I think I might always be lonely. I might as well allow it in on my own terms.

The First Annual Great Write-Off '09

Starting at midnight 1 August, the first (hopefully) annual Great Write-Off shall commence. This is a contest of sorts between myself and the wonderful, capable, talented Charlie J. Russell, from whom I stole everything you see here*. By midnight 1 September, she and I will have endeavoured to publish as many finished pieces as we can.

Da Rules:

1) Finished pieces may be of any length, as long as they are to the author's satisfaction. Few things are sadder than a beautiful poem stuffed with extra lines or whittled down to fit.

2) Non-contest pieces may still be published; Write-Off pieces will be published with the "write-off" tag. These pieces are to be counted at the end of the month.

3) One may publish old, previously unpublished work but the opponent reserves the right to scowl disappprovingly.

4) Tumblr entries are not official entries, as Tumblr hasn't any tags.

5) The contest ends at 12:00:00 a.m., 1 September.

6) The loser will buy the winner lunch at the establishment of the winner's choosing, or the winner may request a home-cooked delight (this must fall within the loser's skill range and the loser is not responsible for mad-difficult dishes.)

One of us is going down, and it won't be me.


*By "everything you see here," I refer only to this particular post. Just putting that out there.

I won't spare you

I think I've got a disease and
it's killing killing me,
from the top of my lungs to the bottom of my feet.
screaming screaming nonsense to nonentities.
I think I'm a parasite,
taking until you just won't give anymore;
too close for comfort but too heavily dependent to go.

I don't know how I will survive
without
the moon in my window,
just out of reach.
Tide's going out,
moon's waxing, waning, full and then empty again.
My blood's pulled around,
moved by the phases of you.
When the moon moves too far,
shifts away,
stops controlling the heat of my body,
how will I breathe?
How can I laugh,
without my blood stretched too thin?

body like mine wears out fast.

kissing other lips, but none as sweet as yours. eyes wise, wide open. overlarge teeth--mouth too small, tongue too wide. I am cataloguing all of me, bit by bit, compartmentalizing myself. placing my self, myself into boxes. (what comprises the self? what do you mean by the soul? what goes in, what stays out. what goes in stays out.) first goes the shining idealism, the words which keep me calm at night. the english language. all of the books that have sustained me. next to go is my memory of you, your shirts and your mouth and your hands. your fingers, too short, hands soft and warm: I will never need these again. mo memory of this will serve me as well as the real thing. in a different box is the thought of being unloved and lonely, a time when I was so selfish I forgot to let you breathe. that box gets my hatred, my bitterness, my fondness for another. the fourth box holds my music. this box is so fragile, handled with such care because it was not something I held myself for very long. the contents are slippery, shatter easily, quick to scratch. they can't hold themselves together as easily as my words, don't function as well without the beating of my heart. words stand alone, battered from sixteen going on seventeen years of use. words are something my own and all the same belonging to no one. music is held too close to me to be treated with the same lack of care in its handling. four boxes filled, carefully, with all of me, placed outside myself. "for rent" says the shell of what's left; conversation comes slow when only one party really exists. no one wants to hear about your day, so only ask about theirs. you can keep everyone happy if the focus isn't on you. no one needs to know how sick you're getting. what they don't know will only kill you.


god damn I am like king of the emo bitches. wtf.

plus juste que tu mérites
une main contre une main,
des dents contre ma peau
quand tu ne me repondre,
est-ce a cause de moi?
des mains oisives sont les ateliers du Diable
tes mains ne sont jamais oisives
oiseaus
la confusion--une affaire de les lettres
une affaire comme tes mains
négligeable
(marie carie--la maladie ou la medecin?
je les falsifie, mais avec d'entraînement...)
ai-je faire croire tes mains?

une excersise

The slant of your teeth, the way you open your mouth to speak.

You spoke,
heartbroken, heady hymns of heavy hums.
When you spoke,
I went to kiss you
gentle brush of lips.
Mine on yours.
The last time
I felt this
was not with someone
as
shining
as
you.
(You opened your eyes...)
You opened your mouth,
watched as truth spilled out.
I overflowed with hope,
beamed at the chance to catch it
by chance,
would you listen to me cry?
Could you help me peoplewatch?
Can we stay around each other for hours,
not speaking
but not kissing either?
Could you go without it?

I cannot help but compare you to her, love. Long legs, short bodies. Stretched out hearts. Eyes as wide as I. I cannot bear to attach you to her in my mind, for fear that you will become as she was. I apologize to both of you, in advance, in hindsight, for hiding you away in secret places, especially when they weren't where you wanted to be. (even my hindsight falls short of twenty-twenty.) I want to waltz with you. I want to place my hands on your hips and feel something not quite unrequited. I want you to break my heart.

1056. It is not nice to be around me.
1057. It is not wise to be around me.
1058. It is not safe to be around me.
and thus it progresses. quiet quiet. it's too late to expect goodness from this soul.

one in the morning and i'm yearning
full mouths are for yawning
empty hands for drawing
half-eaten hearts for scorning

two in the morning i'm tired
walking the tightrope electric, inspired
insipid incognizant liars
quagmires, sticky situations where I'm always trapped

three in the morning I hope I'm dreaming
screaming,
leaning too far, picturing your eyes gleaming
i'm fleeing
but i hope you'll figure out that I always get what I want.

goosebumps
my skin looks at me, says,
"this isn't art,"
says,
"you miss him too much,"
says,
"i'll miss you so much."

hairs on my chest stand up stand erect waiting for me to fall
banking on my sleep
but sleep is for the weak,
for the week
and it's still maybe the weekend
sleep is for when i work, when i function
when for every you there is only one me
y's and x's
exes and ohs

xoxoxoxoxoxo

sleep is for when i'm _____.
what's a five letter word for delirious?
what's a five letter word for joy?

This song always makes me cry.

I insist on listening to it over and over again, though, because I'm ridiculous. The three of them did a really good job of this, for an unprofessional performance of the song for a class.

I love the concept of this video. Various people were interviewed and it was then animated in the zoo. I love it. The jaguar is, of course, my favorite--"I need-a the space!" Nick Park is a genius. The highlight is when the smallest polar bear asks if her father enjoys lion steak as well as regular steak; this is a clear conclusion for a small child who had perceived the conversation as being strictly about the zoo, but an embarassing moment for her mother (who truly has no right to be embarassed, because she has trouble making her point or even forming a sentence when she tries to assert that animals should be confined in the zoo--"I think it's much better to be in, um...bars, because, um..." at about 2:56).

A while ago I lost all of my Meg & Dia, but I have (some of) it back! The Great Computer Crash of 2007 and the Second, Smaller Loss of Data of 2008 continue to thwart me, even months after they occured. >[ life.

My dad shared with me some excellent music. I'm really enjoying Pete Yorn, because he's a really solid songwriter, and Sugarcubes, because Bjork. Carla Bruni's first album, Quelqu'un M'a Dit, is just as enjoyable as a whole as the last song ("La Derniere Minute") AND as her sophomore effort (No Promises, the lyrics of which were all--mostly? idk--Anglophone poems). Check all three artists out or die.

I will start writing again. I will start writing again. I will start writing again. I'm working on a story. For once, I'm hoping this will go somewhere.