יום ראשון, 20 בנובמבר 2011

s l e e p l e s s

these sheets keep me
         s l e e p l e s s
and this stench of
    rain dried up on old walls,
              peeling,
and the cold that digs through three blankets
                                          a sweatshirt
                                                      my s k i n
             to the bones (!)
                   as if i were:
                                  sick.
not that i'm not:
                   (sick)-
i can't claim so, my
     subjectivity here is at stake

it's not as if i've slept lots, lately, to explain
such sudden stolen-sleep;
not nervous negativity
which widens waking wars.

no, i don't know, never
claimed to be so-
but crazy, perhaps,
you think through this snow.

i take such thoughts as yours,
artistically inept as i may be,
create a mosaic of broken sentences, misplaced
fragments, sew at the
seams something seemingly smoldering, steaming with
sunshine and brimming with pure cocoa, bubbling in
boiling water, something
sweet or this midnight (post-midnight mind,
mind you, may you let my corrections of honesty
split our oceans and walk through a
red-sanded ground) craving,
it's keeping me
sleepless and i've a long day which before me lies, i've
work for the eyes, i've
got to keep my mind in sight!

plain, doors shut, music
turns of, lights
(camera, action) off.
off.
awfully strange i remember
intensely your splendor,
your dialect, tonality, our
duality, clearly i remember
and we were cold it was
windy with each day you
were young you were someone new
you believed we were true
you were:
t a l e n t .
i, rotting slowly, thinking
fastly, i,
watching from the sideline
building a fantasy i was your
anchor but rejected such
responsibility i was
your muse, and you
frightened me!
such thoughts shouldn't be
but they were and we
dreamed to be free in our chains
in the sand in the presence of water we
dreamed to be one with
the essence the blessings the wrongs of our fathers kept
us
sleepless            on such cold nights, i bring you
full circle, you are there-
wherever "there" may be
and i- here, trying hopelessly
to find sleep, define:
rest. would you know to do so,
were i to ask you to?

יום שבת, 19 בנובמבר 2011

Backwards Jazz Song


im so pretty she thinks she thinks shes pretty and good, a little misunderstood so shes bruised, shes
confused, shes just living a life of boredom with friends who bore her
and shes just living a lie of teenage perfection cause shes pretty, she thinks, shes pretty and nice and
she never thinks twice cause she doesn’t even try to get to the first time but everything she says
magically rhymes and catches the boys attention so she gets them
but shes pretty too so that helps but the boys never hear the cries inside her mind when they
have her                                              use her                                                love her
and she just believes that love is this thing that ties down her broken wings and never lets her out so
shes trapped in a flame but she doesn’t feel tame cause she doesn’t really feel anything for the boys that
have cursed                                         that have lied                                       that have had her
cos she thinks it doesnt matter what she feels, so she fakes another one and they smile but shes
dying within but shes pretty!
shes fuckin pretty and nice with blond hair and blue eyes and shes gorgeous, shes stunning, but on
the inside shes running cos shes just
ugly, abused, battered and bruised but its ok cause shes pretty,
shes nice                              with perfect makeup that hides                           her crying eyes
so shes gorgeous, astounding, but on the inside shes drowning in tears from some fears but that’s
okay cause shes pretty-
shes fuckin pretty and good and all the boys she doesn’t want want her
(and have her).