done.

What’s fair? Is this fair? This? Am I ever allowed a moments rest from digging into my eyes and wondering, wishing I could have done something with a little more character.
I could sleep for hours, I'd dream and things could be as they were. Only in dreams, right?

"The past is just the future with the lights on."

dying_pretty77 @ 2007-08-01T05:29:00

2007-08-01T09:33:01Z

upstate till sunday.

what a world, what a world.

now, to my coffee. XD

up state in three days.

2007-07-28T04:59:18Z

so as we cooked up a heat storm in the kitchen, I walked around bare foot. toes in the grass, tores on the pavement, the rug, the kitchen floor, your always walking over something, so at least stand your ground.

with that note, i hate boys, brownies shouldn't be over cooked, modest mouse new cd is awsome, and I'm having a yard sale on sunday.

ugh..

"There's no work in walking in to fuel the talk
I would grab my shoes and then away I'd walk
Through all the stubborn beauty I start at the dawn
Until the sun had fully stopped
Never walking away from
Just a way to pull apart
Dehydrate back into minerals
A life long walk to the same exact spot"

CAC, where I want to be? guess so.

2007-07-15T08:59:07Z

drop me a line, when you have the time. ha, a real phrase for a fast time, i never took down your number, as a burped up what I thought was your name, last cause i guess.just like some many others. I'm writting with out spaced for once to show you how my mind works, i just write, i just scribble, every chance i have with a pen is precious. what i have inside is so faded from what it could have been. but then again poeple believe you can make your self, but how can you grow when your feet don't hit the ground, and your neck has been snaped by the rope, my bones won't decay in the ground, but drift endlessly in the air, till your breathing me in. take ionto account that i don't want to die, I haven't seen enough movies yet, or read enough books to say I'm suffiently alive. people are in such a rush to be intwined, and then once together they get what only can be called mental heart mono. i hate lovers in love, i like bruises, stories and being drunk.take into account now that at 4:51 i realize that human contact, is completely and utterly useless when there porn on the internet i could be downloading, or a new package of prozac to order, for no reason at all. buy, consumer , buy till its out of style, just like companionship. I don't curse much but, fuck you, if that made your heart strings jump you've deserved it once or twice, but maybe not from my mouth. damn, my mouth is big, but my voice comes out small to much to often, still
I can fit my fist into that pie-hole, what a feet, now everyone needs something to be proud of. no one really knows themselfs, what the hell am i talking about.

its sunrise, ugh. you don't know how many notpad files of this i have piled up on this poor computer.

and all of its way to revealing to share, cause if i don't even know, then why should you.

man, double features at the cinema centre.

anything at the cinema centre, seems just like home.

except the coffee. movie buff rocket fuel.

uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.....

hey sunday morning.

dying_pretty77 @ 2007-07-08T03:01:00

2007-07-08T07:31:27Z

if my night began, topless holding a suace jar, sloshed already by the taste of strawberry wine, in the middle of a disclosen from the temple tarers of reality, the modern day headach force feed to society.

for now, work doesn't excist till monday, and even if its 2:15am sunday mornings still a small dream away.

who am i kidding, I don't dream anymore.

self doubt is when you'gve thrown seperated beginings into the here and now and tell them to act apropetly befor the passing of days.

ugh get me away from the computer, i spill words like a river.

just an english essay cause my printer hates me.

2007-06-06T04:00:02Z

do yourself a favor, and don't read this its for my english class, i know i miss spelled stuff, its crap, i pulled this story straight out of my..yeah.

Dever Hoffman

College English

Creative piece
An eternity to wait

As we drive I can feel my head tilt heavier to my left side. My napped hair colliding with
the coarse texture of the seat belt set straight over my chest. This dragged feeling was only the beginning to the plight that bled from a summer road trip; our destination, absolutely nowhere. My eyes could no longer stay affixed to the road ahead of us, the sounds from the tap cassette drifted around the car only to come crashing to an open ear or window to which is could escape, the words from the mouth of beat poets, are hands that slack around the mind in a drift motion to the beat of the car engine, the words feeling farther and farther away. “staring at a light bulb. God sits in Munich, drinking green beer. We’ve got to find him and ask Him, why……”

There’s nothing but an endless sea of desensitized black, it stretches to every corner, grabs onto the edges of my mind and refuses to let go like some child. The deeper you sink, the easier it is, to breathe almost, though I am dreaming, right?

An excerpt from Wasted by Charles Bukowski

too often the people complain that they have
done nothing with their
lives
and then they wait for somebody to tell them
that this isn’t so.
Look, you’ve done this and that and you’ve
Done that and that’d
Something.
You really think so?
Of course.

