chiara: fiasco, litany, ranch, klingon.
think about it next time
steps one and two are easy
deep down, the atrocity of your
litany to my generosity rebels against me
and i suffer, yet don't.
there is nothing inside me that prevents
actuality, the fiasco of my dreams
living on the ranch of your ill-gotten promises
dying on the lies at your lips.
imagine, imagine would you,
what it would be like to live among the stars
with me, with the klingons, with the free
spirits. aren't you jealous that through your
nimble and clumsy
unknowing fingers, that you
let me go. and here i am, basking
the glow of the sun on my peached cheeks
smiling; if only you knew.
deep down, the atrocity of your
litany to my generosity rebels against me
and i suffer, yet don't.
there is nothing inside me that prevents
actuality, the fiasco of my dreams
living on the ranch of your ill-gotten promises
dying on the lies at your lips.
imagine, imagine would you,
what it would be like to live among the stars
with me, with the klingons, with the free
spirits. aren't you jealous that through your
nimble and clumsy
unknowing fingers, that you
let me go. and here i am, basking
the glow of the sun on my peached cheeks
smiling; if only you knew.
yuki: spring, bottle, wind, marble.
she loves it more than you
chilled marble at her back, hair whisped away,
wind non-existant against her skin. and yet
goosebumps littered her flesh, raising it, curling
inches of skin into rocky terrain.
the emergence of spring kept her flat against the
smooth surface. the sun highlighting her
coke-bottle figure as it pressed tightly
dreaming of melting into the stone's very whole.
deep breath, deep deep breath, hold;
taste that cool breeze, take the wind harsh
into the lungs as it finds itself in the sky.
the marble eases her muscles, coolly refreshing
real, significance; her spring found in its
resonance on her spine. that bottle frame
crushed into a ball as the sun followed her skin
down to her toes, down to her horizon,
to its horizon.
wind non-existant against her skin. and yet
goosebumps littered her flesh, raising it, curling
inches of skin into rocky terrain.
the emergence of spring kept her flat against the
smooth surface. the sun highlighting her
coke-bottle figure as it pressed tightly
dreaming of melting into the stone's very whole.
deep breath, deep deep breath, hold;
taste that cool breeze, take the wind harsh
into the lungs as it finds itself in the sky.
the marble eases her muscles, coolly refreshing
real, significance; her spring found in its
resonance on her spine. that bottle frame
crushed into a ball as the sun followed her skin
down to her toes, down to her horizon,
to its horizon.
rohan: ubiquitous, knight, macabre, superfluous. (had to be about a puppy, without mentioning the puppy at all)
do you think we'll ever really know?
he smiles. really he does.
and his entire body hums, ethereal.
the superfluous attempt at recreating
that look, that joy, that hype -
they very ubiqutious nature
wards every shimmering of
the night's and day's and
world's attempts at a
mediocre, macabre life.
he shines against the blades of grass
springs them to life, treads,
paws at the earth.
plumes of dust cloud around him
masking him from sight,
and he emerges, a bright knight,
the savior of the rainy days
whenever they may come.
he lives more in a moment
than i do in a lifetime; and
i've never more envied that about him.
perhaps someday,
sometime,
when i stop regretting the past
and instead accept the present,
i will benefit from the same
contagious, unbridled
happiness.
and his entire body hums, ethereal.
the superfluous attempt at recreating
that look, that joy, that hype -
they very ubiqutious nature
wards every shimmering of
the night's and day's and
world's attempts at a
mediocre, macabre life.
he shines against the blades of grass
springs them to life, treads,
paws at the earth.
plumes of dust cloud around him
masking him from sight,
and he emerges, a bright knight,
the savior of the rainy days
whenever they may come.
he lives more in a moment
than i do in a lifetime; and
i've never more envied that about him.
perhaps someday,
sometime,
when i stop regretting the past
and instead accept the present,
i will benefit from the same
contagious, unbridled
happiness.
