Engineering surrender

I am married to complacency
we squabble about anything
but remain holding hands
and smiling to the audience

This gravel, under my feet
over the sky
under my eyes
hiding defeat

This star, tied with a string
flossing the night
providing distraction
keeping the peace

And I (as the unfinished lyric goes)
And I (tired and repeating)
And I (nodding head and moving lips)

wants to bury parking lots with shift work
fill my arteries with smoke
drain the colour of my eye
and tattoo my chest
with batteries

until I am
a beautiful machine

Day One

She woke in a sweat. She clenched the sheets as if draining the juices of a fruit, hungrily, with the urgency of one who's pasty lips and teeth stick together like warm frostbite.

Her hair clung to her body as she dropped her weight, face up, back onto the pillow. Her cheeks were flushed and she felt as if they glowed in the premature dawn.

She knew what the dream meant, she sunk in her dread and recognition as she closed her eyes. She could still picture her body, static-floating in layers and layers of pliable bark, reshaping and moulding her body like gauze. She was growing vines, but only out of her eyes and slowly the barren ground moved to her height and in one phagocytic thrust, she became the earth's landscape. Only her ears remained uncovered, obtrusive and flimsy like mushrooms. There was movement inside of her, like rollercoaster tracks moving through shades of dark and she pushed against her core, bearind down on something weightless as if giving birth to laughter. Red lights were spinning above her.

She remembered thinking:

"It's time to give up."

Now awake, she knew this was true although the urgency of the statement was leaving her. Plus, she was sure it was meant to have some kind of specificity and now she was losing it to self-help slogans and spiritual rhetoric that seemed to only appear at the most inopportune times.

It was important to know who was speaking. She knew that, but for now, she tossed her thoughts aside as she began her morning routine.

Sleepwalking

I see you from across the room
I swear I know those eyes

In this mist of crowded faces
there's something here I recognize
I can't help but smile a secret out of sight

Ths air is thick with misbehaved curiosity
cushioned by the sound of of laughter
my guitar at my feet a pulse in heat
like a compass to your door

Tell me where have I seen you before
Tell me when will I see you again

A sudden move; accidental touch
could leave me electrified
the seconds in between my breath
are mumbling like tired fools stumbling just to stand
they claim you should be mine

A gentle gesture slight in age
could push me to my flight or fall
so I can't fight but I can stall it
The seconds in between my breath
are mumbling like tired fools they claim that you should be mine

I Stand Corrected

The creases and lines on your forehead
seem to be wearing away at your existence
your porous eyes omit emptiness,
they have long ceased from draining hope to your surroundings
Your hair flows in static waves of nostalgia
It curls, foolish in its resilience as your body
embraces defeat

You frame your body in a shadow
of unimportance
to imitate nights of restlessness and abandon
in a sort of self-defined therapy

Your shadow hums like a refrigerator door
cold anticipation turned numb

I redirect pity to an attempt at compassion
as I presume to know your story of tired veins
that have grown weary from visitations
of different heights and flavours

Our eyes meet
And you smile
You walk to the
microphone
You pick up a guitar

You are golden sunset's love afair wth the northern lights
You are beauty transcribed to fury
You are the palm of the sky
and the teeth of her morning
You are penetrating infinity through the eye of a leaf
You are stubborn passion in a crowded hallway
you are braided symphonies of the dearly departed
You are the loving ghost of silence

You touch

You are a songwriter

The round table knows no direction but it's nothing to write home about

"It may be a little biased but at least I spelt your name right"
-postal service


I'm just a girl in a pink suit
trying to swing the bat casually in my bare feet

Finally I find a place I like among the elders
and they look at me with
horrific impartiality
is it pity or pleasantry they convey?
with their nods
and silent o's

I fight to keep composure but I seek approval
so transparently
like a wagging tail, half mouth open

I pounce on the ball
and sit on my feet to prevent me from holding it
like a trophy

silly, silly girl
holding her baggage
under her skirt
between her legs
and behind her ears

I am full of amateur good will
as I hold my mouth too close to the microphone

this is the type of ambition that makes people jump
to conclusions
about the blood they must drain from their hands

The assumption and belief
that I have the right to speak
is one that escaped me
before I knew to demand it

I was sent to the office once
for writing the "d" word
and collecting signatures
(the principal said her role model was Jesus)

And once again,
I learned to cry
review my arithmetic and
defeat

I fight these lessons daily

Hey 2006, I'm Robyn. How's it going?

