00.1 Under The Guise of Mammon

2005-06-10T20:42:41Z

God lowered himself to the streets for a quick look around.
To any of us humans he appeared another man:
Six feet tall, maybe with one extra inch;
Muscular arms, lackluster build, possibly pudgy;
Charcoal gray suit with a matching fedora
Over soft brown hair, cut short, militaristic.
He carried a gun with no bullets.
Consider it an unwritten bible, a journal of sorts.

If he asked for change I would dismiss him.
Maybe tell him to get a job.
Maybe not notice his telltale firearm.
Maybe not respond at all.

Seeing the state of affairs in the city surrounding him
He quietly contracted a small, profitable business
To announce in his name a silent bit of information.
Consider it written, filled. He’s shopping around.

“To the citizens of this one true earth,”
Read the press release, a half-page spread in
Half the major newspapers of the world.
“You don’t know who this is,
Although I could bet you all know my name.
This is your final notice.”
Further down, the paper read blank.

Our eviction was four lines deep,
God’s loaded gun in smudging black and white.
Just another man among humans
Who don’t know the definition of “grace”.
Upon returning to heaven and keeping up on
Who knew what about the End Of Times
He could only mutter a subtle, “fuckers”
Under his breath, his own prayer for doomed society.
Loaded, cocked, and fired with warning.

Mmm. I don't know. I just needed to post something, it's been too long. I've kept up on my resolution, though.

Untitled

2005-05-07T05:46:45Z

Fifteen minutes of fame spent in microsecond increments.
(A palpitation of an engorged muscle, the heart beating
Blood to the beating of a hand.)
The all-singing all-dancing all-writing all-playing
All-mastered all-serving all-powerful all-worshiped
Diety of Creativity, at your service for this Quarter Hour.
Paint yourself pink, tickle yourself,
Do it for Her, by Diety. For Diety.
She doesn’t know the difference, for or by, being a color-blind
Color-whore. She waits for you to make her famous
And then drops you off at the corner
Her thighs dripping wetness onto the seats of a cab.
Don’t you see? Diety needs you to fill herself whole.
Alone she can’t get a Rise out of humanity.
Now satisfied, she slinks back into the silent mass
Of museless fools, waiting for your Need to Rise.
Resurrected from the same Need, lost in watch hands,
Oh Diety, Oh Muse, Oh Animus.

Uh. Yeah. I dunno. I think I like it.

Characterized By A Tendency

2005-04-15T10:20:09Z

They lie together in a bed dressed for a girl.
Head to stomach, breathing, talking.
Pressed for time in the eyes of God
A bastardized kiss substitutes words.
Last night a moan did the same,
A grunt. A content sigh.
Humans turned unnatural by
“Unnatural” behaviors.
As though men exist outside this world.

Given to antisocial pleasures
Within His plan gone ill
This consummated fuck masquerades as love.

They lie together, in the eyes of God, imprecated.

I had a wet and nasty dream about Matt, but then I woke up and everything smelled like Lydia on my bed. What a mindfuck. So, I guess I was inspired at some point. Per the usual with 99% of my shit, I had one good phrase ("Bed dressed for a girl" in this case) that just screams "fuck me with your talent." So I did, and unprotected, at that.

Sway

2005-04-11T00:11:59Z

Everything can work,
with enough power.
Everything can please.
As in, “I aim to…”
Everything about him
is a portrait
and I am a work in progress.

He starts wars
So I invented an atom bomb.
Shake your hips, darling,
with enough power.

Everything about him
is expectations,
and I am only fusion.

I have none. Uh. I write teh poam.

That One In Washington Has Got It Right

2005-04-02T10:13:43Z

Making a mockery of modern appliances
We host a conversation in MP3.
Back and forth and back again
Another’s words are the best we can do
Somehow it works
Somehow we bond
Somehow you know
This isn’t real, this can’t be real.
Even if…

A conversation carried on between consoles
Without an ounce of human touch
Doesn’t count towards our total FaceTime
Even in an era when monitors
Monitor
Everything.