jamal: love, warfare, deodorant, baltimore.
and man i tell ya
it started in baltimore, late at night --
did i already tell you this? stop me if i did --
oh hey, let me get a light, man, let me just
get a light real quick.
so right, right, it started in baltimore, late at night,
and i was there. like, right there, man.
it was love at first sight of a double barrel.
seriously, cold steel and rounds still sizzling,
smoke still whisping away. what can i say?
i'm a bit of a romantic. and she was just
just fucking standing there.
and it's funny, you could tell. just by the,
the, the, the fucking scent of her.
she was all woman. all woman,
au natural, other than that necessary musk
of deodarant. yeah, i know, not too romantic,
right? but it's true. she was that light,
the light you see at the end of the tunnel.
and he was just hanging there, holding that gun,
watching it smoke, barely paying attention to her.
like she was some, some...
man, let me get that light again, it went out.
right. she was just some kind of prize,
the mysterious toy at the bottom of the cereal box.
but this wasn't a box, this was a warzone.
there were sparks flying offa her like she was
i don't know, electric or something.
loose wire.
man, he was getting stuck in her warfare
without even knowing it.
she was all about him and that gun
and it was still sizzling man, still smoking,
and he wasn't even paying attention,
and like i said, man, it was love at first sight
of the double barrel. she musta known him, i swear,
but in a split second she was on him,
on him like white on rice,
and he was gone, man. like.
gone. hole in his head, and then she was gone.
more gone.
like, the smoke wasn't even there.
hey man, let me get another cig? yeah, yeah, thanks man.
just let me get that light.
yeah, she was there man, then she was gone.
ever been in love? yeah, i was.
love at first sight, at the first sight of a double barrel.
man, you don't even know. you don't even know.
did i already tell you this? stop me if i did --
oh hey, let me get a light, man, let me just
get a light real quick.
so right, right, it started in baltimore, late at night,
and i was there. like, right there, man.
it was love at first sight of a double barrel.
seriously, cold steel and rounds still sizzling,
smoke still whisping away. what can i say?
i'm a bit of a romantic. and she was just
just fucking standing there.
and it's funny, you could tell. just by the,
the, the, the fucking scent of her.
she was all woman. all woman,
au natural, other than that necessary musk
of deodarant. yeah, i know, not too romantic,
right? but it's true. she was that light,
the light you see at the end of the tunnel.
and he was just hanging there, holding that gun,
watching it smoke, barely paying attention to her.
like she was some, some...
man, let me get that light again, it went out.
right. she was just some kind of prize,
the mysterious toy at the bottom of the cereal box.
but this wasn't a box, this was a warzone.
there were sparks flying offa her like she was
i don't know, electric or something.
loose wire.
man, he was getting stuck in her warfare
without even knowing it.
she was all about him and that gun
and it was still sizzling man, still smoking,
and he wasn't even paying attention,
and like i said, man, it was love at first sight
of the double barrel. she musta known him, i swear,
but in a split second she was on him,
on him like white on rice,
and he was gone, man. like.
gone. hole in his head, and then she was gone.
more gone.
like, the smoke wasn't even there.
hey man, let me get another cig? yeah, yeah, thanks man.
just let me get that light.
yeah, she was there man, then she was gone.
ever been in love? yeah, i was.
love at first sight, at the first sight of a double barrel.
man, you don't even know. you don't even know.
nico: enigma, fate, rune, president. (can't talk about us presidents)
escaping means staying
thirteen and a half windows.
three doors.
a closet, which was something like a fourth door.
but it only lead to a small dark space.
chipping pillars.
one big chair, with one big pink and blue cushion.
and just one breathing soul.
somewhat breathing that is.
a shadow loomed, hovered, sat
right on top of the chair;
an enigma, a figment, a vision
the remains of a conscious decision.
ominous in nature, invisible to the
empty vessels littering the crackled runes.