Breathe in deep and hold it there for half a second
when lungs are too full to have room for hurt.
Talk to me when you have something to gain
or when fulfilling your duty
appointed by no one.
Pictures of kissing in paper hats,
in photo booths with noses touching and eyes locked like bicycles,
polaroids hung up with clothes pins;
ghosts pregnant with the thrill of the unknown,
where every moment is dusted by potential
that sparkles like diamond snow.
Cheeks glow but eyes are dark and sunken
with gazes that never hold like smoke in a subtle wind.
365 days,
21 candles and one for good luck
with a kiss on the forehead, clammy fingertips, and a "we love you, baby"
as her eyes dart around the room
to swallow the tears back down to the depths of their origins.
Numbers and letters and hearts,
oh if they could touch;
they glow and they reach out and the hours will tell
if that's enough.
In the meantime, lick the envelope and seal it,
hide it taped beneath your bedand open it in 5 years.
Then take another deep breath
and hold it there for half a second.

Infinite Symphony, Infinite Surrender

Thin wavering branches
like the efforts of a shaky hand
and a sharpened pencil
against the vacant sky canvas

human structures of wires and metal frames
planted firmly to the ground
like foreign mass-produced scarecrows
like an alien experiment
to count the every shift of our eyes

patches of green like carelessly applied
last minute blush on a pale tired face

I am an encased synchrony of well though out interruptions

And suddenly my external grows still
as if diffused with complacent soothing
isotonic, clear and hollow

The snow glows its passive agenda
concealed in a facade of surrender
It forms alliances of alliances
by the side of the road
until mounds of jagged height harden

yet something is lost,
as if the majestic splendour is spoilt
by the grimy hands of industry and order

A faint tinge of blue peeks from the horizon
and lifts the heart with a tender finger tip
proof enough that we truly are fragile
susceptible and dependent
on the smallest subtleties of nature

The question you'd never ask

My 15 minute comeback
apparently involves
my back to the skyline
and my eyes in line
with elevator doors
windows revealing windows
and carpets so vulgar in appearance
that it keeps your posture intact

Face the uncommited flag
its hardly enough
to keep your eyes patriotic
to the dimension
besides this window needs to be washed

There's an abandoned patch of grass
below me
forgotten from an antique game
of hide and go seek

There's an abandoned chest
of unwritten papers
where I once thought to philosophize newspaper headings

Now I'm just a blank slate of
tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. . .

How about that

I wrote this poem in like 10 minutes for a class last year. I for sure thought it was the worst poem of all time. But I don't think it's so bad. Not even close to the worst stuff I've ever written. See: high school blog. Regardless, feel free to mock me for being such a teacher nerd.

Open Letter to an Educator
As I sit in the class,
closer to the front where you moved me,
my sneaker absentmindedly taps the desk.
You tell me to stop,
that it is distracting,
but the subtle squeal of your chalk
distracts me in the same way.
I glance over my shoulder
at the work of my friends,
my eyes seeking innocently,
not aggressively or with mal intent,
and I see their pencils writing
furiously, feverishly, and with impending genius.
I feel a twinge of jealousy of
those graphite shapes,
like they hold all the promise
and good things of the world right there.
Back on my own page,
the words seem to bleed forth,
with all the urgency of Heinz ketchup.
I’m falling behind the others
you say, your voice sounds like
a siren, or the deafening crack
of ice about to break.
Come to think of it,
I’ve been standing on thin ice for years,
with no one waiting with a life preserver,
an outstretched hand,
or even a voice to call for help.
I promise you, I know things,
about dinosaurs,
about the sinking of the Titanic,
and about the sinking feeling
of another scornful look
and a note sent home
in those perfect graphite letters
that haunt me.

In my perfect life

In my perfect life
I'd take the train to work,
and every morning we'd pretend
that I was leaving on some long journey
and we'd be apart for months.
You'd stay and watch the train pull away,
in the way I'd set my self on fire
to have you look at me.

