Sunday, July 1, 2007

Red, Red, Sun. Or: Of Faith and Harder.

Happy Premise Number One: There is no Giant Foot trying to squash me.


You know, you let someone else's perception of you dictate how you feel about yourself and you might as well just lie down and give up. Especially when the person in question has a whole set of truths, and only deals out a card at a time to the sharks and gambling whores who can't get enough and who circle and feed at the table eyeing off the big score. And the Queen of Hearts? That baby stays in the sleeve, though it's the name above the door in Big. Red. Neon. Lights.


Happy Premise Number Two: No more showing Mister Winky to the Laker Girls.


For a guy who has written and thought about Love quite a lot, I've finally come to accept that I don't deserve it, or maybe will never find it. A guy like me, I'm Fuck, not Love. And I'm either Fucking or Getting Fucked. So it has been, so it shall fucking remain.


I got fucked alright.

And so did Love.
A Rouge of Lust,
a Masquerade of Kisses,
a Chasm of Farewells.


Things turn, as they always do,
and quickly enough a Wish becomes a Joke,
the Stars, or Just That One,
take it upon themselves to conflaglate your unnecessaries,
to kindle the past, to combust, ignite, everything in the way,
and all of a sudden, you're a comet, your life leaves a trail of fire,
ice and ash, and you pick up speed and gravity and people point
and you burn then freeze burn then freeze and circle and circle
year after motherfucking year around and around and when the
Dead Fuckers stop you in the street and say, what are you doing now?

You say,

Fuck you, I'm burning alive.


  1. the little owl sits on her branch and looks at you with wise brown eyes. she leans across and says, out of the corner of her beak, in a surprisingly gruff and jaded whisper, too many cigarettes in an earlier life? -

    listen, buddy, in about ten years you'll realise that love is not such a black and white binary. it's not all or nothing, it's not pain or perfection. it's everything you can imagine wrapped up into a kind of dull package. and maybe you just take what you can get. and maybe near enough is better than the whole damn head-over-heels caper.


  2. Oh I know that, of course, of course, but that doesn't sound as good when you're writing.

    But true words, in true Owl fashion.

    There are many forms and one is not greater than the other.

    And I have much of many types.


  3. i meant to say that it was all beautifully written. i love the way you put the words down. you lay them down, just so.



  5. what am i? just a distraction for you? you bored at work?

    *pulls on tap shoes and puts lipstick on. grabs boa.*


  6. Heh, of course you're more than that, with your beautiful comments and insightful, wise words.

    I just really like how Owls can do that head thing...LET ALONE TAP DANCE WITH LIPSTICK AND A FEATHER BOA ON.

    I have a new found respect.

  7. respect this, boyo.

    *does a quick soft shoe shuffle, with a cheesy grin, wings outstretched*

    i aint never going to be no whiteboy's plaything. i'm always going to be my own bird.

  8. I respect all the hooters I come across.

  9. and i'm automatically suspect of baring all to-wit[s] to-woo i just did a dance.

  10. Wow.

    Normally some chick who tried to out pun me, well, I would've noctur, n'al I have to concede.

  11. so, getting fisty means you are man, not mouse, which is good, otherwise i would have eaten you.

    i don't think that's a pun.


  12. Fisty?

    I am a man, though I could passs as a mouse, if I put a talon.

  13. fisty, as in "knocked her".

    keep up. sheesh.

    i can't beat the talon one so shall go and cook dinner.

    happy night to you, good sir.

  14. *bows*

    Thanks mystery Owl. It's been nice to have you around.