Saturday, July 30, 2005

Blah. That's it. Just Blah.

---> I have a new clock on my sidebar. Purdy.

Thursday, July 28, 2005

Anyone heard of these new xanga things? They're like blogs...but different. I never knew about them till I went to camp and a whole bunch of people have them but..hey, I don't know, should I switch over to the dark side? ;)

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

Burnt flesh of cadence on hot summer nights.
Sparks will never burn bright enough to match her eyes.
As she lays on the floor, a mystery to mankind.
Someone puts another log on the fire.
The flames are alight with a soul's glow.
She wonders what fuels the flame,
in her life,
and who put it out.
The scratches of ashes running up her arms,
a marker of what she feels on the inside;
a truth created by blackened sticks,
and hateful remarks in the din of night.
The night burns on unto day and the flames draw softer,
pulling in their exhaust and turning violent shouts to sardonic whispers.
Her eyes cast shadows on the thick, light-sick ground.
Her mouth pulls at words she cannot speak.
She trembles and wonders,
as the fire hisses black smoke,
if a soft breath, serenaded by her lips,
could extinguish a fire.
She wonders,
if a breath out would leave her
breathless inside.
A moment of pity's sake for the Beast,
before Beauty can be freed from under the capturing glass.

Monday, July 25, 2005
Listening to : Hallelujah - Leonard Cohen

Morning eyelids blink.
Tired sunshadow child.
Early sunrise girl.
Breath of stardust caught in honey, dewdrop eyes.
Fingers entangled in spider's webs.
Lips newly rosen by sweet strawberry tastes.
Styrofoam cups newly named crowns in the jestering court.
A sharp intake of angels and fairies in the garden.
Her feet step nimbly over stained blueberry bushes.
Her laugh rings out to skies past clouds.
The kingdom bows at her feet,
and she gives them honour by bowing back,
her pudgy hand placed clumsily on her foam crown
to keep it from falling into blueberry patches.
Her laugh tucked back into her pocket as she skips backwards,
when the call is made,
and her thoughts drift soundlessly to a Queen's breakfast of jam on toast,
and a goblet-glass of orange juice, freshly picked from her enchanted garden in the royal court.

Sunday, July 24, 2005

A Spoken Word Poem

Your eyes
crystal and blue
shattered, shattered, shattered
by my kiss
and scattered, scattered, scattered
so I wouldn't cry
So I wouldn't die
in your arms
right there
on the kitchen floor
with polish
smelling lemon fresh
lemon fresh, pine scent, smelling...
oh, oh, oh, so sweet
Smelling oh, oh, oh
And I wanted your death kiss, lemon scent kiss
right there
so your eyes would crackle, crumble and fall
into mine
right there
right there
right there
on the kitchen floor

Sunday, July 17, 2005

*waves and sniffles* Bye guys....*sniff*....I'll miss YOU most of all *points finger at you from monitor* Bwahaha...*cries* I'm going to be such a looooooooossssseeeerr...*sniff*....Okay, well....BYE *waves and looks back while walking into door* ....ouch.

Saturday, July 16, 2005

Every echo,
and silhouette,
reminds me of you.
I am drawn to
Too faded to remember
the real colours
of our love.
You paint the sidewalks,
with memories ingrained
in chalk.
You scuff your shoes along the sides,
to blur out the images.
Do you carry around the drawing
on your shoes all day?
Pressing them hard
against the ground,
imprinting your love
on every surface?
And tell me,
will it
Wear out?
Fade out?
Drown out?
The rain spills
from a burdened cloud,
as if an arrow had been shot through it.
And your chalky aftertaste runs down
hollowed gutters.
Your love runs
beneath the city,
and no one
ever knows.