But
They had it right
They’ve done nothing.
Shown no courage.
No inventiveness.
They did what they were aught to
Do.
They did what they were told to
Do.
They had no resistance, no thoughts
Of their own.
They were pushed and shoved
And went obediently.
They had not heart.
They were cowardly.
They stank in life.
They stank up life.

And now they want to be told that
they didn’t fail.
You’ve met them.
They’re everywhere.
The spiritless.
The dead-before-death gang.

I awake to the grass pillowing the edges of my face, the smell of cooper from the dirt, they way the grass looks like an ugly shag carpet; all these things seem familiar, but tainted. When I get to my feet, I see it. A porch rashed with peeling paint that runs for miles in each horizontal direction, stretching forever it seems. I walk the concrete window to the stairs of the porch, aside from it length, it’s a generally normal porch. The people who stand on the porch stay in groups, men with great beards and stout bellies rest their backs on the houses side, while the seemingly naive idly pick at the falling paint, creating designs but never finishing them. Lastly, children sit with their feet dangling desperately over the porches edge, their feet just inches shy of brushing against the grass, they seem numb and over whelmed. A younger boy watches a soccer ball sit in the grass arms length away from him; he doesn’t reach for it, almost as if he’s been reaching for years, this time he’s given up.

“They can’t leave.”

“Pardon, what?” I answer the voice behind me, but stay affixed to the young boy’s painful look.

“Quit you’re staring; it only makes them feel worse.”

“worse, worse about what?” I turn to met him.

Him, the beat poet, with the nicotine stains in his beard and on his shirt. Him, the writer, with a beer gut. I could tell it was Bukowski the moment I smelled it, the contempt on his breath, for everything he could fathom, he was a man meant for hell, it would follow him endlessly.

“they’ve lost their “maslow” peak experience, or they’ve never reached it, destined to live out eternity, forever on the fence, neither inside, nor completely out, a reflection of they way they pissed away their own lives, preciously foolish and decisive.”

I didn’t like that idea, never leaving the spot you’re in, never changing. So I motioned to the screen door.

“and, inside the house then, what’s inside the house?”

Beast by Charles Bukowski

My beast comes in the afternoon
He gnaws at my gut
He paws my head
He growls
Spits out part of me
My beast comes in the afternoon
While other people are taking pictures
While other people are at picnics
My beast comes in the afternoon
Across a dirty kitchen floor
Leering at me

While other people are employed at jobs
That stop their thinking
My beast allows me to think
About him,
About graveyards and dementia and fear
And stale flowers and decay
And the stink of ruined thunder.

Mt beast will not let me be
He comes to in the afternoons
And gnaws and claws
And I tell him
As I double over, hands gripping my gut,
Jesus, how will I ever explain you to
Them? They think I’m a coward
But they are the cowards because they refuse to
Feel, their bravery is the bravery of
Snails.

My beast is not interested in my unhappy
Theory- he rips, chews, spits out
Another piece of
Me.

I walk out the door and he follows me
Down the street.
We pass the lovely laughing schoolgirls
The bakery trucks
And the sun opens and closes like an oyster
Swallowing my beast for a moment
As I cross at a green light
Pretending that I have escaped,
Pretending that I need a loaf of bread or
A newspaper,
Pretending that the beast is gone forever
And that torn parts of me are
Still there
Under a blue shirt and green pants
As all the faces become walls
And all the walls become impossible.

The door creaked as it was opened, and the shadow the door created stretch out across the chipped tile floor, that ran ragged across the diagram of the building. Garbage is pilled along side doors some missing numbers, some broken into. To call this a building would be to inaccurately name a crumbling mesh of debris; I look into a room only to find the skeleton of a girl affixed to the carpet, which seemed to swallow her in burnt orange carpeting, it folded around her knit-pick heroin arms, the sores branching out with diseases and mixing with the muck that is lain into the carpet more gradually as she moves.

An empty room just like her heart, I scoffed and wondered to myself.

“no, a dope fiend, who didn’t understand the meaning of to much, these people have over done everything they possibly could, maybe even felt to much, so ‘he’ leaves them here to crumble, like the building. They wait and rot for what they want, even if it never comes, they become one with the walls and floors, their misery becomes the support beams of their own prison.”

Bukowski leads me along the hall ways filled with more waste, want and misery. I almost feel sick when we get to his own hall way. His own apartment is a same, burnt orange carpet, the stink of cat piss, the lack of color on every wall. The difference is some how he’s above rotting in this place, but he has some reason to stay.

