I Am Howling Revolution...
I have been smelling my cigarettes before lighting them, lately. They smell good, and that across-the-nostrils-into-mouth motion feels very good. It feels natural. And they smell good.
Have you ever listened to Janis Ian's All Roads To The River? It is a good song. It may actually be called New Jerusalem, i've seen it under that. But it's a good song, either way. It's about acceptance, and change, and about being. I think it's about all that, anyway. And who are you to argue?
I'm alone now. I like being alone. I need to be alone, sometimes. I can go for five days in company. Sometimes four. Sometimes one is enough. I need to be alone, now. I've reschedueled a trip to my grandmother, who is dying, because I need to be alone now. But I still love her. And you, so stop thinking that.
I think I like the internet so much because it allows you to be you, distilled, coalesced. It allows you to say the words you always wanted to say, and say them right. I really like the internet. I am a little less myself outside it. I'd like to change that.
Have been a fan of disjointed writing, lately. Personal, honest, open-your-heart-and-let-the-emptiness-hear writing. I have a thing I wrote, a few months back. It is about the fact that I was a 18 year old virgin, and bemoaned it. It just generally bemoaned, really. It's a horrible piece of writing. I may want to share it with you; because if I can share that, if I can shame myself that much, what else can stand in my way? Embarssment as a path to advancement.
I am thinking of sending some of my translations to the artist. I am thinking of emailing Warren Ellis and telling him I like the way he writes.
Am I being pretentious a little? Let me know.
Here is a poem I wrote about a girl.
Tiny Goddess
In her tiny room,
Caressing the bed
She was pink and black
Oh
Though I've written it
You could not imagine her in pink
Or white
Or brown
Or all but black.
She was young
How young?
I would rather not say.
But if you must
So young
Her façade of dark
Could yet crack.
On grass
She sang
Unfaltering
Lovely,
In any light.
Lovely,
And loved.
How loved?
I'd rather not say.
But
There was not one of us
And there were many then
(Girls and men)
Who would not stare
And who would not dream.
And her drama
Was unprecedented
In little poems
About her childhood
(her earlier childhood)
she would swing her hair
(which was long and black
and I've been trying to describe it
for the past hour
so I won't)
And she could dance.
How could she dance?
I'd rather not say.
Times move on,
Memories fade
And glorification
(I admit)
Plays a part.
And yet, I sometimes think
What?
I'd rather not say.
But
I like to dwell
On her on a coffeehouse stage
Undoing her hair
And strumming her guitar.
Have you ever listened to Janis Ian's All Roads To The River? It is a good song. It may actually be called New Jerusalem, i've seen it under that. But it's a good song, either way. It's about acceptance, and change, and about being. I think it's about all that, anyway. And who are you to argue?
I'm alone now. I like being alone. I need to be alone, sometimes. I can go for five days in company. Sometimes four. Sometimes one is enough. I need to be alone, now. I've reschedueled a trip to my grandmother, who is dying, because I need to be alone now. But I still love her. And you, so stop thinking that.
I think I like the internet so much because it allows you to be you, distilled, coalesced. It allows you to say the words you always wanted to say, and say them right. I really like the internet. I am a little less myself outside it. I'd like to change that.
Have been a fan of disjointed writing, lately. Personal, honest, open-your-heart-and-let-the-emptiness-hear writing. I have a thing I wrote, a few months back. It is about the fact that I was a 18 year old virgin, and bemoaned it. It just generally bemoaned, really. It's a horrible piece of writing. I may want to share it with you; because if I can share that, if I can shame myself that much, what else can stand in my way? Embarssment as a path to advancement.
I am thinking of sending some of my translations to the artist. I am thinking of emailing Warren Ellis and telling him I like the way he writes.
Am I being pretentious a little? Let me know.
Here is a poem I wrote about a girl.
Tiny Goddess
In her tiny room,
Caressing the bed
She was pink and black
Oh
Though I've written it
You could not imagine her in pink
Or white
Or brown
Or all but black.
She was young
How young?
I would rather not say.
But if you must
So young
Her façade of dark
Could yet crack.
On grass
She sang
Unfaltering
Lovely,
In any light.
Lovely,
And loved.
How loved?
I'd rather not say.
But
There was not one of us
And there were many then
(Girls and men)
Who would not stare
And who would not dream.
And her drama
Was unprecedented
In little poems
About her childhood
(her earlier childhood)
she would swing her hair
(which was long and black
and I've been trying to describe it
for the past hour
so I won't)
And she could dance.
How could she dance?
I'd rather not say.
Times move on,
Memories fade
And glorification
(I admit)
Plays a part.
And yet, I sometimes think
What?
I'd rather not say.
But
I like to dwell
On her on a coffeehouse stage
Undoing her hair
And strumming her guitar.