Friday, July 15, 2005

I have a wicked new haircut and I'm wearing my big ol' sunglasses even though it's cloudy as hell. I want to write. I want to shatter into a billion pieces and reflect the sunlight exuberantly. But then again, I don't. I just can't get back in the ol' habit of things. My cat bit me. Darned thing didn't mean to, it was my fault. Imagine a bite that goes right to the bone. It's like that but like a smidgen away from the bone. I swear it. And it's all swollen to hell now. I'm lucky it's not on my right hand otherwise my writing would be damned, for sure. Well, not for sure, I'd make out, somehow. It isn't even all bruised and purple like I thought. The only fun of injuries is that they turn all colours and you get to boast about 'em to all your buddies...but no, mine just puffed up like a fish and has these little snakebite holes. What a joke. I woke up real early though this morning, so I'm figuring on sleeping early tonight. I need to pack tomorrow. Hell, I'm all out of sorts. And I can't write. What good is going to a writing camp if I can't write worth nothing? And my best friend has disappeared off the face of the the Earth. Again, my fault. I haven't been online or nothing. I've been busy getting my life into knots and working hellishly and trying to be a good sport about visiting the ol' relatives. I do like visiting 'em, don't get me wrong, but I do wish they'd do it at a more convienent time. I suppose that's my mother's fault though. Well, not her fault..but with all the working she's doing she doesn't have a moment left to help me out. I don't know what's gotten into me all of the sudden. I feel all pangy and tired and sad. Sadder than the blanketed sky, I swear it. Even my cute little haircut makes me feel all down. Maybe it's because I'm reading depressing books or because I woke up so early or because I'm leaving for a week and I'll be all alone. All by myself. I don't know any of 'em. Not yet, anyhow. And I don't even know if they have a goddamn working shower. Hell. I am the infinite screwball of this century. I swear it. But damnit, I swear it's all an act. I swear it. Everytime I read a goddamn book or watch a goddamn movie I end up acting all like that character or thinking like I think they would think. For example, I watched a movie about Helen Keller when I was younger and afterwards I walked around like I was blind all feeling the walls and everything. That's like now. I finished this classic, Catcher in the Rye, and I don't even get the meaning of the goddamn book but look here, I'm talking like the sonofabitch. 'cept he always said it sunovabitch or something that ways. Holy hell, would you look at it? My post is taking over the whole goddamn blog. What a thing, eh? I don't want to leave you guys with a long big depressed post. God, I hope my writing strikes up before sunday. Something something...I don't know. I'm much too drowned out, as it is anyway. G'night.

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

Inspired by: Blue Orchid - White Stripes
{It took me like a week and it's still not right...but to hell with it, I say.}

"Follow me," he says in that enchanting silver lullaby voice. His scars trace and dig into his flesh. A wicked lullaby; forever alibi. "Love me," she screams as he laughs and tilts his hat in the direction of the Carnival. "Step right up," he whispers slow and soft into her ear.

His hat is made out of bat wings and sewed together with the legs of venomous spiders. His face is a cut-out copy, all scratched and torn, before being put back together. Some of the pieces are missing and those lost patches are replaced by lizard's backs and the sinew from babies toes used as thread to stitch it back in place. His lips snake up his cheeks when he smiles and she crookedly acknowledges that that is perhaps his only real feature. His eyes are mirrors reflecting shadows of lost lives. It only seems right in the dark of night. He wears a suit of crimson and blue, tailored to fit his smug attitude. His shoes are plain, perhaps the only things that don't belong; to keep her sane, after all.

Sweetly he steps around the frame, making her the center spotlight; the claim to his fame. He twirls a serpent cane and flips it in the air. He was beautiful once. Someone must have loved him. She was something pure, once. A light in shadows cast at dawn. Can the lights go brighter? She can hear the sconcing scream of track and taste the effervescent drips of crystallized candy. She hears the haunting sirens in the background. Singing-no- they’re screaming. And suddenly everything - even the purple glow of alligator tongues and snapping jaws of the audience - seems right.