He opens the door to the stained yellow fridge and rubs his beard distinctively.

“Hmmm, out of milk, out of beer” he reachs into his pocket to pull out a few American dollars, hells favorite currency. “Enough to buy…mmm... just enough to buy a few good beers, well need to go to the super market, we’ll need to go now.”

For every man, a steady hobby.

Cause and effect by Charles Bukowski
The best often die by their own hand
Just to get away,
And those left behimd
Can never quite understand
Why anybody
Would ever want to
Get away
From
Them

The brightness of the supermarket annoyed my eyes, causing me to squint and guess at where my feet were walking. It seemed hell was the everyday but with a taint of something, terrifically debacle. Like the devil plans his work day on pet-peevs.

Every box, in every isle sat on its shelf with a dull grey that couldn’t for the life of it jump off of the box. I couldn’t tell if I was staring at macaroni or liverwurst. What isle was I in? Was this deodorant I was smelling or cleaning product? All vital questions as your shopping through hells only whole foods consumer ‘friendly’ store. The people seemed like a over hyped version of Wal-Mart bargain shoppers. Fighting over who would obtain the best set of grey chicken breasts, they bantered over who could take home the best out of the beaten up gray can section, each can placed with its label peeled off.

“What’s the point of this, why do they fight over this?”

“ these men and women caused such problems in their own life’s, because of their wrathful and envious ways, that they are now set in eternity pushing their way through this supermarket, forever competing for the same exact junk everyone else has, but even in hell they can’t see that”

He lifts up a box of grey beer from the cooler isle, a taller man eyes him and slips his hand into the cardboard handle of the box.

“I wanted that one.” He sneers and jerks the boxes slightly towards him.

“Buddy it’s the same shit to me.” Buk lifts another box out of the cooler and shrugs, it must be a punishment for him having to just, deal with people like this.

We make our way towards the check out line he pours his mess of change and stray dollar bills onto the counter and begins to count out 7.50 in pennies.

“Where do we go next?”

“Well, to the racetrack of course, you have money, right?” I shrug, as I feel my last three dollars floating away, even in hell people want to borrow money.
An excerpt from Fast Track by Charles Bukowski

Jesus Christ
The horses again
I mean I said I’d never bet the horses
Again
What5 am I doing standing out here
Betting the horses?
Anybody can go to the racetrack but
Not everybody can
Write a sonnet…

The racetrack crowd is the lowest of type breed
Thinking their brains can outfox the
15 percent take.

If you could put the feelings of every down and out member of society and shove it onto the scenery of the racetrack, it would still not compare to the miles of sheer and terrible sight the obtained from your first glance at its metal gates.. The way it stands over the parking lot menacingly shadowing the dead grass from the sun, the serrated metal of the building cutting the sky in effort to truly separate itself from the earth which seemed to feed upon its legs. Bukowski walks into the doors like it’s a sunny Friday afternoon.

The inside was relatively normal, stadium setting, betting booths, until I saw the gates.

“Humans, they race humans?”

“They put pin bearings in their backs, so the souls of tyrants can ride them through, merciless jockey’s tyrants are, Pol pots your best bet.”

The humans who lived their lives wrathfully were swapped daily from playing the part of horse to rider, each had its own twist of pain, the riders chest being attached to the hind legs of the ‘horse’, the ‘horse’s back pitted to the feet and arms of the rider, creating small machines of pain that force themselves argosy around miles of track. The race sounded in screams, as the grunts of tortured men threw them into the air to escape the fate of falling back into the lungs of some desperate soul as his chest pulls tighter, as the ‘horse’ races faster.

I couldn’t watch any more, I closed my eyes tighter than the grip I had on the railing of the track.

“You’ll miss the best part; you’ll miss the chest stretch the skin till it pops.”

I tried to close my eyes even tighter, to get things darker.

“If you close your eyes now you’ll miss everything society has to offer” Bukowski pleaded.

Once I left he would be alone again, his punishment to roam with out someone to dictate and whine to, the poor slob. Alone in eternity watching others rot, and being helpless towards it.

“there’s the ribcage now, he’s almost at finish, there’s the blood.”

Tighter and tighter, until nothing was left but darkness.

dying_pretty77 @ 2007-06-02T07:29:00

2007-06-02T11:34:15Z

I don't want to go to work *cries*.

at least its summer, at least.

don't read this, its stupid.

2007-05-31T04:02:20Z

Walk as fast and as far from these words are you can.

My mind spitting insensibility’s, thinking about, not you but nothing.

Sorry kid, you’re still not worth my time, as shamefully uneventful as I am, I still won't commit.