In the evening I'd return
and you'd be there to meet me;
we'd reunite and pretend
we'd been apart for months.
At home we'd sit and talk together
in the way the best old friends can,
like but a day had passed.

I wrote this with a fever of 102, get off my back

I'm in love
with the heartbeat of the city.
It echos and pounds
on the insides of my skull,
against my temples,
counter to my own
heartbeat, sluggish,
and often unwilling;
reminiscent of the tiny girl
in the perfect pink dress
with a chocolate ice cream stain
who just didn't want togo shoe shopping
and no one could understand why.
What drives the pulse of a metropolis?
It is the suffering that no one attends to,
the love that is consciously ignored,
the lights left on that pollute the night sky,
and the windows that kill birds.
It is dead leaves and bandaids at the bottom of a pool,
the homogeny that brings us together,
and the difference that drives us apart.
All those songs that no one will hear,
walking hand in hand with
poems that no one will read
that drive the heartbeat of the city
that I've fallen so in love with.

Administrative Assistant (the silent y in your cereal)

I

How many times has the familiar feeling crept into me and rattled against my skull.

Sometimes the weather doesn't fit the mood so that even the perfect sky appears like implants. And I can't fight it, I can't deny it. So then whats left of me?

Regrets drive down Memory's roads. But there are those that linger.
And my defenses are futile like no parking signs. Trees shake yes and no and still I am standing.

And still I am paralyzed with self-doubt and ambitious conservation.

The backdoor man's knock is latent like a constant diet of maybe's.
I've found a way to fit those indignant cries into the gaps of clouds.
I've found a way to condition my eyes to look only to the the next house. I feel with my eyes like insurance.

You've never had to make a stand.
Or have you?

It doesn't matter, its too late now. Everyone knows the reason that you're dizzy, so don't pretend to not notice. Everyone knows you're pulling too hard and noone dares to say in the wrong direction.

By the sweat of your brow like gospel music.
"We are worried that it does not have a home or is lost."

Its black and white like check mate

but aren't we all biting at our tongue too soon and too late?
The healthy medium of tight rope walking
Its not your responsibility, its not your choice, its not your doing. . .

Its black and white like check mate
And we are so fucking worried but we don't give a shit

ok, back to the story
There once was a little cat being overfed by neighbours
such a cute and friendly little thing
But nobody knew if it was lost or didn't have a home
so call the carpenter because the doctor is out of town


II

I'm so jealous of the clouds and their laughable motives. They hold hands and move to the common drift. So sane that they're manic.
But thats not what we want at all.

We want awkward silence and loud music.
Dirty dancing and calculated first dates
Underwater storms and blue skies

And still we'd say its not enough
when we're begging for someone to put less on our plate


III

I will sit on this bench until I become one with the cement
Flags flutter like agitated identities

But people might see.
And only the wrong people will notice.
And only the useless people will care.

You see I've accepted the fact that I am no princess
My smile doesn't fit in frames
And my nails crack at the most inappropriate times

Sometimes I think thoughts are the shuffle of stranger's sandals as they walk by
Thats all they are

But I wouldn't flatter myself as silence.

I absorb too much empty space to have a neutral taste
What I am trying to say is
I don't know what I'm saying
What I'm trying to say is I am now who I am
I am only representations of what you're thinking
A cabinet for you to categorize priorities of priorities
Anything is nothing in the right (wrong) mindset.

I need a bigger purse to get around
And more plastic bags to carry home whats left of aisle 5

We've waited too long to not stay for close
We've waited too long to not stay
We've waited too long
We've waited

What if you peeled all the layers away and didn't like what was left of me?