stubble of a floor, marble upheaved,
angry where it stood, unnerving in its
stagnet choice of life against
the breathing,
inoutinoutinoutinout.
stop, president of nothing,
president of all,
president of mind as it
crumbled down, the swirling pretend of
accidental fate in the holey floor.
thirteen and a half windows.
three doors.
a closet. the fourth door.
and yet nothing, no exit.
sitting there, breathing.
a tragedy solely by being in existence,
instead of among the bodies across the
broken marble floor.
clenched fists unrationally slammed,
skin peeled, anger seethed,
and that floating enigma of regret
slid over and around,
and the president of the state of mind
gave into to the empty escape
it no longer had, fate a reminder
that no matter what good is done,
bad is done, and sometimes,
sometimes,
you are at the end of the gun,
no matter how hard you try.
three doors.
a closet, which was something like a fourth door.
but it only lead to a small dark space.
chipping pillars.
one big chair, with one big pink and blue cushion.
and just one breathing soul.
somewhat breathing that is.
a shadow loomed, hovered, sat
right on top of the chair;
an enigma, a figment, a vision
the remains of a conscious decision.
ominous in nature, invisible to the
empty vessels littering the crackled runes.
stubble of a floor, marble upheaved,
angry where it stood, unnerving in its
stagnet choice of life against
the breathing,
inoutinoutinoutinout.
stop, president of nothing,
president of all,
president of mind as it
crumbled down, the swirling pretend of
accidental fate in the holey floor.
thirteen and a half windows.
three doors.
a closet. the fourth door.
and yet nothing, no exit.
sitting there, breathing.
a tragedy solely by being in existence,
instead of among the bodies across the
broken marble floor.
clenched fists unrationally slammed,
skin peeled, anger seethed,
and that floating enigma of regret
slid over and around,
and the president of the state of mind
gave into to the empty escape
it no longer had, fate a reminder
that no matter what good is done,
bad is done, and sometimes,
sometimes,
you are at the end of the gun,
no matter how hard you try.
sean: rowdy, millimeters, fashioned, swedish.
just let the drummer kick
each drum hit shook dust off into the crowd,
thumps of feet and hands clapped away the
remnants of good times long since had.
he was pumping away, bass drum kicking,
knocking a rowdy mass of human bodies
into a writhing, sweaty swarm of
mindless, beat drones.
with an old-fashioned musician's smirk
and a crack of two sticks trying to ignite
the fever of music over their heads.
from miles to meters, to feet to millimeters,
from seconds away to milliseconds away,
to inhaling each note down into the rhythm of the hips,
watch them sway to the snare hit,
to the crash of that cymbal as it chimes away,
angry, then smooth.
'let's get swedish, tonight baby,
let's swim like fish, get all red,
let's get swedish,'
he sings, stamps out to each
synchronized bass stomp.
bop, bump, bomp.
and that mass, that rowdy crowd
that hall of drones as they dance
slaves to the music,
feel the comeback hit them and
sing along as if they'd never disappeared
to the land of dustmites and mistakes
all made at the bottom of the bottle.
that's right, each hit, each bass string
each guitar riff, each crack in the singer's voice
mesmerizes them into forgetting,
that they came from the plummeted ashes of
total downfall,
because guys, they're here, they're back.
'let's be swedish, tonight baby.'
thumps of feet and hands clapped away the
remnants of good times long since had.
he was pumping away, bass drum kicking,
knocking a rowdy mass of human bodies
into a writhing, sweaty swarm of
mindless, beat drones.
with an old-fashioned musician's smirk
and a crack of two sticks trying to ignite
the fever of music over their heads.
from miles to meters, to feet to millimeters,
from seconds away to milliseconds away,
to inhaling each note down into the rhythm of the hips,
watch them sway to the snare hit,
to the crash of that cymbal as it chimes away,
angry, then smooth.