So bang out an opus, cap it off with an
Interrobang
And decide whether or not pixels feel emotions.

You know who you are. I wish I knew how you felt, for real, because I don't know how I feel.

Untitled

2005-03-24T05:22:51Z

Backhanded compliments drive home a railroad spike.
Shafted.

This road is unpaved.
And haunted,
Lost, scared.

Apply a bandage and walk away.
Even if time can’t heal this wound
Maybe revenge will.

Backhanded though they may be
They can still be returned.

I dunno.

Volte-Face

2005-03-23T03:11:45Z

This depressing song that plays at night,
We sleep apart (but fuck together).
Extravagance spent as an extroverted “us”
Only to implode upon contact with humanity;
Boiled to mercurial.

This sum of us that totals none
(somehow still deeply in debt)
Is one more than we had before.

Uh. Yeah. I don't know. Brandon called me easy.

Untitled

2005-03-23T03:10:35Z

Danny screams his colors
Like an emotion could be defined
With something so human
and basic.

He doesn't understand that words
Defy
Definitions
Sometimes.

borrow A feet us: Allow me to rant for a second - why am I not feeling any poetic creativity right now.
PooAndGlue: BLUE
PooAndGlue: BLACK
PooAndGlue: /GO!
borrow A feet us: Hahaha.
borrow A feet us: I wrote you a poem, based on that:
borrow A feet us: It's still untitled.

Untitled

2005-01-10T07:32:52Z

Across the field:
Even as a skinny girl
Her skin held substance.
Checking a watch hanging
Losely on her arm
And hurrying off to something
Or someone.
Bone structure in obvious flaws,
Frozen in space.
Human anatomy studied from
A mile away.

I pictured me standing on the quad at Foothill High School, but I didn't want to have to portray that image, so it seems kind of awkward. I suppose it works for any setting involving open spaces.

On The Road To The Bride's Groom: Encountered Problem One

2005-01-09T21:06:17Z

Iron and iron and iron and yellow
A tracksuit borrowed from
The last martial arts master
Soaked in blood, faux or not.
A proposition in religion;
Gnostic or not.
But this one proves too many
The Craziest Eighty Ninth.
Steadfast the Mother crumples
Disrupting the snow,
Making it her own.

A snow devil.

Vowing revenge, a dish best served…
Wait, you know that one already.

What could she possibly think?

the Mother has made something
From despair
But the despair is showing through.

She stands facing the unvictorious winner.
And the fight begins anew; round two.
Jesus vs. The Rest.
The end is predicted
But who is He and who isn’t?

Kill Bill poem!

...yeah, no clue where the fuck this came from. I like it, though. I also like Uma Thurman.

Clowning Around

2005-01-08T18:15:45Z

Christ died laughing for our sins.
Watching his captors stone and taunt
And crucify.
He probably looked down and thought,
Or maybe said,

“Ha. Fuckers.
I’ll be back.”

So I wanted to call this "crowning around" but... I dunno. It sounds more like a racist joke than a decent title.

Entertainment System for 2005

2005-01-08T07:32:46Z

Celebrate a century
A year and ninety nine more
Plus the beginning of five.
Demolition Derby and a crimespree hour
Put her hand down his pants
Wash cycle
Rinse.
Repeat repeat repeat.
Lift some more lines from
A Greeting Card, cardboard.
Stiffer than stiff: he’s ice cold,
Soggy in cold rain.
You can’t
Penetrate
At all.

Yeah. Whatever.

Untitled

2004-12-09T23:25:28Z

Your thoughts fight diamonds
For the space of a girl’s wrist;
For greener pastures.

It's a haiku, wanna fight about it?

Extraordinary Girl

2004-12-08T22:47:27Z

I have a curious habit (and curiouser notion)
Of writing about nameless women,
Someone, some she her hers.
But I assure you
I mean nothing but the fondest.
Even when raped
She’s still an extrodinary girl;
Linked by my word to be tortured
For no good reason.
Or maybe because men are pigs.

Oink oink.