There is no such thing as home

we were walking
you were somewhere behind
absorbing the setting
playing tic tac toe on your cell phone
I was breathing in salt
and hospital fumes
watching the lake and sky touch lips
wishing they were in love
but girls in the highschool bathroom always said
blue on blue is no fashion statement

you asked me whats wrong

switching topics before I could even mutter my well rehearsed lie
I am a tunnel among pores
and you
are my weightless anchor
rattling "me me me"
in competition with the air
you're strength was always appearing to be present

more than anything
its your predictability that stings
the your turn my turn of our dialogue

"I'm not alone, I'm backpacking through my mind
sometimes the scenery's just striking"

There is no such thing as home

_ _ _ _

Safe is a Four Letter Word - [mp3 3.75mb)

Hesitate

Hesitate - [mp3 6.19mb]

April 1st

I want to stay up forever
tonight
I want morning to never come because for once
my mind has stoped tick, tick, ticking
My hands have never been damaged by ambition
always grasping
at shadows of shadowsw
And always at the time,
it seems that the concluding chapter has been written
that I can seal my lips
like a waxed over envelope
If my knees had eyes I wonder if they would see sky
as palm or fist
If my tongue could shed tears
I wonder if it would welcome strangers
If my arms had extensions
I would fear
expressing attraction
more than I do now
Sometimes I feel that triangles are the safest condition
sometimes I want to be swallowed by lucky numbers
So I could swing in hollowed styrofoam
bubbles from your cieling
oh to be the last thing that you see before your eyes close
a paradox of sorts
because everybody loves a beautifully scripted complication
If I had a tower
I would braid my hair
and look serenely and sadly at distances and sing,
"[censored]"
2 centuries ago I would have been prescribed with cold showers and graham crackers
nowadays the closest to medical attention you get is your mother informing you that you need a new hobby
Its not my place to call this happy while I paint cages over my body
But I've never raised my hand to ask questions unless I was sure of the answer
the coward's way
is to set the scene for acknowledgements of intelligence
"Thank you very much for your attention."
The microphone is loud with doubt
He wants winters to be his blankets
bones
just bones
and a pebble collection
All that seperates us from the non-philosophers is
hesitation

And I said, "okay"

Seventeen Below - [mp3 2.48mb]

Selling Liberation

I feel like liberation
And I speak charity
And I taste freedom
Setting in a jar brimmed by my desire to
Lash out
Known only for my grave discouragement
I do believe in understanding
Buried somewhere inside my paper box
Known only for my ill-tempered scratching
I do believe in rethinking my mistake
Which hallowed ground bears witness to
I cannot accept my stillborn mind
One third surfaced and ready
Unanswered questions pertaining to
My need for chasing balance
What is it I’m searching for?
Broken plates cascade along my windowsill
I sit, glowing embers from my fingertips, knowing
If I stay one more minute
I might never leave

Deliberately

Deliberately

I see the wretched scars buried

I listen to the words speaking slowly sounds of grace

Hear wonders in the colour-coated simplicity

See as mirrors do the soul weaved within

Regret the pain which time has caused

Guilty conscious on a sleepless mind

She bears light like no other

She possesses streams towards what?

I do not know

Yet wishes of wings

Sky swept clouds and endless time

Penetrating night and clear silence

Lack of meaning and importance

She wants to feel

Nothing at all

Pop machine

A poet once
described your glow,
but you don't glow at all.
Your light
is one that burns,
that pierces eyelids
even when they are closed.
Your light could keep
eggs incubated, or
a fast food meal
warm and waiting.
Your buttons
don't click smoothly
and seamlessly, making
it a pleasure to press them.
Instead they stick, and
have been left greasy
by too many fingertips
thirsty only for
sugary satiation.
Change and products
fall with too much noise,
abrasive conspicuousness.
And yet you are everywhere.
The way you stand
so upright and proud
is even admirable.
If you glow at all
it is like a specter,
haunting hallowed hallways
and the ability to intelligently criticize.
Certainly not in the way
that poet described.

Table Manners

The real me
anonymous chalk lines on
a blackboard
I hate the music here
because its killing the mood
glossing my reflection over with angst
making me feel
like that self-bandaged kid