Tomato soup and film noir are more important than you could ever be, who else has saved me before, not you.

Plus you keep singing the blues, and with these months the way they are I don't need you depressive drawl and your late night drugged messages that only humiliate the idea I had of you even more.

Till you've gone from swine, to dirt, to worm, to... the constant annoyance of a wet sock that continues to slip.

In any case.

Currently, we've passed deadline on escapades, which is terrible.

But things could be worse.

The money goes into my pocket and some how disappears.

And then I remember white marching dust

The record shops closing down.

I remember and inside bbq

hashbrowns and hot dogs.

Half the people here have never had or heard of a root beer float, this disturbs me.

Were out of cheese and bread so I’ve lost such a considerable amount of respect for the world. my views relay on the continence of my fridge in the morning, and the contents of my drinks on weekend nights.

hammered by sunrise I continue to go out, only to refuse sleep, continue to keep eyes wide and wait till the early shift I hold on Saturday mornings.

there’s a certain sense of unrelentless pride, felt in the pit of your stomach as you crash at work, getting paid to stand and struggle with what ever baggage you've brought in.

I'm half trashed in the mind, up to my knees in garbage, or mud i can't tell any more, i guess it changes with the nights, from houses unlike homes to streets that lead to woods.

I carry a knife on me at all times, and if you can write a love song about that, i'd like to see it.

Then spit on you.

Back to you kid. Let me write out how glad I am that you got the message to stop calling.

Let you tell you how wide my smile gets when I’m left alone by everyone.

Including you, and you and... I turn off my phone to sleep.

I'm going to keep going on and on, filling this post to bullshit.

And misspellings.

he brain I'm, missing you like a nose bleed that lasted twice as long, so could you start to work.
I was told in my psyche class your supposed to control thee outbreaks of mine.

I broke a door straight off its hinge the other day.

I wrecked a few empty bottles of wine in the parking lot, with that old cheap bat i lug around.

I only make egg sandwiches when no one else is in the house.

I recently backed out from a twelve gage nipple piercing.

You would too, if you saw that unsteady needle and how fuct we both were.

The couch is such an oblivious place.

The rumors are true, I did accidentally sew a clock into the hotel mattress, and now it reliantly ticks.

mmm...

I forgot to wear deodorant today, that was an undesirable pit situation.

in the past week I have consumed 18 school chocolate milks. I am still not satisfied, or impressed.

I haven't gone to my graphic arts class in two weeks; I haven't gone to 7th period all year.

I bombed the college math coarse I took this year, to no surprise, my final grade was an F, I got a 30 on the midterm.

again, i really am not surprised at all by that grade.

I have ten days of school left.

What the hell is going on with my life?

This is by far the most I’ve ever shared from my mind, now you know what’s going on, scary huh?

whats it for, this rock inside your chest?

2007-05-26T02:28:17Z

Out of orange juice, cranberrys it is.

I used to think that the world revolved around, psychosis.

Everybody was nobody as long as,

They had a religion to believe in, or a misery to bleed to.

But the hope they had in such a typical destruction of body has been riped away from the reality they continue to walk into.

Walking into, life every now and then, like passing a door between, lies and illusions of sweet, sweet.

Whats going on.

Whats this about now?

I haven’t seen it all.

p.s. smoking aces is a hard movie to follow, or maybe it just sucks.

my brains on delete

2007-05-15T15:30:16Z

This society seems to enjoy self diagnosing more regularly then there next gallon of coke, or line for that matter.

well, truth is in the eyes of me.

Yes, cynical, bitchy, overated me.

Its, all, a, big, load, of,

bullshit

Are you buying into your self?

Are you that easily fooled?

I’m a healthy little giblet with my stomach rolls and love handles, daily coffee grinds.

And I love

My von Blondie, my accomplice in all things fart, I mean, art.

My bob Dylan tickets

My new signed copy of rant

My dirty strip yellow shirt, which I refuse to wash

My sewing needles

The post office, no wait, not really

Coke bottles and my cap -( insert silly, you have no idea what I’m talking about pun here)

My anti-histamines and infected left ear

the Dali ‘stache’

shibbs feet.

And yeah

Everybody, knows anybody can’t, beat what

We’ve got.

my mouth itches

2007-05-10T18:08:26Z

A canker sore,

An ulcer of the mouth,

A dervitve of the bodies natural reaction to stress and lip bitting.

Basicly a complete pain in the ass.

So, said from saline solution ( salt & war water), I’ve begun searching for better methods to cure my, afflictions.