This poem-y essay-thing is a commentary on my writing style as a whole. It sucks.

See also: Amateur Hour at the Salem Clubhouse.

Amateur Hour at the Salem Clubhouse

2004-12-08T22:45:35Z

Set for execution in four four time
She marches up the gallows to be highstrung
Feet falling in a plain rhythm to the cheers
And taunts
And hollering
Of the lesser-innocence in the bystanders.
Her face flush, hot and bothered.
The sky cast as a mirror, the sun setting red.
Stepping into the pit she feels the reflection
The heat in the sun shockingly hers.
She can only help but wonder and think
And know
And watch
As they toss her away so she can blow in the wind.
The orchestra swells and her bow stops playing.
Encore, encore, encore.

I don't know. Leave me alone. I felt compelled to write something about this because of the concept of an idea (being highstrung in the gallows) but I don't know where it went from there. There's a distinct feeling of witchcraft to me, if only because of the Salem witch trials. I think I tried to convey that time period without this whole thing turning into a drively goth-esque piece (of trash). I'm so goth my wrists cut themselves.

Consider it a companion piece to Extraordinary Girl if you will. The two were spawned at the same time.

laseulevache @ 2004-10-22T00:23:00

2004-10-22T06:30:44Z

Listen to the Eels
Like Moses
You need a burning bush.
Lit foliage, flora, faunae.
Fois grae.
With your name on it,
White and salty.
Doused.

It's too late for commentary. Take it like you mean it.

laseulevache @ 2004-10-18T01:06:00

2004-10-18T07:13:10Z

To Be Mistaken for a Shooting Star (First Draft)
You found the world too harsh, garish, gaudy
So you bore your claws and tainted the earth.

When you thought you could see the seams, you
Ripped apart the fabric with two razor-sharp talons
And turned them to me, raised.
Dripping gore matches the red of your hair
Illuminated by the sin in your eyes.

I don’t mean to bring you down, you point out,
But the points of your claws say otherwise.
If only you could cut out a hole in the sky
So we could float out into space
Where no one would know you could scream.

To be mistaken for a shooting star.

The sun belies my fate in your hair,
In the blood. Harsh.

Yeah. So. It's cliched. The whole concept of red and blood and violence is so horrendously overdone and whathaveyou that I instantly hate this entire poem. Well, not so much. I like the title (hence why a line from the poem became the title) and I like the idea of being so horribly agonized that the planet itself could be drawn through some rip in the sky. Maybe I'll play with that imagery or not.

"Illuminated by the sin" was a good line gone bad. Something about hair looking good in the sin? Bah. Fuck.

laseulevache @ 2004-04-04T00:00:00

2004-10-10T06:31:20Z

Roulette
A gun to the temple, metal to meat,
She pressed on, harder, deeper.
“Sing us a song,” She begged, replete in sarcasm.
“Sing us a song about love!” A cackle, a bargain from the Lucky.
“Move my body, not just my heart.
This is your one and only, friend.”
So he opened his throat, cough cough.
Her hand swayed beneath the weight of one bullet
As his voiced filled the chambers, two through six.

A chorus line danced before their eyes, bringing out their dead.
Two, three, four, five, six, all lined up, breaking the bank,
The house stolen from under Her odds.
With high kicks, arm in arm in tandem movement.
Fortune smiled on the throw of a die, cast in bone.
The room spinning, his charm poured out, hoping…

He almost beat the house with the hand dealt out,
Defied Lady Luck with the wave of his hands, by one, plus one.
Shaking, “This is not Her song. This is not a song at all!”
So she struck him down, this silver doll,
Crashed Her arm, extended, into his skull.

The title jumps between "Russian Roulette" and just "Roulette". People have told me both are good but I agree with the people who think the "Russian" part is too obvious. At the same time I think people who don't get the concept that it's some kind of risktaking venture, most likely *cough* Russian Roulette *cough* wouldn't get either title to begin with.

laseulevache @ 2004-07-23T23:12:00

2004-10-10T06:13:19Z

Untitled
This day we made her body an obscenity,
Something blurred, something pixilated,
Pornographic to the touch.
Even with a camera obscuring her Lady
(a number you cannot count to)
we had our model captured:
A still-life bound and gagged.
You be boy and she’ll be girl.
No, woman. The Lady:
Her tits don’t talk, they kiss.
As long as you need, doll, until your
Countdown reaches null.