I always knew I was

Everything seems lame and cliched
except for the humble ground
and the arrangement of forks
bundled in tidy cups
My face is raw and hot like sundamage
my efficiency in these self-labeled tasks marks my uselessness
they say there are life forms beyond
but my body is still

only my hand orbits this pen

and even then who knows what conspiracies my head is concealing
And still, I remember a wrinkled face telling me
that my tears were shooting stars
and that I could let my
wishes have words

while they fell
smeared windows
like tired eyes
moving fans
like the "we broke up"
that noone believes
and to think that all we might have
is the careless notes
of a show-off musician
its not enough to stare
If I had a watch
I would build you an apartment
where we could store all our fears
in tiny parcels
under a street light
we could address them
"to whom it does not concern"
maybe it would make them better
but then again
maybe it's what ensures our lack of weightlessness
so that we are able to stand
I see his face everywhere
He who had no expectations
and told stories
of racing like conviction
I wish I could tell him :
"you don't have to make promises to break them"
The forks lie head to head
stiff in their compartments
nothing fits in cups anymore

My Words

My Words - [mp3 - 1.68MB]

Your smile as a beacon

to let darkness define you
you must be the light

I keep blinking and try harder to think
but I come up empty
or throw back what I catch

it makes it so much easier
when I'm searching at night

sit still when you get lost
and call my name
I'll come find you.

Undecided

Oh, mindless body
Do not weigh me down
I want the land-filled world thrown off
I want my chains broken
I want my wings to shed
If I could only capture a feeling
An instant in time
I would take this moment and
Hold it firmly in my gasping heart
I found the tides splashing my ankles
Deeply shaded
My whole life a spec on a sidewalk somewhere uptown
I close my eyes and
Hear the sound of my smile
My fingers graze the top of a circular crescent
Millions of flashlights shining forth
If I could capture a feeling
An instant in time
I would never let this moment pass by

Closet activism

Songs I've yet to write
things I've meant to say
emotions I've been pushing to the back of the line

Summers pass every time a hope is not given a childhood

Good intentions I've "forgotten"
distracted by a sports car in heat
Archaic laughter leaves silence hollow
like my hands
when accessories of money-coveting machinery

Look at me before I fade

my ears will be the first to go
Elbows are my commodity in my war torn apprecenticeship

As long as I don't acknowledge that indeed I am the problem
I cannot be the solution
"Its not my responsibility"
I'm drunk with fear but I still feel guilty
so I'll have a shot of ignorance
chase it with indifference
That should make sure I forget reasons
because we're all here for a good time
Don't look for my name on a stone, I've never professed to be a legacy
Check in the frozen food aisle under, "may contain"
You see, I'm a New World Survivor
Besides,
disclaimers have never had to make a stand
For example:

                                          "waves are for lifeguards
                                          blood is for politicians."

There.
Now I can parade in stilts made of knives
and smile mercilessly
I rest night and day without the slightest idea of what it means to be tired.

Calming Hurricane

Sometimes, the unfathomable is what I find most consoling
I can hide away in its lavish covers
Peel back its endless layers
So no one will know I was there
I stand corrected in my own ignorance
Yet there is no need to adjust my false assurance
The truth is too perplexing to be bothered with
No one even cares to challenge
The enormous guilt-trapping façade
No one even cares to look
Closely enough to see my remorse
No one even cares at all, in fact
So what reason do I have
To excuse my hostile sins?

Lasting Memory

Here comes our ride of
Silver spoons and
Fancy champagne
Lit by the
Overbearing limelight
A sense of stardom
Receding past our
Plastic tiaras
This is the first and last night
Of our infantile fantasies
Our secure mouse-like lives

Television News

I flick on the tv.
It's light plays
on the walls of my room
like a child on a backyard swingset.
Deep empty voices
filled with forced urgency
and righteousness
(Stanislavsky school of acting)
spit forth the rhetoric du jour,
while sitting back in big leather chairs.
You've given yourself away, I think.
Your necktie, it's red,
and your suit is blue.
I watch their game, transfixed,
as they dance like puppets do;
disjointed
jerky
echoing the sounds of clinking bones.

I offer spatial awareness my deepest sympathies

They're breeding layers of curtains,

these mirrors resemble a school hallway
after hours.