The lights bounce off of her now silver eyelashes. A tear streaks down her cheek and turns into turpentine. Her feet are molded onto platforms and as she walks her body cringes doubly. Her legs are decorated with barbed wire that run up their lengths and bite into tepid flesh. A tutu dawns her waist of abnormal lengths. Crimson and blue. Her arms are covered in crawling snakes and her shirt is made out of simpering spiders, linked together by the bloodshot veins of sleepless dolls' eyes. Her hair sticks out at angry angles, blotched with patches of crimson and blue, and matted with spider's nests. Her eyes make the honest mistake of catching the spotlight and absorbing it like a fly, helpless in trying to fly away from a glue-coated web. Even her lips and cheeks are rouged a sickening red that threatens blood; that screams blood. He made her. She is his.

He flips the cane and it twirls high into the air, a faint hiss audible. A final act to his one-act show. But can she dance? Can she sing? That's all they want to know. His grin slithers higher and he answers, "Why, yes. All that times two." And he lowers his hat right over his eyes and motions to the side, "Please, enjoy the show."

It is too pretend for her that she deems it must be pure truth. Her eyes glimmer at the thought of 2 shows a day, 7 days a week. His lips curl into a vicious grin and he pounds his cane onto the floor, leaving crooked marks as his lust grows. The carousel is rusty, broken and hinged. The bumper cars run off their tracks. The roller coaster only does halfway loops. At the Carnival, there is only one thing left to see. A ballerina baby, stars studding her eyes and a lemon-sized drop of light, glitzed with silver and satin. Her body twists and tumbles on the sideways stage and her screams echo from plummeting waves of audience cheers and banter of the greed-filled kind. Someone loved her once; someone thinks from the crowd, she was beautiful once. Her spins become delirious as they threaten to encircle her throat. A numbing kind of pain. And she sees it all through eyes that have known lost lives; that are counting the days until hers, too, will be lost and recaptured, like golden fireflies, in tepid, tallying eyes.

He watches vividly from the fire-side. She slips, falls, landing on her porcelain cheek and creating a crack that veins out like spider web legs to her lips, nose and eyes. He lowers his hat and looks away as the crowd roars in lust and vigor. He closes the door. She wasn't his, anymore. Into the night, he steals away, darkness holding fast to his secrecies. Footsteps fall on crooked bricks, undeterminable from the falling rain. Colours of purple dust the steps and bounce off reflecting light. The Carnival is a distant thought, only reminisced. He leaves her, stained and broken, on the stage floor, to be devoured by hungry tongues and thirsty mouths. A second regret flies away with the crows. She was too young, too spoiled, too envious. She tasted the pomegranate then ate it whole.

He scours the streets of fallen, meretricious girls. His eyes bounce off streetlights and allure his most shadowy side, as he reaches out a hand, gleaming with silver-dusted stars and rings- and says, "Follow me. The show is just about to begin." Leading the way to the star-sick, phantom Carnival, he whispers, slow and soft into her ear, "Step right up. You'll be my final act." The night is tinged with a werewolf's pact. Promises are bogged down with the accent of dripping blood. She tilts her cloudy head and takes his hand, showing off her ballerina-step on sideways, cobbled stones.

