All entries for April 2005
April 29, 2005
April 15, 2005
Aww, give us a cuddle. You're an Emotional Drunk!
"But I thought he liked me. It was all going so well. I can't take it, you know? Not again. Why me, you know? My life is so fucking shit. I'm just a worthless piece of nothing shit. Everything I do is shit, or it turns to shit, or I turn it to shit."
– pause –
"You've got beautiful eyes …"
Sex With Nuns
Whether as a punishment or as a reward, the fates have decreed that you will spend eternity having sex with nuns. Better be careful though, they are 'Brides of Christ', and if he catches you at it he'll pull out your pubic hair.
I love Rum and Monkey.
April 07, 2005
I'm stuck in her web
I'm the fly to her spider
She's caught me and I'm crawling
Towards her eight lovely eyes.
If I can see them I'm happy
And I can see that she's hungry
She'll eat me right up
And I'll be lost inside.
Too polite to struggle.
To the fly that's what love is:
Giving yourself entirely,
Letting her have you.
'Welcome to my parlour'
To her I'm just another fly
And not really wanted in the web I'll die
Teeth crunching exoskeleton
Shatter it, my insides splatter out
Disgusted by the feelings that I hide
She doesn't hear my final cry.
'Said the fly to the spider'
For behind her stood a little boy,
4 years old if he's a day,
Clutching in his sticky palm
With which he tore her web away
And squashed the spider in two now stickier fingers.
Fly, still dying, screams at her insides,
Foul, dark, spurting, revealed on kid's nails,
And on sticky palms our innards mix together.
But on another day, another spider,
And another fly,
A kinder boy just chases them away,
And they escape,
The fly showing hunter how to hide,
Spider teaching prey to hunt.
'As flies to wanton boys'
To the spider that's what love is.
The fly who gets away
I'm not that fly,
I never get away,
But some day:
“Welcome to my parlour”
Said the spider to the fly.
“Have you met my friend
Replied the unsubtle, unsly fly,
The suicidal glint of love in his eye.
April 04, 2005
Before you die,
Not quite sure why,
You realise there was just a taste.
In books with endings
You figure out before they end
It always had it's place.
I don't like those books
And I don't like the taste
They leave upon my brain;
A hint of missing talent,
Of paper waste,
Of the cliche that kills
Because of all the ways that we could die,
It just comes back to this one,
A hint of almond on the tongue
The warning just too late.
Those books make me feel like that
Like I've digested arsenic
Or cyanide (or whatever the hell it is)
Into my brain
With no warning ‘till death takes my thoughts.
Love’s like that
It takes your thoughts away
Until none are your own
And you wander and wonder
In a lovelorn stupor,
A romantic coma,
A lovetorn illusion,
Original thought buried in recycled ideas.
Like the footprint in the flowerbed
Easily seen as the flowers are stripped,
And on her bed.
There’s blood on the sheets,
As you forgot to remove the thorns,
You thoughtless lovelorn fucker.
When you get the taste of love
Replaced by one thousand little gestures,
Someone prepared earlier.
Originality in love is a lie
As even the romantically unromantic is cliché.
Man’s search for original gift of love
Mean’s there is none.
There are only so many times
That the butler can do it
Before he gets too tired.
There are only so many times
The poison can taste vaguely of almond,
Before you spit it out.
April 03, 2005
I’m trying to forget her
That girl that doesn’t like me
I’m trying not to like her
The girl who doesn’t want me.
I bury my head in the sands of literature;
Other times, other places
Far and not so far away.
In sonnets, stanzas, sestinas,
Epics, novellas, fable and fiction,
Men who were great,
Men who were not,
And men who just were.
And of course the women who made them fall,
Whether accident or other’s implement
Or own deliscously deliberate fault.
There’s always a woman.
In my mind I craft a drive-in theatre
And away from reality I speed.
On the screen my imagination plays
Brings to life all the things held in my head,
I see the film where Lancelot slays Gawain’s brother,
So he could rescue a girl
So Gawain challenges him and he accepts
And they don’t fight to the death:
I saw Sir Gawain swing his sword,
And saw Lancelot raise his shield,
Eyes locked, they saw the loser without words,
And both saw how he would refuse to yield.
Lancelot of the Lake, the knight, the lord,
And Gawain, each a master of the field,
Flew together, lances sharp tips like eagles soared,
But landed like lances.
Lancelot, the greatest knight who still lives,
He cannot help but win,
His tip splinters into Gawain’s chest again
In the wings (on the eagle’s) I watch, Gawain’s life his to give.
Gawain challenges again to avenge his kin,
I watch in the hope the lesser man might win.
But my imagination twists
Off the screen
And out of my grasp,
Squirming it makes a picture I don’t want to see.
Every thing that I imagine
My imagination twists to her.
Maybe she is twisting it
Making me think of her.
I saw Gawain again, in Technicolor,
I saw her again in a pretty dress
Gawain was wooing her with all his power
She was the damsel causing me distress.
Gawain the not-quite-perfect knight,
Applies his charms and then she’s his,
Then he becomes perfect in his own right
And I’m forced to watch their first kiss.
And I can’t look away as he lifts up her dress
And I catch a glimpse of her perfect breast,
How painful it was you can’t even guess,
Yet the more I saw the more I fought less,
There was a bizarre fascination I confess.
Like when you turn up unprepared for a test,
And if you survive then count yourself blest.
I tried not to look,
At the porno my film had become,
Tried not to see her breasts and bottom,
Tried to make Gawain go away,
I closed my eyes,
Breathed in deep,
Let the drive-in go,
But my imagination had fucked me right over.
Literature had failed, so I tried friends’ advice
And we went down the pub.
At the bottom of a pint,
Everybody is just fine.