| fast mouth and quicker finger hovering over the white cliffs of dover |
[Jul. 1st, 2005|09:16 pm] |
does a story ever need to start from the beginning. do names ever need to be given. should there always be a happy ever after. can nothing become something from just willing it to be. too many questions asked into the dark hollow beneath two dimming lamps, which i do not want to know the answers to.
as i omitted to say in the beginning: the thing i didn't say in the beginning* but which is really important. does not in anway deter our anti-heroine, from pursuing her relentless trolley dash, through every stop sign on the crumbling cliff road she is hurtling down, full pelt. not stopping for the exit sign marked: this way to sanity and no regrets.
*the old bag lady with a trolley bombed past no return and sent her rash question undetered into the dark hollow above two dimming lamps, which she did not need to ask and which has now tumbled away beyond reach. |
|
|
| A day in the life (where you are the hero) |
[Jun. 21st, 2005|10:02 am] |
A
You wake up disoriented,
with a funny taste in your gob,
and shift away from the sunlight
to discover a woman, fast asleep,
not two inches from your protruding
gut. You whimper, curse and then
remind yourself (again), not to go
on any more blind dates. Snakebite
will make anyone look good.
go to B,
or continue to C
B
You fall back asleep (again)
go back to A
C
You make yourself scarce,
despite your weakened constitution,
and roll blindly off the bed that cradled
you (and your ample companion)
and trust that your fall won't result
in long-term damage.
go to D if you sleep on the left.
go to E if you sleep on the right.
D
You fall headfirst [out of the window]
into an inconveniently open manhole
and into the open jaws of a sewer
crocodile.
the end.
E
You land feet first on one of those curving
banisters, but fail to find adequate purchase
on its curved and slick surface and proceed
to slide off onto the pavement. You lose
your breath and heave-dryly. There aren't many
passer-bys on the street, and you decide that
your clumsy nose-dive has gone unnoticed.
But you hear an indignant squeak from above you,
look up and make eye contact with the women.
You blink once and then scarper.
go to D if you scarper to the left.
go to F if you scarper to the right.
F
You hear the squeal of brakes and suddenly
everything is dark. You smell petrol.
You breathe. Daylight. You do not fail
to notice that you have peed yourself.
You run out of the street and head
east, then north towards home.
Adrenaline has staved-off your impending hangover
for the better part of the morning, but you begin to
slow when you reach Highbury and Islington.
You are nearly there. You try to remember how
You could have come so far south.
go to G if you don't have a good memory.
go to H if you have a good memory
G
It strikes you that you have no long-term memory.
You are doomed to a life of repeating the same
mistakes over and over.
This makes your eyebrows wiggle.
proceed to H
H
Almost home.
You had promised yourself to make serious progress
on your hoard of washing today,
go to I if you keep your promises.
go to J if you don't keep your promises.
I
did you read both answers before
choosing which life to live?
if yes go to Ia
if no go to J
Ia
would you trust a cheat
to keep their promises?
proceed to D
J
but the way you feel now, you're like,
"Forget it"
You arrive home.
Waves of relief and queasiness pass over you
as you collapse against an impressive pile
of porno mags. You REALLY need to get some
food today. Like the troll in three billy goats gruff,
you have a vague but re-occurring sense, that instinct
is trying to tell you something. You can't help
but admit that you feel a nip of self-awareness
in the air.
go to D if you are a nitwit
or proceed to K
K
It's getting dark. Clearly you didn't go out for food.
You look at your impressive belly and think that
even if you don't get any before the shops shut,
You should still be able to survive until morning.
go to D if you think you will survive
go to L if you don't think you will survive
L
You're kidding yourself. You're going to starve.
Why do you always procrastinate like this?
All this worry-mongering makes you tired
and hungry. Your eyes begin to droop.
Tomorrow, you think. |
|
|
| mislaid inspiration |
[Jun. 20th, 2005|09:40 am] |
this is a good walk through life with your hands in your pocket.
clear up some spellings, maybe.
– kaleidazcope
I don't quite understand your comment. Thank you for the good walk compliment. Do you enjoy it as a simple human-interest story, i.e. like "Oh, all the things one can see on a walk" or does it give you thought about the connections between creatures and the people who appear? The natives sometimes call it totems, like the dead on (no pun intended!) vulture-looking females and the birds are a spirit-team.
I was still typing quickly, had a show I wanted to watch, and also didn't want the timer to run out- spelling should be correct now.
