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(no subject) [Nov. 21st, 2006|10:01 pm]
The Sad Reality of a Neo-Desolation Angel

wake up early-
sticky with cold come
to an existence
of too-weak coffee
and an office: 2’x3’
in the hallway of
a disused wing
at the top of the row.
lights flow into oncoming
bass heavy and sad
in papered sepiatone
and smoke (smog).
one break: hardly time
to finish off the
cigarette left lipstick-smeared
in a steel bowl by the bed
from last night.
not what you expected
when you scowled,
sulked and proclaimed
your place in the
grand scheme of things,
but it’s better than
getting married
staying home
and spending an eternity
becoming your parents.
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Instead... [Aug. 5th, 2005|02:17 pm]
of me posting my things here, you should click my journal and read them if you're interested. I'm a beat fan, obviously, Kerouac and Cassady being favorites.

Book? Big Sur or Road....collections of letters are all good too.
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The Jester Weeps [Nov. 6th, 2004|12:53 am]

[mood |melancholymelancholy]
[music |the hum of the computer]

After the lights have faded
And all the crowd is gone
There is a man who sits
All alone

A heart filled with sorrow
And mourning deep inside
He sits alone, his pain
To hide

The crowd was filled with joy
And the jester weeps
For sorrow has his heart
For keeps
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(no subject) [Aug. 27th, 2004|04:37 am]

For a month long retreat
To great green isle
To disconnect from everything left behind here
To just be
And exude brilliance in the meantime
And I wrote nothing
Just kept phoning back home
To cling dearly to all I'd lost
To cry myself to sleep at night with
And still I wrote nothing.

Any title suggestions?
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New [Aug. 15th, 2004|10:23 pm]

[mood |okayokay]
[music |german punk cover of 'Wonderwall']

Hello. I am new here. I am Hannah.

Eggs and Coffee for you?

soaked in amniotic sauces
sprinkled with the savory arsenic-red spices
from Asia, which your poor fat cook
pours on in cultureless indifference,
flick of blue-veined wrist.

Eggs, where we had furrowed our brows
over debates on abortion and suicide,
before we were inhibitionless Epicureans
concocting formulas for capitalism.

obese Marys in white suburban nightgowns
hairpins tight, Sunday morning America
fleshy lips devour placenta
the blow-job salute to the beginning of life
enough for the whole litter.

Eggs, turquoise layers
jaundice unbirth, Biology's wrath
crooked legs, slime dripping down his chin
carnivorous lust
the fluidy enterprise.

We never gave them the chance to be helpless,
was my main concern
as the greasy construction worker
barrells on to the washroom,
drops his overalls,

and we're all reaching
for more.

beige entrails of morning
bands of evaporation on mahogany,
hugging the nuclei of white teeth
and anchoring in the sunrise.

Mild secretaries like theirs with cream,
a milky brew that barely stains
white sweaters, circling red fingernails
round the axis of a mug--

And their rumpled counterparts
enjoy it black
strong and jaded and always
wearing a four-o-clock shadow
nevermind the time of day, or whether
the subway's on its last stop.

The containers boast of Hispanic maidens,
blackhaired and grinning
comb-toothed grins
carrying the secret of humility
in canvassy skirts with colorful stripes,
gray mountains proudly
tucked behind;

Unkempt college students refer to it
in slang, addressing it vernacularly
and tenderly as murmers to a lover.

Because it is no easy feat
to remedy 5 AM, and lighten the rings
beneath his eyes, with splashes of cream--

And sex, death and coffee
will always soothe our souls
in the murkiest of hours,
and the darkest, darkest nights.
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Late Night Ponderings [Jul. 17th, 2004|02:48 am]

It's 2AM. I should be asleep by now. I have to get up at 6:15 AM. It's too warm to sleep. I hate warmth. It makes it impossible to sleep. My body has now set itself into summer zombie mode. I hate summers. Always have. I'm a winter kind of guy. You can have your sun. You can have your wild summer nights. And you can definitely have your daytime back. Give me grey skies. Give me the biting northern winds. Give me my long nights of ice and desolation. There's something almost comforting about the dead of winter. It's cold. And offers no respite for the weak; of body or mind. If you can't handle it, you can always stay inside, and bundle up. Not so with the heat of summer. Unless, you like curling up inside the freezer. So ends my rant on weather.

I thought about how I have problems connecting with people face to face. It's wierd. Online, I tend to reveal my more locquacious side. In person, it's like pulling teeth to get me to open up...at first. After I grow comfortable with you, I can talk like crazy, in seclusion. And, it's this very "seclusion" that we are afforded online. Sure, anyone with the means to do so can peek in, but it's not like they'd make their presence known. So, for the most part, online, we have a nice little hidey hole to shield ourselves from unseen prying eyes. Anonymity...it allows us to be so much more than we normally are. If only I could bring forth this verbose side in person; without freaking out all those around me. I guess I'd probably shock many of the people that know me with the wisdom that I do have...even if it is but a shard of a pebble from the mountain of all knowing wisdom. But, I have found that it is best to allow others to be. Not who they would like to be; who they think they are; nor who they are; rather, just to be. And, that is all any of can do. Just be. With that, I take my leave.
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Since I'm the mod...I can pretty much do what ever I want [Jul. 8th, 2004|03:55 pm]

And I will...by posting a promo for *GASP* another community. pretty_lesbians

It had to be done.

Feel free to critisize me poetically.
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Being Baltimore [Jun. 9th, 2004|07:33 pm]

note: it's simple and has cheap rhymes, but i guess that's why i like it.

Take a stroll on the sidewalk, outlined with police chalk,
While Charles Street whores, sleep with men robbing stores,
And the kids on West Oak, dropped school to sell dope
To the business men in the harbor, who graduated from Carver.
All the punks in Fells Point, get high, smoke a joint.
And it leaves me wanting more of this dirty city called Baltimore:
The one I was raised in... I wish I could abhor.
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one more [May. 26th, 2004|03:46 pm]
The old man
and his books
are solid as
the iron chair
he sits on
Drinking coffee,
studying, occasionally
pausing to
exhale wisdom with cigarette smoke.

The best men are self made-
Never satisfied with what they already know.
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an old poem [May. 26th, 2004|03:44 pm]

You aspire to be snow
or something lighter
Floating through gutters
as I plod on concrete
Gray and heavy from
the weight of the week


But not spellbound
by your beauty
(which can be altered)

I'll crush you
scratch you
with my fingernails,
Make dents.
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