Of Night.

Deadly night, a shroud of stars upholding
Your pretence of loveliness – do efface yourself.
My ears guard the terrified
Heart, it-BEATS! it-BEATS! but the rhythm’s all wrong.

Paranoia whispers;
Sweet nothings with a savage zest thump
The wrong side of the drum, its pink skin
Straining to hear in the dark.

Dark. You’re always dark.
Pit of black, my eyes are blinded
And barred by lids fused closed,
Clever tyrant. What care you for voodoo

When, in me, you’ve your very own marionette
Swimming the crawl beneath
The covers in a bed-bath of cold sweat
And lachrymation; someone’s left the tap on.

Teeth clench on a pillow, the mouthful of down
Stifles screams that won’t
Stop until daybreak;
Certainly, something has broken.

The New Pen

It began with fresh sheets.
The soft blue cotton smoothed over the shape of us. I had the windows open, and the breeze made the curtains roll like waves. Everything was so pefectly clichéd.

I turned the music up. The Drifters, Solomon Burke, Otis Redding. I couldn't bring myself to listen to anything else. I still can't.

You put the tea cups down on the windowsill and took my hands in yours. Twirling us into the afternoon glow.

Later, laughing, I fell into the closest chair and you handed me a pen. Blue ink, fine tip. Tiny birds scattered along the shaft. Completely tacky, incredibly lovely. I felt an itch to write with it.

To write something. Anything.

So I did.

Your simple gesture was like fixing the washer in the bathroom tap.

Suddenly there's water.

That's the luck of the draw.

We have always been a one-way street.

Red carpeted. Plush.
Just the way you wanted it.
Even so
You would hurl stones through your plate glass windows

leaving me to clean up the mess.
you blamed it on me anyway.

It's getting too hard to take you.
I don't really know how to stand anymore. Propped up against this wall. It's probably asbestos.

but then again, maybe it's you.

I'll bite my tongue. I'll bite my tongue and wait,


that's the luck of the draw right?

The True Lady Luck.

I bear no resemblance to sunrise or starlight,
nor could lamp luster hold to me a candle.
Lightning, lambent embers, a radiant match -
each blaze black unremarkably.

Nothing ever lit up as brightly as I.
You bring that out in me. The shine.
Two years ago, a word from you
lit the day like an oil-bathed wick.
It's a wonder night ever managed to fall.

Nothing has changed.

I ache...

to be able to write again.

I want to let the words spill from every conceivable place.
but they don't. They won't. I ache to know why.

I have to be the kettle today. I have no handle. On any of it.
_____

Dear Diary. Mood: Apathetic.

_____

I just recently read(for the second time) and watched (for the first time) Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist.

It made me miss New York, and I've never even been there.
The book is fantastic. I think I could read it and read it and read it and never tire of it.
The movie- was good too. Michael Cera(!!!) and Kat Dennings were the perfect Nick & Norah, but I didn't like what the writers/producers/directors/whoevers did to the screen play.

If they had translated the book to the screen exactly- It would have been creamed-honey-fan-fucking-tastic.

Oh well.
---------
'I shouldn't want the song to end. I always think of each night as a song. Or each moment as a song. But now I'm seeing we don't live in a sinle song. We move from song to song, from lyric to lyric, from chord to chord. There is no ending here. It's an infinite playlist.'

--------

Well, that's all folks.
All I have to offer. A wishy-washy non-excuse and some kind of film/book review.


Better luck next time eh?