You are as synchronistic as everything though. Is this not a verse-story of scope, Kaleidazcope?
Thank you again! (I didn't really get that your comment was a compliment at first.)
Have a good one.
– C
i am big fan of casual observations of behaviour and undrama. and seeing people as animals, or emotions, or objects. and likewise, i'm fond of human characterisations of animals, emotions or objects. it's personally how i see the world.
vulture works for me. totems work for me. the poem works for me. it does have the scope to a let a reader think inside it and draw opinions.
i particularly like to explore ugly beauty. you know. like a beautiful woman in a bikini with a great body, and a saggy, wrinkled belly like a deflated party balloon. sexy. an ugly man breathing gently in your neck, the cracked masks of cosmetic beauty and envy in every shade of green and orange with price tag with no value written on it. i had a countless thoughts of such a nature whilst reading certain parts.
i like to walk slowly with my hands in my pockets. you wrote this and i could have been walking beside you. walking and thinking go well together.
sometimes you have to push me to say more. yes my original comment was a compliment.
the spellings look fine now.
– kaleidazcope
Just trying to teach that those characterizations aren't just a fancy but a connection on some other level.
Of your comments, gross ((yet interesting)- I heard in my psy), and right on. It's quite a thing to find such ugliness- like someone just removed the witches' veil and let something leak out into the sun. If you are a good being, be careful. Don't let it turn you.
– C
i find a lot of ugly looks beautiful. and a lot of beatiful looks ugly. i will never be in danger of being eaten by the sun. it is in more danger from me picking it, and taking a solitary bite out of it, before throwing it over my shoulder for burrowing wasps to get drunk on.
i enjoy talking characterisations. they are fancy. like a coloured bead necklace is to a long black dress. it's a good device.
keep walking.
kaleidazcope
– unknown
You sound turned to me, and perhaps rather, spawned. After reading your comments further, I think you are arrogant and are being evil. How did you get on to the Sun eating you? You have have no right to disrespect the divine's creations, and basically, you're dammed on.
– C
if you think i am evil. you have no imagination. from your narrow perch you ressemble a stuffed, battery powered parrot. with pre-recorded soundbites and no understanding of anything beyond that.
the poem was good. your conversation is biblical fantasism of the war-mongering kind. do not talk to me of spawned evil when you can not show the beauty of good inside the words you type.
– kaleidazcope
False, prejudging what you don't understand, and damming yourself worse. I don't appreciate your hatefulness, your lack of compassion, and threatening/boasting of tossing the Sun like it's garbage to you, and what biblical fantasism? You (or whatever is fueling you) likely know the bothersome answers to everything I would type deep down and are trying to get me heated and down and out. I think you are being homosexual and/or deceptive in that and evil. You attempt to mar my good intent and are now looking to start a fight daring me with your lame parrot analogy, etc. You are not welcome and shame on you and your ways. If you continue, you will be guilty of harassment and perhaps more.
– C
don't worry. i have no wish to converse with you again. i'm just delighted to know you exist. i learnt lots here. thank you.
best wishes to your tuesday.
kaleidazcope
– unknown
Good turn if you're true.
– C
For others, in relation to the above comments and perhaps Kaleid.'s better learning also, I heard on a game show tonight the German word, shodenfroigal (spelling likely incorrect). It means "happiness at the suffering of others". That's what I got from Kaleidazscope's sharing (Collide being synchronistically apt for this poem wouldn't you say?), and why I did my best to step right and not let that into one's being. It's a fallen way of experiencing things that circumvents one's real heart.
I think Kaleid. felt an openness to share it because (he) thought I was meaning that when I said the females were "ugly yet handsome"- but I didn't type beautiful. I don't see ugly beauty as far I remember, but sorry Kaleid. if I got you wrong. Reading your comments again, you don't read as bad as I first heard; you went off on a bizarre-seeming, Nature-disrespectful and hateful-seeming tangent when I was doing my best to simply guide you from finding negative happiness in other's ugliness and finding it to be a positive behavior of yours, in case you were. I can understand one being fascinated with it but I was also trying to warn that that's part of the "bait". About our Sun, your comment still reads perhaps evil and definitely arrogant to me and I ask that you truly take it back respectfully.
– C
this sucks.
– unknown
I know. It keeps pulling me back also.
– C
I like the comments. even better than the poem. till the part your banality breaks it up.
– unknown
the comments are so much better than the poem. which is awful.
