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November 21st, 2009
redarc_vine
 | 11:18 am
and she looked into my eyes
she said d'you want to go heaven
or would you rather not be saved
here comes my train
Oh, Lloyd. Why didn't I meet you when we were both younger, in the past, when I was alive when I was meant to be?
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November 20th, 2009
fantabulosa
 | 09:56 pm - I love Dorianne Laux
Antilamentation
Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook.
Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.
Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don't regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You've walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs
window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied
of expectation. Relax. Don't bother remembering
any of it. Let's stop here, under the lit sign
on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.
Music In The Morning
When I think of the years he drank, the scars
on his chin, his thinning hair, his eye that still weeps
decades after the blow, my knees weaken with gratitude
for whatever kept him safe, whatever stopped
the glass from cracking and shearing something vital,
the fist from lowering, exploding an artery, pressing
the clot of blood toward the back of his brain.
Now, he sits calmly on the couch, reading,
refusing to wear the glasses I bought him,
holding the open book at arm's length from his chest.
Behind him the windows are smoky with mist
and the tile floor is pushing its night chill
up through the bare soles of his feet. I like to think
he survived in order to find me, in order
to arrive here, sober, tired from a long night
of tongues and hands and thighs, music
on the radio, coffee-- so he could look up and see me,
standing in the kitchen in his torn t-shirt,
the hem of it brushing my knees, but I know
it's only luck that brought him here, luck
and a love that had nothing to do with me,
except that this is what we sometimes get if we live
long enough, if we are patient with our lives.
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November 19th, 2009
seph_hazard
 | 02:19 pm - But maybe a woman can be
Am still working on becoming fiercely independent core-of-steel pillar-of-stone island-entire-in-itself type woman. Suspect that it may be making me more selfish than usual but on the other hand, surely "if I don't look after myself no other fucker will" is less selfish than having expectations of others to give a shit?
Oh, bugger it. Fiercely independent core-of-steel pillar-of-stone island-entire-in-itself type woman does not need existential angst.
Current Mood: ![[mood icon]](http://piktures.deadjournal.com/mood/SituationNormal/Faceless_Hearts/lonely.gif) alone
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November 18th, 2009
shadowskibbley
| 03:55 pm
Part of an email sent around my department this morning:
On no account attempt to hide or lose your laser!
Will comply.
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November 17th, 2009
redarc_vine
 | 01:56 pm
I'm pretty sure - although I guess I wouldn't know, having never been human - the normal response to knocking over some boxes and having someone hear the crash and check if you're all right isn't to want to hurl yourself bodily through the nearest window, slicing yourself open on the way in order to bleed out in the street below so that he'll know how sorry you are and how ashamed.
But like I said, I wouldn't know, having never been human.
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November 15th, 2009
redarc_vine
 | 07:33 am
What am I supposed to do with the things I know too soon, too early, too much of. There's got to be a point to this stupid sparkly magical power because if there isn't, its only effect is to profoundly depress me every time it turns out I was right. And that's not good enough.
Edit : This. (Which is my journal where I keep other people's poetry, which you are welcome to, while I'm here.)
I wake in the early dawn and there is the roadway
shattered, and the glass and blood,
from an intersection that has happened
already, though I can't say when.
Simply that it will happen.
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November 13th, 2009
redarc_vine
 | 06:59 am
I am so fucking sick of yes men.
It is possible for someone you love to get something wrong. It is possible for people you care about to be stupid, incorrect, misguided, or sometimes just simply a dick. It is okay for you to call them on it. Helpful, even! STOP TELLING PEOPLE THEY'RE AMAZING IF THEY'RE ACTUALLY BEING A GIANT ASS. IS IT THAT HARD? Does it always have to be me? Because, like, I don't care - I like watching the fire surrounding all these bridges, really I do - but a little company wouldn't hurt. Also, if you're on the other side of the bridges, telling these people they're wonderful and couldn't possibly have done anything wrong, I probably think you're incredibly stupid. :') But that doesn't really matter any more, because I don't think I actually have very many friends left; that's okay, though, because I treasure the ones who accept me calling them on their own bullshit when it's necessary.
And vice versa, because guess what? I'm not fucking nineteen any more. But apparently everyone else goddamn is.
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