THE LIST
How do you love something,
there’s no holding on to?
If you embrace the ocean,
the waves knock you down.
Try to kiss the sky,
you fall to earth.
Holding hands with the night,
leaves your hand in the dark.
How do you love something?
You just do.
Warm breeze in your face...
Shadows on a hot day...
Quiet at the end
of the perfect piece of music...
Answers to wondrous questions...
You love them, or you don’t.
But how do you hold on to them?
1. Sleep on it.
2. Remember to call.
3. Write it down.
4. Surrender to it.
5. Let it go.
6. Do your job.
7. Watch out for others.
8. Wait. Guess again.
9. Close your mouth.
10. Raise your sails.
11. Open your eyes.
12. Burn your bridges down.
13. Be the one.
14. Remember it all.
15. Care.
16. ...
You so I could: PAINT YOU NUDE
I want to paint you nude on a catskin rug
not like Delacruz and his naked Maya
but like Klimt: in an allegory for medicine
for philosophy, law & death with fiery red hair.
I want to paint lines in corners of your Picasso eyes
to show exhaustion of womanhood, disappointment in love
of human loneliness, Cubist outrage, or sudden age when
really they're only the wrinkles of laughter.
I want to paint you inside Lempicka's high-rise
Deco stories of dizzying cityscape where decadent
ideas float by your head, like flowers, fish, a pilot's hat,
cowboy boots, cars, guns, skeletons all refined into naked ART.
Where your breasts are Renoir pink copies of bathers cheeks
your lips are scarlet letters tattooed on Botticelli's cherubs
your hamhock hips convulse the populace in acts
of Baroque bourgeois lust that I love.
To Art in America critics, your nude buttocks are hilly
and hairlessly disproportionate to everything but your soul,
where I find only an ample ally to sit with
on winding stretches of whitened Wyethean road.
Painted road where mile markers dot stretch marks
like angry pimples and broken down wrecks in yards
detract nothing from this abstract landscape of nudity
that I drive over with crazy acrylic paint.
Your labia, lax and luxuriant, like B&W pornography
glisten with all the O'Keefean colors of sky, Lilly petal and stamen
yellow with PoMo feminist signs of Ovarian discourse
and reddened with my bohemian desire to pork you.
I want to paint you nude only to bare my soul
and get you naked into my empty canvas bed.
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Monte's Friends... (175)
[Edit Friends]
superlove..
11/7/06
Kara Is
~*s*~.
Church of..
antique bees
Hieroglyp..
Dylan
Tori Amos
:) josha..
Inner Voice
Colby
Awe-Stricken
Curious N..
iLL ViLLAiN
alchemivida
tara
Melissa
nessie
Down with..
Luke
Divine Jo..
Monte
Doctor Re..
Kassie
Scott
MetaPhyzxx
YMS
Audra
Jedi Mast..
Julie Payne
Jena Kraus
a shrewdn..
Meredith
**All my ..
Adam
*Lesley*
my name i..
~Satori~
just joe
El Mess
*Xwatasha*
Evil Twin..
tulin
Alchemist..
ism
the oppos..
Kelly
not low
DrPhil
~ tree hu..
Kye
Slack Theory
Sky Blu
Isabelle
Obscured ..
Jo
misko
Rebecca
Le Coq
Michael
Dogachaga..
23rd Cent..
..
Ball and Chain
My heart is telling me
our love is through.
I can see the turning
of the key.
I've been decieved
by the clown
inside of me.
I thought that
he was righteous
but he's rain.
Oh something's
telling me
I wear the ball and chain.
Now my patron saint is
fighting with his ghost.
He's always
off somewhere
when I need him most.
The spanish moon
is rising on the hill,
but my heart
is telling me
I love you still.
I come back
to the town
from the flaming ruins.
Now see you
in the street
I begin to swoon.
I love to see you dress
before the mirror.
Won't you let me
in your room
one time before
I finally disappear.
Everybody's wearing
a disguise, to hide
what they've got left
behind their eyes.
But me I can't
cover what I am:
where ever children go
I follow them.
I'm marching
in a parade of liberty.
But as long
as I love you
I'm not free.
How long must I suffer
such abuse,
to let me see
your smile before
I turn you loose.