– noodleman
Losers.
– C
full conversation above - i'm not giving advertising space to the poem - i will write about this |
|
|
| Between two tube-train doors |
[Jun. 11th, 2005|02:46 pm] |
I'm the perspex filling
the girl with black hair
only pretending
to read her magazine
as I watch him look
through me at her
reading a magazine
on the platform
she's not standing on
he doesn't see
he's looking at me
looking back at him
shrug.
i don't know what's going on.
it's hot outside and inside
every day now. |
|
|
| three branches spiraling. |
[Jun. 11th, 2005|02:27 pm] |
girl with a triskel
neclace around her neck
carves tortoises
on the ground
beside her
the lost key
to the chest
of a boy
who now keeps his tears
tight in his fists
oh dear.
i don't half get drippy in summer.
cut me down i'm putting out shoots. |
|
|
| How badly do I need to go to the shops, really? |
[May. 29th, 2005|07:00 pm] |
it's Sunday and it's grey. and i believe if i go out, that the sky will fall on my head.
(i wonder how it would feel if the sky really fell on my head.)
it's still grey out, the sky seems to be suffocating beneath it. lucky then, that the leaves are a brilliant green. i think.
the day continues greyly. i guess there has to be continuity for the sky to successfully choke. the blue has nearly all been rubbed out now and there hasn't been a single bird in the sky for over an hour. bad sign that. they must have sensed something.
it's so grey. it's a miserable day. the sky is slowly suffocating and the thames is sluggish, it's tide in counterflow to usual. everything is being erased. i think i'm scared of the grey. it feels menancing.
i'm still sitting, in the same chair. the one that is perfectly placed for me to become absorbed in the sky. forehead against window pane, watching the outside world turn.
there is a lot of sky out there: now a touch of light, some blue threads. light piercing from all sides. it's no longer menacing, the earth is no longer thirsty. look a bird. the water ripples, blue rivers above.
ah, fresh air. |
|
|
| why do i ask my questions silently, is it in order to receive no reply? |
[May. 26th, 2005|02:12 pm] |
dear mister silence,
someone said the other day that i struck them as the kind of person who never liked to be alone. i replied, that in fact it was quite the opposite, i was the kind of person who yearned to be alone, but that for my entire life people had crowded and grabbed at pieces of me, without any care or thought for what would happen when there were no pieces left.
i explained that i had in fact been left with almost nothing of myself, that i had unbecome, so now when people grabbed at me they came away empty handed, presented with only an illusion of what they had hoped to find. but still they grabbed, did they not realise? and in some sick fashion i had encouraged this, whether consciously or not, at least, i had found a way to accept how i affected people, found a few select people who knew how fragile i was, to protect that last piece of me that remained.
and i believed this was enough. i believed i was happy to be just an illusion to the new people i met. till just recently.
somehow mister silence, you managed to slip past all that protection, to grab that last piece of me that was true and genuine. you took it in a handful, scooped it up along with all the illusion i presented to you, that you demanded of me, then took it away with you, across mountain and sea.
i don't know if you realise this. i really don't know if you do.
so i'm asking you now. do you know that you did this, or are you as i suspect, an even greater illusion than me?
kaleidazcope |
|
|
| the chocolate button factfile of sometime fabulous fabrication |
[May. 24th, 2005|08:06 am] |
While struggling with doubts over his sexuality in 1958, the young Bob Dylan played a Saucy Little Red Riding Hood in a Colarado strip joint called The Gilded Garter. After he was denied payment, he helped himself to $20 from the till and fled.
Dylan, 64 today, later remembered future folk star Judy Collins tell him he had great breasts. |
|
|
| New Feature: The chocolate button factfile of sometime fabulous fabrication |
[May. 20th, 2005|08:03 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | feelin sexy in baggy trousers | ] |
| [ | music |
| | the beta band. it's over | ] |
Humpty Dumpty was not an egg after all. He was a sort of enormous pink vibrator used to defend Colchester during the English year of Civil Masturbation. It was mounted on top of two very large vats of semolina, which exploded during the 1648 siege of multiple orgasms, sending Humpty tumbling downwards.