“Gargle a mouthful of warm vinegar with a half-tablespoon of salt for about 30 seconds, 3 times per day; this may be extremely painful, immediate removal of white viscous cap on the sore, providing pain relief after rinsing quite quickly, but healing can be seen in as early as 2 days.”

When wikipedia described the feeling as ‘extemely painful’ I fluffed it off.

Its just vinegar and salt, right.

Salt burns, salt in wounds, such and such, I did comtemplate those breif moments of abresive flesh burning.

But it was only, breif moments.

And vinegar, can be used to clean ANYTHING, supposedly.

Everyone, likes, my, overusage, of, commas.

In any case, they should be much more descriptive on pain regiments. Extremely painful isn’t enough for stubborn minded people like myself.

We need things, ittizied, or even in bold

It would be more approprate to compare it to the feeling of sering flesh

So, recently and soon to be.

One the might of princes are getting back together for one last show.

The bouncing souls are playing with IATA the day after my graudation.

Kill your idols is playing their supposed last three shows in brookyln, the city and out here.

Out here, long island is so, out there.

Introspective.

For the record.

Chuck palahiuk,

Is,

God?

Or,

Not?

p.s. mind the spelling, I'm to lazy to edit, spellcheck or care right now.

I don't know my abc's

2007-05-08T18:19:18Z

This is when I forget breathe all the things I scripted, they sound unfounded.
And the look that you're giving me, it tells me exactly what you are thinking...
"this ain't working anymore."

crap shoot

2007-05-04T12:35:38Z

Bored and often glued to a television screen.
Nights sweats in a room of endless summer, no, spring.

Vodka and cranberry juice in a sauce jar.

If I slept through this year it could have lasted longer.

Now I find pros from 2005 in my back pocket and I laugh a little.

But not so much, because it’s the irony, not the idea.

Lets get wide eyed, and stay up till dawn again.

I have bad acting skills.

2007-04-30T12:37:20Z

Its morning.

Another day, and the lot of what I have or know could be half dead or worse.

And if I’m writing confuses you, you’ve been off topic since day one.
You need to live, then you’ll understand why my updates are.

So absolutely personal, while being incredible 3rd person party at the same time.

Any way

Currents
Apples
Dylan tickets
Hot fuzz
Sunglasses
Its raining
I need a hair cut
Mini canteen of finlandia
West end
3 floors of ska Saturday
Switch blade
Roller hockey

I found my old lacrosse stick.
Yeah, I played lacrosse.
And yes, I know that’s rather funny.

I feel like playing roller hockey.
Right now.
mmmmmmmm.
boredom amazes me.

150 hedgehogs in my bedroom.

2007-04-24T15:28:56Z

I spend all night painting, and all day washing off.

There’s technically seven weeks left in my high school career.
Seven weeks, I can deal with that.

I’ve sent out my letters, I’ve ordered my dress.

I’ve got all the postcards ready, I just need addresses to send them too.

I got tickets to see Dylan, I’ve got a ticket for 3 floors of ska.

I’ve got a crush on you and you think I’m ridiculous.

Very funny.

Everythings just terribly amusing in my life right now.

Especially my car, but we won’t get into that.

Mmm, I’m bored.

Maybe, I should leave and watch a movie.

Or have a strawberry picnic in the sun.

Any ways, here’s some stuff I’ve completed in graphic arts.

this is all I do.

all I'm doing is passing time.

2007-04-24T02:43:09Z

let see.

I'm bored so.

picture/explanation time.

maroons my favorite color.

Helena knows how to smoke cigarettes.

I go into hysterics every time I see this picture.

this artist also created tank girl.

my moms friend is the exact replica of an 'absolutely fabulous' character.(see above)

I'm listening to choking victim right now.

the guy at the right is my background and icon.

this picture is crazy.

I represent strong island, kind of, sort of. eh.

poking fun at batman should be considered, cool.

good thought on love.

beach picnic in the cold.

best part of the movie.

good way to end.

.....wtf.........

night, ghouls and girls.

days, and daze, and dayz and....

2007-04-23T16:35:13Z

How can hours pass as softly as this?

There’s an island of blisters on my Achilles heel.

There’s a water basin of teeth marks and bruises that make up the length of my arm.

But buildings can fall apart as fast and the owners don’t even recognize the sound of the floor falling in.

Spending time, reading newspapers in other languages and pretending to care for the world, this is how was pass our days.

This cd is skipping, what the hell am I talking about?

I told you not to pay attention to closely.

when your being controled.

2007-04-19T16:53:46Z

There’s a heart monitor attached to the heart she claims to have never owned.
There’s blood, going through the ventricles she claims aren’t there, and this box tied to her stomach is monitoring it all.