'let's get swedish, tonight baby,
let's swim like fish, get all red,
let's get swedish,'
he sings, stamps out to each
synchronized bass stomp.
bop, bump, bomp.
and that mass, that rowdy crowd
that hall of drones as they dance
slaves to the music,
feel the comeback hit them and
sing along as if they'd never disappeared
to the land of dustmites and mistakes
all made at the bottom of the bottle.
that's right, each hit, each bass string
each guitar riff, each crack in the singer's voice
mesmerizes them into forgetting,
that they came from the plummeted ashes of
total downfall,
because guys, they're here, they're back.
'let's be swedish, tonight baby.'
chiara two: teddy bear, knife, richard simmons, garbage bag. (had to be star-trek related)
it's all only logical
it's abrupt, a disgruntling ringing sound.
but it isn't urgent; not really. just twining along the
last few threads of sleep,
hanging in the crust of his eyes as he imagines
it isn't that time of night again.
a whimpering noise, clinging to the monitor
and he stumbles, slowly, knowing she won't wake up;
it's his job, isn't it? isn't it now?
so he's up. feet knowing the way,
mind not quite supportive of the sudden jolted movements,
(this proves to be difficult miscommunication,
as he knocks over a lamp,
nearly splits his toe with the butter knife left on the nightstand,
which he'll confront her about later, because, let's be honest,
he isn't a maid around here;
it's his job, isn't it? isn't it now?)
short shirts, skimpy tanktop, the heat of the cabin
proving the necessity for richard simmons-style sleepwear,
and he's sitting at the side of the crib,
running a teddy bear from side to side against the edge,
and the crying stops, for a bit, as he hums away
"i want to rock and roll all night" until he's asleep again,
and that's when she asks for some water;
it's his job, isn't it? isn't it now?
he decides to clean up the kitchen,
drops remnants of dinner they didn't clean into a
full and overburdened garbage bag.
grumbling would be heard, if he allowed it, but he doesn't
he just fumbles for the light, prays nothing else whimpers
through the terrifyingly sleepless night he's had
and he crawls into bed and pulls uhura close, as all logical spock's do;
it's his job, isn't it? isn't it now?
but it isn't urgent; not really. just twining along the
last few threads of sleep,
hanging in the crust of his eyes as he imagines
it isn't that time of night again.
a whimpering noise, clinging to the monitor
and he stumbles, slowly, knowing she won't wake up;
it's his job, isn't it? isn't it now?
so he's up. feet knowing the way,
mind not quite supportive of the sudden jolted movements,
(this proves to be difficult miscommunication,
as he knocks over a lamp,
nearly splits his toe with the butter knife left on the nightstand,
which he'll confront her about later, because, let's be honest,
he isn't a maid around here;
it's his job, isn't it? isn't it now?)
short shirts, skimpy tanktop, the heat of the cabin
proving the necessity for richard simmons-style sleepwear,
and he's sitting at the side of the crib,
running a teddy bear from side to side against the edge,
and the crying stops, for a bit, as he hums away
"i want to rock and roll all night" until he's asleep again,
and that's when she asks for some water;
it's his job, isn't it? isn't it now?
he decides to clean up the kitchen,
drops remnants of dinner they didn't clean into a
full and overburdened garbage bag.
grumbling would be heard, if he allowed it, but he doesn't
he just fumbles for the light, prays nothing else whimpers
through the terrifyingly sleepless night he's had
and he crawls into bed and pulls uhura close, as all logical spock's do;
it's his job, isn't it? isn't it now?
strudel: pineapple, universe, hexagon, pigeon.
join me for tea in the andromeda galaxy
when was the last time you surfed around the universe?
no, not like that cheesy train song. none of that
"did-you-make-it-to-the-milky-way" silliness.
i mean really took a break from everything,
and got lost in the stars. last time i was there
i made a new constellation: this branched-out-topped
pineapple. i sat between the stems. evened them out,
pressed a few together on the sides, closer.
this was before they died, before anyone could see them.