I can sense her watching me

There was hair in her eyes
She was draped in sheets
of righteous anger
Her eyes were half wide,
the breeze of innocence had passed her
and she stood as a solemn survivor
her hands clenched in
a silent demand for dignity
legs stiff and stubborn,
defying every slave shaping whip
parceled in words

Beautiful Conscience

She screams only for justice

The rest of me is discoloured shame
constantly indulging the distraction
a fear that I may be boring

My mind is plagued
With the lust-filled thoughts
As a dreamy-eyed "sigh" follows

I have the tendency
To revert back to my
Ashes
To travel the past
Searching for firmly
Locked doors

A whirl-wind feeling engulfs me
As tingles
Fill my skin
I swallow
With an unstoppable
Sense of tightening

Trying to ignore my
Trembling hands
I seize the opportunity
To stare directly
In your eyes...

Can you pick up my heart?
It's jumped right out of my chest

Barely Breathing

Barely Breathing [mp3 - 2.18MB]

Playing With Matches

Here in this bed
purposes have been served
statements have been made
games have been practiced
and practices have been played

the bed was too small
so you fell into the crack
the blanket clung to my naked body momentarily
before sliding through centuries
like glaciers
And my back was exposed
to poorly painted walls
and sentimental silence
I wore a smile suitable for the occassion
and you bought it.

A foreign mind within a familiar body

how postmodern of me
how "liberating"
And suddenly I don't want you here,
but I want you to hold me tighter
As if I could transmit concepts through skin to skin contact
How is it that only death is so contagious?

I'm shedding emotions

faster than I can acknowledge
And the truth is we're all disappointed
because we wanted what we signed up for
but we lied on the application.
I checked the box that said "sailor,"
thereby forfeiting the sea. . .
Under whispered veils
I heard thunder
but it sounded like hesitation
and I can barely utter
undecided.

***Hey guys, I think our page here is starting to grow up thanks to our attention. I just wanted to suggest another possible exercise we could take part in; interpretation. I think it would be really interesting to see how our perceptions of eachother's writing differs or coincides. I know that reading Robyn's comments on "concentrate," opened my eyes to other possibilities and a completely diferent angle at looking at the same words. I think it could be a very constructive thing, although I do understand how sensitive and touchy of an area this business of analyzing eachother's work could be. However, I think it could be really rewarding considering most of the time you read poetry you can only pretty much rely on your gut instinct for the meaning. It also could be fulfilling for the writer who gets to reread their own words in somebody else's head. So what I suggest is that if somebody feels comfortable inviting people to share their interpretation of his or her work, perhaps they could mention it with whatever piece they are writing, with or without their own explanation of their piece. This way we avoid any unecessary intrusions. That being said, critique, comment and interpret away!***

Redlight Rhapsody

When I met you
you were dripping gasoline
and exhaling tears
I tried to eat up your platter
of optimistic good will
but I've never been too good with chopsticks
I was a preheated oven starving for aluminum foil
Street signs could irritate my fury now
if they had the right name
(also known as the wrong)
And nothing has changed except this gap I have in between my teeth
and my new hobby. . . of defining a girl's best (blank)
soaking in black hole luxury
its you who are
everything I don't want
which is a slight inconvenience

Witness to the Fall

The fact that I feel powerful
While looking in the mirror
Is buried behind the lack of witness
It is what buys me time
Yet does not hesitate to steal it
It could be what I love forever
If I could only commit to such a thing
Horizons come and go
And the passion is ever strong
I just want to burst out
And use up myself up
Because I feel freer when there’s nothing left
You see, I spend a lot of time in my head
I find it more rewarding having only one witness
And so I remain commanding
With my hidden obsession
With no one to know
But my eyes

Concentrate

When we were kids,
words seemed to go places.
They would hover, shimmering,
the colour of honey, above our heads,
and thus they were heard
again and again
living forever in a time where
there is all the time in the world;
a safe place to rest one's head.
Now as adults,
it is our eyes that go places;
to a short-order kitchen where
injustice and suffering are
the most popular menu items.
Nothing shimmers or is honey-coloured,
it is covered in the soot
of guilt and of scheduling
the time to care into a palm pilot.
The mouths that once spewed gold
are now peeled back in reactive screams;
I'd say they fall on deaf ears,
but no sound comes out at all.
All of a sudden
we're children again;
our eyes want to close
in defense against the naked horrors before them:
if I can't see it
it's not there.
But this is the real world,
a safe place to rest one's head
only if he is lucky enough to be
born into a family with nice pillows.
Concentrate.