Crazy, when you realize the people around you, are just people, and their going to die some day.

Crazy, when you think you could stop this, her stress.

God, I’m caddy and predictable some times.

Ain’t it ironic.

Tell me something profound.

Pro for today-
Oh, by the way illegal things in a public bathroom are a bad idea from the start.
And you can’t use sympathy to jump your own mother’s heart,
So why even try.

time.

2007-04-16T12:37:35Z

Don’t listen to her because she’s burnt and needs a hot shower.

There’s paint on her feet, streaks of black charcoal on her face, she keeps working.

What words are there to say that could console her missing mind? What time is there for the odd girl out? Your all just as dead as her, me.

Theirs a grave waiting for all of us. Theirs dirt waiting to be moved, there’s more space for us to take up.

That’s all were about, taking up space, selfish even in inexistence.

So she waits for the black cab to take her away, watches Dexter, paints. Continually, constantly. As the clock clicks away, except its digital, so there’s no sound, just numbers counting down silently, eerily in the blood red of that 70’s office clock.

She’s doing just fine.

Poetry month, here’s some Bukowski.

death of an idiot
he spoke to mice and sparrows
and his hair was white at the age of 16.
his father beat him every day and his mother
lit candles in the church.
his grandmother came while the boy slept
and prayed for the devil to let loose his hold upon
him
while his mother listened and cried over the
bible.

he didn't seem to notice young girls
he didn't seem to notice the games boys played
there wasn't much he seemed to notice
he just didn't seem interested.

he had a very large, ugly mouth and the teeth
stuck out
and his eyes were small and lusterless.
his shoulders were slumped and his back was bent
like an old man's.

he lived in our neighborhood.
we talked about him when we got bored and then
went on to more interesting things.
he seldom left his house. we would have liked to
torture him
but his father
who was a huge and terrible man
tortured him for
us.

one day the boy died. at 17 he was still a
boy. a death in a small neighborhood is noted with
alacrity, and then forgotten 3 or 4 days
later.

but the death of this boy seemed to stay with us
all. we kept talking about it
in our boy-men's voices
at 6 p.m. just before dark
just before dinner.

and whenever I drive through that neighborhood now
decades later
I still think of his death
while having forgotten all the other deaths
and everything else that happened
then.

dying_pretty77 @ 2007-04-15T11:15:00

2007-04-15T15:19:22Z

hey, uh... I'm a bitch.

like every other girl that walks and breathes, and wants to say things but refuses.

black goose pimples.

2007-04-13T18:13:52Z

He’s a naive guy and his eyes get wide when he thinks about, respiration.

It’s the return of the afternoon flea market, take the train, or walk the few miles, either way your there.

Taking pictures, pushing yourself into peoples lives viva your camera lens. You’re a cheeky girl.

Your me.

Taking pictures, popping pills. And thinking of this naïve kid who keeps pushing.

Wants to call you his own and he thinks it easy for you to express everything, cause your so ‘artsy and out there’ he says.

Everyone tells me you can’t scream in space, to tell you the truth I wouldn’t know.

I need the site of peeling paint, the smell of asbestos trying to reach through my face mask.

I need that fear of a new building, the stench of sweat on my face, the dark corridors, the risk of falling through the floor.

It’s the perfect replacement for human contact, the end of this condition we call ‘me.’

This condition that makes it ok to get sleazy and make unconscious decision.

He asks me about the scars on my leg, I remember it was a photographer who said scars are just words made from flesh. So I told him when I struggled with writing, I made the words form on flesh.

Just like when she couldn’t cry any more she’d make such a heavy wall of anger blanket her.

And when he just couldn’t sand it any more, there were those beautiful drugs to lull him to sleep.

Everyone has an ultimatum to there tragedy scapegoats.

There was this boy who lived heartless and cliché for a thousand years never had nothing or anything to hold.

Why is it that all they want to flock to him now, to take what he doesn’t have, like fly’s to clap-sugar.

He still has nothing.

----------------------------------------------------------------------- 2hr. gap.

So now I’m reading, into these peoples lives and trying to fit in and belong there. With the few short lines in this girl’s poem I’ve entered her world, I’ve circled her block.

To tell you the truth I don’t like doing this, reading this poems, these stories.

When I come upon recognizable names, I read with a distance to the words.

I feel so nosey.

So uninvited.

dying_pretty77 @ 2007-03-27T00:36:00

2007-03-27T04:38:42Z

So I’m writing, putting all my weekly mistakes and regrets into a character far too truthful then I am.