warm balls, sizzling by my eyes and fingertips.
i never thought life would reach such a paramount of
all that was good, as i molded each star into place.
a hexagon of emotions stumbled around my stomach,
and the resulting feeling took butterflies away,
replaced on large, wing-flappingly obnoxious pigeon,
burrowing away at my gut.
i could barely touch the stars anymore, barely feel them
vibrating against my palm,
when suddenly i was awake, curled un my sheets.
a cool moonlight bathed my bed and i stared,
helplessly lost being back to gravity and humanity,
but smiled wide at yes.
the slim pineapple constellation.
so have you? just surfed around the universe?
try it sometime; you may wake up back here,
but you'll be more enriched for the experience.
no, not like that cheesy train song. none of that
"did-you-make-it-to-the-mi
i mean really took a break from everything,
and got lost in the stars. last time i was there
i made a new constellation: this branched-out-topped
pineapple. i sat between the stems. evened them out,
pressed a few together on the sides, closer.
this was before they died, before anyone could see them.
warm balls, sizzling by my eyes and fingertips.
i never thought life would reach such a paramount of
all that was good, as i molded each star into place.
a hexagon of emotions stumbled around my stomach,
and the resulting feeling took butterflies away,
replaced on large, wing-flappingly obnoxious pigeon,
burrowing away at my gut.
i could barely touch the stars anymore, barely feel them
vibrating against my palm,
when suddenly i was awake, curled un my sheets.
a cool moonlight bathed my bed and i stared,
helplessly lost being back to gravity and humanity,
but smiled wide at yes.
the slim pineapple constellation.
so have you? just surfed around the universe?
try it sometime; you may wake up back here,
but you'll be more enriched for the experience.
josh: pigeon, pigeon, pigeon, pigeon.
i mean it, he was right
poo-too-weet, poo-too-weet
kurt vonnegut was right,
right to end his ways with a pigeon cooing.
poo-too-weet,
aren't you jealous, mr. pigeon?
i can coo better than you,
and we all know i smell better.
i'm sure mrs. pigeon isn't fond of
you fluttering your feathers for girls,
when she isn't around.
oh mr. pigeon.
envy me, envy my call,
poo-too-weet, poo-too-weet,
y'know, kurt vonnegut was right.
kurt vonnegut was right,
right to end his ways with a pigeon cooing.
poo-too-weet,
aren't you jealous, mr. pigeon?
i can coo better than you,
and we all know i smell better.
i'm sure mrs. pigeon isn't fond of
you fluttering your feathers for girls,
when she isn't around.
oh mr. pigeon.
envy me, envy my call,
poo-too-weet, poo-too-weet,
y'know, kurt vonnegut was right.
lara: orange, plastic, rump, antidisestablishmentarianism.
follow your dreams
she was a plastic dream,
i'm sure you've heard that though. all dolled up,
orange-skin, plump rump, she was everything;
everything he ever wanted in a
long-awaited one night stand.
he woos her with lawyer terms,
with promises of empowerment between the sheets,
colors her cheeks with a little more whiskey,
hidden in her martini. she'll never know.
she gets lulled to his bed,
words like superfluous and
antidisestablishmentarianism,
confusing her into thinking he's
calling her beautiful.
by morning he'll forget her name,
and she'll be walk-of-shaming her way
back downtown, passed the bar,
back to take-two of soulmate searching.
and he laughs, because he knows,
he knows what she wanted,
but let's admit it: who finds it in a bar.
i'm sure you've heard that though. all dolled up,
orange-skin, plump rump, she was everything;
everything he ever wanted in a
long-awaited one night stand.
he woos her with lawyer terms,
with promises of empowerment between the sheets,
colors her cheeks with a little more whiskey,
hidden in her martini. she'll never know.
she gets lulled to his bed,
words like superfluous and
antidisestablishmentariani
confusing her into thinking he's
calling her beautiful.