I'm giving up the game
I've got to leave.
The pot of gold
is only make believe.
The treasure
can't be found
by men who search,
Whose gods are they
and whose dreams
are in a church.
We sat
in an empty theater
and we kissed.
I asked you please
to cross me off your list.
My head tells me
it's time to make a change,
but my heart is telling me
I love you
but you're strange.
Go one more time
at midnight
near the wall.
Take off
your heavy makeup
and your schawl.
Won't you descend
from the throne
from where you sit,
let me feel your love
one more time
before I abandon it.
--Bob Dylan
(tape cuts in)
K:(stutter)fraid of laughter
because it makes one
breathe, youknow, (laugh)
fast and hard. (heh, heh).
J:Sure, I know just
what you mean!
Felt it myself, just
the other day.
K:What do you think
of these shoes?
J:Huh?! oh...those
old things?...fine
I guess.
K:Try this on.
J:What in the world!?
How,...oh like this.
No,no,no...let me!
Give it here this minute.
Okay fits around back
like this. Are they covered?
It fits divine...mirrorTITS
...very cyberpunk.
I wish Kim could see this,
she'd die.
K:So, like I was saying,
Joe gets anxiety attacks.
J:From all that speed
he shoots, I'm sure!
K: Nooo!!, from ummm,
He says they're from
when he was in the service.
Overseas or something...
J:Oh Joe's always
on about something...
but let me tell you
what happened the night
he strangled me...
all about it.
After he raped me...
K:Here give me that hat,
try it like this...yeah! Now
step over next to that
curtain...wait...watch the
rACK!!!my assemblege...
don't move it Jenna...
SHIT!!...do what I tell you,
I'm directing tonight...
you know and don't
J:Alright, alllright Kipp...
just move the
damn camera
over closer to the lamp
and tip the shade up
...hand me those
sunglasses,
no the other ones.
K:What should I do with
the focus...I want
to shoot from outside.
KILL YOUR TELEVISION (Except for HBO. Adult Swim should just be maimed.)
Created by Crazyprofile.com
If I were sure I had talent...
But I have never-never
written anything of that sort
....A book. A novel....
Naturally, at first it would
only be a troublesome,
tiring work, it wouldn't
stop me from existing
or feeling that I exist.
But a time would come
when the book would be
written, when it would
be behind me, and I think
that a little of its clarity
might fall over my past.
Then, perhaps,
because of it, I could
remember my life
without repugnance.
Perhaps one day,
thinking precisely of
this hour, of this
gloomy hour in
which I wait, stooping,
for it to be time to get on
the train, perhaps I shall
feel my heart beat faster
and say to myself:
"That was the day,
that was the hour,
when it all started."
And I might succeed
--in the past, nothing but the
past--in accepting myself.
Night falls. On the second
floor of the Hotel Printania
two windows have just
lighted up.
The building-yard of
the New Station smells
strongly of damp wood:
tomorrow it will rain
in Bouville.
-Jean-Paul Sartre-
-Nausea-
In a Past Life...
You Were: A Genius Dancer.
Where You Lived: Argentina.
How You Died: Killed in Battle.
Now I know who I was In a Past Life. Do you?
ECHOES
Overhead the albatross
hangs motionless
upon the air,
and deep beneath
the rolling waves
in labyrinths of coral caves,
the echo of your
distant tides comes
willowing across the sand,
and everything
is green and submarine,
and no-one shows us
to the land,
and no-one knows
the wheres or whys,
and something stirs
as something tries,
to start to climb
towards the light.
Strangers passing
in the street,
by chance two separate
classes meet,
and I am you and
what I see is me,
and do I take you
by the hand,
and lead you
through the land,
and help me
understand the best I can,
and no-one calls us
to move on,
and no-one forces
down our eyes,
no-one speaks
and no-one tries,
no-one flys
around the sun.
Cloudless everyday
you fall upon my waking eyes,
inviting and inciting
me to rise,
And through the window
in the wall,
comes streaming in
on sunlight wings,
a million bright
ambassadors of morning,
and no-one sings me lullabies,
and no-one makes me
close my eyes,
so I throw the windows
open wide,
and vault with you
across the sky.
By Roger Waters