This character I create, she will tell you all those cries for help are nothing, when your like this people mean nothing. You, just like her all mean nothing; it’s a very existential point of view.

So I’m creating psycho babble through a character, Anne label, Oscar valentine, there all the same, pathetically kidding themselves through what they feel is right.

Silly characters, in this story.

‘the laundry mat' this story.

How personal can you get?

I’m folding your jeans, your washing my shirt.

Yes, the laundry mat.

How extremely pent, and aggressive.

I continue to right. But then the block hits.

And the back starts to hurt, art is suffering they say?

And I forget about writing the story, about caring.

Especially for people you want or need. To hell with that kind of caring.

The words won't leave my mind, so I get rid of them. Toss them out.

All my mind written on a paper napkin or a rip of paper, I’ll lose them in time, and my mind will slip away, my thoughts might go into your hands?

And you'll think.

And maybe you'll throw it away cause in your mind its 'frivolous garbage'

Or maybe, in the Frank O’Hara sense, you'll look at the words, and finally remember their meaning.

I wasn't up lifted, but more dizzy to find out this kind of news.

So the magazine I write for. This little piece of shit book.

It gets published and every year criticized, or glorified.

And I find, with this new on slot of critique, that a poem I would have tossed changed their minds?

And I become in their minds, and on paper, the 2nd top free form writer in the country.

And my throat shakes a little. And I get, pent up inside, where anger used to breed.

And I think, Frank O’Hara style, because its words and not their meanings, that make for a dull life.

The stop to everything are words and their meanings.

P.s. startin' fits, way to get busted.

P.p.s. I know, I'm an asshole.

I am the dreamer of dreams

2007-03-22T12:37:16Z

You’re not giving me the benefit of the doubt.

You’re taking me for some stupid little girl, someone who can be fooled so easily.

First its take off your shoes for the ‘carpet’ then its take off your dress for the ‘bed.’

I don’t have time to love like my counterpart.
It’s not in me to care about, anything or anyone, so justifiably.

Commitment doesn’t scare me, the ball and chain does.

The title, the idea of being, some one else’s. Not owning myself, but being yours.

Understand dear little boy, I am myself.

And I am very very much myself, more then I have ever been.

And you’re trying to play with that idea.

I don’t like it, not one bit.

Here’s a short answer I wrote for C-L English.

Can I substantially pick a position on the absurdity of life? There are vast joys, numbered in various ways and experienced by handfuls of anonymous and inane people who I will never know, or care for. Are their lives absurd? Is my life absurd? I believe so, as morose as agreement is, life is generally ridiculous and meaningless. Every individual wakes up, does their daily task, and then returns to their dreams. Initially that’s the only real commonality everyone shares, we all dream. If that is the basis of commonality between people that defines our living as ‘absurd’ because dreams themselves are absurd. Dreams, hopes, images of the lives we want, were stuck in the movie of our minds, while we dream of wonderful things, what makes this absurd is that were only dreaming. The human race is not ‘doing’ what their dreaming. You may say there are a handful of hopefuls who have gotten what they want, but there belly are not full. Once you have, you only want more. I believe there are holes inside each individual, waiting to be filled, the only problem is when these hole are filled, a new hole appears, and then another like a cycle we create for ourselves to live through. We are creating an absurd chain of events to fill these holes, only to create more holes. Were living in circus circles and to get out of the stage light and daily routine, let say we create a new line, only to realize we’ve created a bigger circle to jockey around. Life is a rat race, with a track we’ve all created. With our dreams and our hopes, how does that make me feel? Absurd and foolish. So the human race will lie in the beds they’ve made and how terribly ironic they will feel once their heads drift to dreams.

Now I get to go to psych class and watch primal fear, ahh Ed Norton<3

Maybe I’ll leave school, and go to the beach, yeah, I think that’s a good idea.

don't take me seriously, ever.

2007-03-18T05:18:51Z

Ignore this rant, as if you’d ignore a maimed dog. Unless of course you’re from Peta.

If I piss you off, do us a favor and ignore my existence for a little while.

Take it upon your self to be blind, and in the way the blind are, understand there are ways of seeing again.

But many turn the cheek from me.

As if I was some, post modern martyr that no one believes in.

But I'm telling everyone right now that I don't need you to believe in me.

I'm a charity case because I choose to be. Because lagging and complaining is the American way and I am subject to be that American adolescent that has there friends do everything for them.

Do this, do that, rub my tummy. Watch me feed off everything you hold dear, but that makes me like the government, makes me stupid, makes me blind.

So turn your cheek, if you wish like the others.

Watch from the side lines for a little while.