by morning he'll forget her name,
and she'll be walk-of-shaming her way
back downtown, passed the bar,
back to take-two of soulmate searching.
and he laughs, because he knows,
he knows what she wanted,
but let's admit it: who finds it in a bar.
steve: once, girl, nantucket, bucket.
the best i ever had
she was a dirty limerick, wrapped up in a haiku
she had promises of sestinas
and once in awhile, i can pretend that she was
a perfect girl, tied up in a towel. she always said
she was from nantucket, born in a
little shed off the backroads. i pretended to believe her
got lost in her luscious hair.
i still keep her blood in a bucket in the fridge.
she was a personal favorite.
she had promises of sestinas
and once in awhile, i can pretend that she was
a perfect girl, tied up in a towel. she always said
she was from nantucket, born in a
little shed off the backroads. i pretended to believe her
got lost in her luscious hair.
i still keep her blood in a bucket in the fridge.
she was a personal favorite.
veronica: twist, engage, flirt, maraud. (not allowed to use adjectives or adverbs.)
explain this too me, please make sense
i tend to fall in love when it's inopportune. how else would it happen?
i twist my feelings into a knot, tie them into a bow,
catch my heart beating against my ribs and question.
why do i let this happen? again?
he makes me flirt. makes me feel alive.
all he had to say was "engage", and he was my
jean-luc picard with hair and height.
he is the marauder of my heart, and yet
he hasn't the slightest clue. how do i tell him,
he's already got me where he needs me,
without telling him he can walk all over me?
i will simply never know.
i twist my feelings into a knot, tie them into a bow,
catch my heart beating against my ribs and question.
why do i let this happen? again?
he makes me flirt. makes me feel alive.
all he had to say was "engage", and he was my
jean-luc picard with hair and height.
he is the marauder of my heart, and yet
he hasn't the slightest clue. how do i tell him,
he's already got me where he needs me,
without telling him he can walk all over me?
i will simply never know.
kevin: cat, atrocity, omnipotent, pastafarianism.
why don't you people listen!
the flying spaghetti monster.
bow down, or suffer the consequences.
what are the consequences you say?
let me put down my sharpened scythe, because really
i'm so glad you asked.
no one ever asks. but most people don't even know
what pastafarianism is.
only your kids do. do you have kids?
no?
get some. they'll be able to roll their eyes at you
for not being all-knowing about the memes in the world.
memes? you don't even know what a meme is?
are you kidding me? lolcats, challenge accepted?
...goodness gracious. how do you live?
that's a down right atrocity if i ever heard one.
aren't people your age supposed to be all
omnipotent?
didn't you roam with dinosaurs?
you had to. look at those wrinkles.
maybe i'm not here for the spaghetti monster.
maybe i'm death at your door, 'cause man,
you look like you could use a lyin' down.
-- hey! no need to --
all right, all right. listen. the consequences,
to not following the spaghetti monster are --
ouch. man, why does everyone
and i do mean everyone
slam their door on my toes?
rude.
bow down, or suffer the consequences.
what are the consequences you say?
let me put down my sharpened scythe, because really
i'm so glad you asked.
no one ever asks. but most people don't even know
what pastafarianism is.
only your kids do. do you have kids?
no?
get some. they'll be able to roll their eyes at you
for not being all-knowing about the memes in the world.
memes? you don't even know what a meme is?
are you kidding me? lolcats, challenge accepted?
...goodness gracious. how do you live?
that's a down right atrocity if i ever heard one.
aren't people your age supposed to be all
omnipotent?
didn't you roam with dinosaurs?
you had to. look at those wrinkles.
maybe i'm not here for the spaghetti monster.
maybe i'm death at your door, 'cause man,
you look like you could use a lyin' down.
-- hey! no need to --
all right, all right. listen. the consequences,
to not following the spaghetti monster are --
ouch. man, why does everyone
and i do mean everyone
slam their door on my toes?
rude.