I'm too damn lazy to do any more commentary. Go to hell. To be updated when I damn well please.

laseulevache @ 2004-08-09T23:57:00

2004-10-10T06:03:04Z

Untitled
Look at her pale specter of a being.
She doesn’t know she’s nearly translucent,
Baring her nudity for the world to inhale.
But this girl is painted, done up,
Rouged like an unintentional whore in the light,
Out of place. Hide her, quickly.
When she finally takes off her lipstick
We beg her to put it back on,
Beg her to return the favor, the lies.
We can see through those, her body,
Itself, a lie told through nature.
The truths are the ones to hate,
They blossom from her bare nightcrawler lips.
So we shut her up and send her ghastly body
Of into the night. No one can hear her voice:
Only then is she truly elusive, lost, loved.

I just now realize how many of my poems don't have titles. It's kind of a 20/20 hindsight thing, though; I still don't know what to call them, but, hey! They... uh... are!

I wish I could play with the relationship, both emotionally and aestetically, of the words "lost" and "love". They bounce off each other so well but are so stuck together with similar ideas... blind in love, lost in the dark, etc. Too bad things like loss and love are so ridiculously cliche and undramatic nowadays that they're hard to write about without becoming a trite ball of filth.

"Unintentional whore" is such a good line, thank God it finally made it somewhere.

laseulevache @ 2004-08-29T23:54:00

2004-10-10T05:59:21Z

Betty Crocker Presents
Please find, enclosed, a recipe.
(“All-Star Spaghetti with chunky vegetables for adults.”)
You will need, Chef, one box of noodles
Prepared for a bath, a boil, a tenderizing.
Their sauces as well, in a flavor you prefer.
Unseal the jar as the noodles are scalded.

Also required for the more mature indulgence
Is a collection of greens; olives, peppers, delights.
Children don’t want these horrors so save them
Outside the sauce. Warm them, hot, hotter, hottest.
Let them cool to hotter to prepare.

When the noodles and their friend Sauce are ready
Set up for them a romantic date, a dinner.
A violin, a candle-lit table, a means of communication.
Be sure the evening is perfect so the two may become one.
The mating should be frenzied. At the last minute,
Heave in the vegetables and consume.
Add some cheese, if you want, it doesn’t matter.
This isn’t spaghetti.

It’s an All-Star.

Dear God, another poem I don't understand. Please explain. Aaron Cobb. P.S. Who's my muse? Is it famous musicians? I think it is. Thanks.

laseulevache @ 2004-08-09T23:47:00

2004-10-10T05:52:13Z

The Miniature Epic Struggle of One Ms. Artinez
To personify the artistic talent trapped in your touch,
The soft one of chalk, charcoal, paint-to-paper
Turning it inside-out on itself, animal from mineral (s),
Make it invalid external exposed to the elements.
Your creature found its niche and you killed the burrow,
A nebula of space in a darkened cavern.
Your brush skewering in and out and inside…
Rainwater rushed in and washed away the paint.
Trying to mark the finest of Earth’s creations with your life
But stopping, doubting, pausing for air.
Don’t you see it’s in your name?
I’m sewing this fish, keeping it quiet
Until it produces the finest of rare minerals.

This poem was written for the tortured artist in question, the vandressa in my life. I'm not sure I quite remember what spawned it but I hate when people talk shit about their own glorious work, much like I do all the time.

I like the comparison to the unnamed animal and the (very) vague reference to the disturbing facts spit out about the amount of iron in a human's body. It can make a magnet, or whatever. The flow's a little fucked up but I'm contented with it since it was almost entirely stream-of-conciousness and it rocks my exact ideas about the aforementioned girl.