Maybe turn and walk away for a day, a month a year.

When your feet move to those directions, don't expect to walk back and find me.

I'll be away sucking the hopes and dreams of others for the needs of me. For the glorification that is a short lasted friendship.

I am a stranger to myself as well as everyone else.

So when you meet me, are you really meeting me?

Are you talking to me?

what’s in my head, do you wonder.

Am I judging you? Could I be thinking with that already clouded mind?

How could poor, stupid, slob, me, ever think.

Or judge.

Now ask your self, do you really know any one?

No, we are inane people, circling our selves and pretending to care about the things outside.

But everyone is pig headed; everyone is guilty of being a selfish asshole.

You may disagree, enfeeble minded you thinking, how selfless you are, how caring, how helpful.

But think for a second. Do you know anything, about any one to their core?

Their core, their very being?

Those deep dark secrets that can not even be whispered in abandoned late night chats, because were all just too afraid to fess up, to the people we are.

To the people we are becoming.

Who in your world is the selfish asshole?

Who in your world is the selfless savior?

Think of them both.

And then switch those idealisms because nothing will last.

Like your family, your friends, your job, your life.

It’s being counted down and you, and me were not admitting to anything.

We continue to be guilty.

We continue to take for granted.

Because it’s all we can do, its all were taught to do.

We continue to wonder 'why me' 'why now'

All that, feel sorry bullshit your parents brought you up on.

If your sick of this world, this life, get over it, or get literally over with it.

Because I, the admitted selfish asshole, does not give a shit any more.

Just like before, just like all the best friends I could of had, would of had taught me.

You’ll get nothing complaining in this world, because no ones listening any more, their waiting for their chance to speak.

So speak, while I become deaf and mute to it all.

And in the end, it’s because.

Because.

Because.

Because.

I leave you with that.

Oh, and if this all reaches you in some heart felt way, and you feel the need to bother me because I’m just being ‘so mean’, remember It’s not about you, stop thinking your important.

I'm having a rant, invite your friends.

2007-03-11T07:39:59Z

Watch me walk this world, through artistic indifference.

Watch me, climb and hustle for some sort of social position in your mind.

Watch me make a fool of my self again and again, while I slip on the preverbal banana peel.

Watch me being me and screwing up all those chances at what they call a 'life'

If I was thinking optimistically, I’d smile and maybe pick up your calls.

You think the demolition of my sober mind is something precious. My chins up and your saying it should be celebrated, my imprudence.

The sole in my left shoe is torn through, so I can't walk in the rain.

So I can't sit on the train platform and watch the world fly by in giant heaps of metal beasts.

No I can't watch the trains, and the pocket money has run low, so I won't be seeing east or west of any where.

It used to be a miracle, the 4:10 train operating on time. I counted on that train to take me everywhere.

Take me to a place I’d call home, if you knew me. Sit me down, tell me derogation is fine.

Hey boys are just boys.

and girls are just girls.

And where all on this spinning ball. Gravitating in the middle of no where, so packed in.

But we never talk. The closeness of sardines, but were still whispering like no one else should hear the joke.

“you heard the one about the human race, its dying."

Commonality has been a dying breed since you've been breathing hasn't it.

In my last story I wrote about circus circles. I wrote about a girl. I wrote about you.

My unreachable dreams are in the basement.

Let’s write, let’s paint, let’s watch.

Until the fingers are bent and the eyes are numb.

And you’re taking muscle relaters to heal this, pain in your back.

This pain, because you’re seventeen and this pain doesn't leave your back.

You can’t go to school, cause you wake up and feel light headed and this pain is,

There.

You’re feeling a bit more like Ivan llych all day.

All the comrade snarkies say, that can't be.

To young, much too young to be all twisted in the spine.

Now there all talking about things they regret.

So the idiot in you thinks stitches.

Yes, I regret not getting stitches for my knee.

I felt stupid and didn't have the money.

I poured peroxide on it with a towel in my mouth.

It’s been almost a year, and I’ve got this, victory sist on my knee.

Big purple lump that won't go away.

What could it be, huh? [poke]

What wonders await my next trip down the stairs or wipeout on broken glass?

This girl I love tells me it’s only fair that I fall and trip up; I have luck in other places.

I have luck in other places.

I have a scar on my knee, but I have better scar stories then this one, like the time a bike spindle or ‘track’ as people would say, went into my inner calf, yeah that was a fun one.

I miss riding bikes everywhere.

I miss riding trains.

Cars are overrated some times.

I could keep writing.

Or I could sleep.

Vulnerability under morality is just out of control these days...

So who’s up for burning bras?