I need all the help I can get, clearly, from the gang on this site or anyone who happens to come upon it. Word on the street is Matthew Good visited this site once...but I won't waste my emotions on wishful thinking. That would be, well, the best thing that could ever happen to my writing though. To the point, this is a draft, and as much as it pains me to post something that hasn't been worked to death and then back to life, I think we can all appreciate and take pleasure in the artistic process. Thus, like Doug, I am making a proposition: that we use this space as both a display case and scrap paper. They both have merit, just in different ways. Take care of yourselves :)

Trench Warfare (At Her Finest)

... came at me out of the sun
Hard to dodge what you didn't see coming
Hit the ground soldier
Another round from the big guns

And I feel treasonous
Abandoned by my sovereign long ago

Crawling through the mud
I'm sure I'll make it through this week
- and into the next.
But I won't outlive the war.

Wouldn't you know
the last man standing
is a girl.

Communicative Infidelity and other Traffic Jams

Alone in his toothpick fortress
colours buzzing loudly
thoughts clearing their throats
in an attempt to be heard
memories of beaded light
and her eyes full of thirst
she would have bled harmony for the dreams he served
garnished with hope
The lies rose with a pinch of ambition
But she won't wait until they cool
She was cursed with a gluttionous soul
but a massochistically selective hand
she sits in his freezer
prepacked frozen dinner
3 minutes on high
Doesn't it make you want to cry
how she keeps her shape?
Doesn't it make you want to cringe
how he licked his lips?
He was counting trophy tiles and rounds of eye lashes
He was measuring his pride with a metre stick
while she was screaming under water
In response bubbles emerged
to an indifferent audience
He was sharpening his black hole
bone breaking bliss
She was born
ankles tied to a "fountain of knowledge"
head secured in reverence
for Him Without Eyes
and she spat on the ground
to be rid of the venemous bodies
that fough for the greater cause
in the battle of her blue box perspective
sleep with your fists clenched
optimism limp
memories strung
to the city of stars under the dust

Nameless

These winter nights are way too long
I'm waiting for the sun to rise
I hide inside my shattered mind
And the tears just keep on falling out of my eyes

And it's amazing
It's amazing how lonely I am
And it's amazing
It's amazing how much I miss you

The windy city bears my soul
I'm still so far away from you
I wish that I could remember more
Something so simple as your laugh and smile

And it's amazing
It's amazing how angry I still am
And it's amazing
It's amazing how much you loved me

If I could
If I could reach you up there
I would never
I would never let you go

I'm half missing
I'm incomplete
I'm so sorry,
Please, please, please finish me

And it's amazing
It's amazing how I am so proud
It's amazing
It's amazing I will not forget you...

we burn out

Out of time
but we're in tune.
I'm distracted,
but I'm so pale, that you don't notice

We both know
how this all ends:
without a bang. And you'll be fine;
better off
- I promise

See, I've grown tired,
and while this was
your goal (her goal)
I doubt you're happy.

... she wasn't happy
But I'm so tired

Hey, can you
     check my halo?
         I can't reach it.

my new thing

my new thing is bringing around a pad of paper and writting down things i see. things that become special to us are often external to our natural upbringing. I want you 4 to try bringing around a pad of paper, and writting down some interesting thoughts. then bringing them here. and try to make some sence of them. This can be the beginning of sifting through all of the nonsence that is in this world. we can then begin to bring inspiration to them, via lyrics, thoughts and hopefully music.

doug

Never absolutely

Prompted
Sometimes in its box of
sky lavender and cornerless, of
acting the tender sentry, the
moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy,
waiting with percolating patience to be
plucked by the chubby
fingers of a child.
Look how its reflections are
shattered and dissembled on
the water’s surface.
Sometimes in her shell of
skin and eyes and hair, of
perceived apathy, she
shivers like the most fragile leaves in
a merciless wind,waiting with bated breath to be
brushed by the hands of providence.
Look how her reflection is
reflected by the reflections
of the moon.

I don't deserve to be here, and maybe I never was.

manifest

Clicktrack isn't just music.

But what it is will be up to you brave souls to define.

Allow me to introduce the cast: Alex, Susana, Robyn, Doug.


Stay warm.