'All the king's men couldn't raise humpty again' |
|
|
| on keeping quiet when you have something to say and not shutting up when you have nothing to say |
[May. 12th, 2005|04:30 pm] |
there have been many interesting mechanical moments recently, the kind you pin to doors, place on shelves, and file under experience. and i've not been vocalising what i think about them. again.
however i know for certain, that charm can not be removed surgically. nor can it be drowned, choked, or stuffed under the bed with other unwanted gifts. rather it feeds on that indefinate wait between supression and release, and continues to be unfathomable.
and all the time stan and laurie are beating themselves up, about being lost on a five pound bet no one could win but me. so i propped up the bar till closing; waiting and drinking and laughing at their antics, till the last bell rang and i wrapped them up in a brown paper bag, before carrying them under my arm, out of the door and home, where i placed them between the piano and the plant with no name.
so is there really an indefinable charm?
do watches stop on your wrist?
they stop on mine. and they stop if i touch them too. every time.
and when i stroke my palm and fingers across a bald man's head, hair grows where my hand passed. not straightaway you understand, but over a short period of time. a day or two maybe.
and whenever i open a book, there is always a pressed flower, a scent of bacon butties, or another one of bob marley's odd sokcs between each page.
why can't i fathom charm? |
|
|
| Je suis en chantilly |
[Apr. 30th, 2005|02:37 pm] |
There it is, precious and perfect,
resting on icy out-crops;
cottony confectionery cloud.
Nothing moving above pastel peaks,
only vaporous air condensing
in creamy whiteness
and me,
contemplating its transitory beauty,
preserving its fugitive form
for one moment more;
immortalising it in a glance,
before falling
willingly into its unresisting
pillowing,
like sinking
into bubble-bath. |
|
|
| peach. plum. pear. |
[Apr. 29th, 2005|10:54 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | loving this artist | ] |
| [ | music |
| | joanna newsom: peach. plum. pear | ] |
We speak in the store
i´m a sensitive bore
and you´re markedly more
and i´m oozing surprise.
But it´s late in the day
and you´re well on your way
what was golden went gray
and i´m suddenly shy.
And the gathering floozies
afford to be choosy
and all sneezing darkly
in the dimming divide.
I have read the right books
to interpret your looks
you were knocking me down
with the palm of your eye.
This was unlike the story
it was written to be
i was riding its back
when it used to ride me. |
|
|
| I have the SADs |
[Apr. 25th, 2005|12:00 pm] |
There seems to be a Season of Incompetence acting as Winter and Spring's divorce judge.
The judge will have said something like ... "When equal in wealth and guilt, it's always better to come to an amicable agreement," ... and then in his closing statement have ruled that ... "it's fair in these circumstances to share property equally between the two parties"
Which means of course, that it will snow on the daffodils and then rain on the snow well into mid June, with the very odd spot of hot as Winter and Spring have Ex-Sex, followed by regretful days of drizzle, during which they cross their fingers and hope that the sky won't turn blue.
And although the dogbells and flowerlips assure me that these occasional hot spots will result in the conception of summer, the sky stays stubbornly white, and I begin contemplating murder.
So this morning, I jumped on a puddle of rainwater to kill it, but what I thought was an easy target was actually faster than me; I barely had to touch the puddle before it jumped aside. This made me even angrier, but every time I tried to speak out, winter's wind bit the words between my teeth so that each one came out screaming. Then it thundered and started to rain again.
I hope that a season's gestation period is less than nine months long because I can't survive without sunshine for much longer. |
|
|
| daisies. |
[Apr. 2nd, 2005|03:40 pm] |
i have collected every cushion in the house and scattered them on the floor of the den. with the glass doors fully open i can lie comfortably in-between sunshine and breeze, alone and happy. arcade fire playing in the background.
earlier i had pinned proof of future adventures to the inside of my wardrobe door, between a lime-green bag and a long piece of chiffon. an ancient film reel shows me taking my merry ears and impatient feet to the london astoria on 9th may 2005. and beside it a photograph of a glazed monkey, stoned and buried at glastonbury festival 2005. with 'the monkey conspiracy' written in black pen on the back. unsigned.
time to leave on another adventure. |
|
|
| can you lick it |
[Mar. 29th, 2005|10:55 am] |
he startled me
going into an alleyway,
he wore a pale-blue shirt,
a pin-striped suit
and a two-tone tie.
as he passed,
i was forced to side-step
into a maroon crate
fallen against a wall.
i licked my finger
and bent to smooth
the run in my tights.
he bent to press
one finger against
his nose, and blew long
trailing snot into a bin.
then licked his finger. |
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
| [ |
go |
| |
earlier |
] |
| |
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
kaleidazcope's journal