Monday, July 11, 2005

It seems like everything is in slow motion. I can't seem to just write anymore. I have these two of which I'm almost finished..and the other is just a basic idea I have to sort out..but it's been like half a month and they're crawling at a snail's pace. I have no motivation whatsoever and apparently now this is turning into more of a journal than anything (oh the horror!). I guess on that note I saw these really cute skater guys crossing the road today...*sighs dreamily* Love is a bitch....Hell, Love is the combined chromosomes of a bitch and a son of a bitch (That same bitch? perhaps...quite disturbing, though.) ultimately creating Love. Love has no siblings, except say for its long divided siamese-twin, Hate. Love and Hate are basically the same things, as they were formed from the same materials and were even attached at one point, so really, despite their shallow differences, they are both, deep down, the same in almost every way. How quaint. Indeed. I could go on, but I need to be waking at an early hour tomorrow. And my brother is due in any moment from his bar-hopping. Haha, I'm kidding. Well, not about the bar, but about the hopping. My brother is such a funny fellow. Anyway, you shall all expect a writing from me by the week's end. I promise you that. And no, it will not be another of these horrid journal-style entry. How can any of you stand to just read each other's complaints and queries about life? Really? I can't stand it sometimes. I hope you all didn't put yourselves through too much misery reading this and hoping for something good. All I have left to promise are my words, that of which have fallen short of anything remotely wonderful or even good lately. Is writing much like riding a bike, do you suppose? Or after you've written all your ideas and everything your brain has, do you just stop? Or do you go on repeating yourself? There are only certain combinations words can make...much like that saying about the monkeys and the typewriters and how eventually they will write out one of Shakespeare's works or some other fancy idea like that. You know, all the like...My, have you all not gone and shot yourselves by now? Please, don't die on me. I'll stop myself soon. Really..and you can all go on with your lives. Instead of being trapped in my meanderings. My, it is quite hard to stop, isn't it? I apologize. By the end of the week though...I will have something...I hope. Don't get your own hopes up. Summer is draining and without inspiration. No turmoil to fuel my writing pangs.

Sunday, July 10, 2005

...Is the waiting killing you guys yet?

Only a bit longer. I hate being cocky. Haha. Man, someone deflate my ego. I love summer...I hate mosquitoes so I don't go outside, yes that does mean that I am becoming a lazy fat person but, I love digging in my basement...summer and basements. Man, I love it. Yes. You can find wicked stuff in, go look. Even if it's not your basement. Yes. It's like a treasure hunt..heh...unless you find dead bodies...then, might want to fast you can...out of the basement.

Good luck. ;)

Thursday, July 07, 2005

Holy hell. Please disregard those last few posts. I have taken two days of no posts (technically only one since this is thursday and I'm posting) for a breather and now I come back and can't help but want to shoot whoever wrote that. Oh, no, wait...that was me. Ha. What a life. But you can't have the good stuff without plowing through the bad stuff, right?
Anyway, I was working on a thing...but you'll have to wait to see more of it. Okay? Do you think you can do that?

Man, it's been such a weird two days. Sorry I've been neglecting this..well, kind of neglecting...I'm a bit too obsessed, eh? Nobody else posts frantically like me...

Anyway, just hope you guys are out enjoying the weather and squeezing the most out of it. And don't worry...there will be more posts..later...maybe...some day...;)

Tuesday, July 05, 2005

.To Tell Me.

Day 5 - Afternoon


It appears that the gentleman beside me is a conductor! Why you would never guess it, he being on a train himself and all. How curious. He went up to the front and demanded to be let seen the situation. Of course, the demanding wasn't necessary, they let him in right away and poof! He was gone. I wonder if they told him the real reason the train was stopped. I wonder if they caught the boy. Because he was a boy. Well, older than me but I know he mustn't have been older than twenty. Of course, he was roughed up a bit. It made him seem older, the dirt on his cheeks and the blood from his lower lip. He mustn't have been alone, however, for I saw two pairs of hands throw the man overboard. Is it called overboard when it's on a train? Oh, I don't know.

This waiting has gotten tiring. The passengers are all excited because of the stop. Some of them have gotten up from their seats to try and help the problem - to no avail - while the children peek out from the windows and race up and down the aisles and mothers call out to them halfheartedly. The doors open constantly and the air has changed from stiff to cold. The snow in the window is blinding to my eyes. I can't look out anymore.


-P. Hillary Williams

- To Tell Me -

Day 5

My Dearest J-

Has it truly been this long? 5 days I've been squished inbetween a man with no indifference and the burdening snow which chases the rain and tears down thunderclouds. I don't know the heartstream anymore. This is all a collapsing tearduct of absolution. Allow me to explain the events of the day for we are no longer moving, though the snow keeps falling and the man beside me continues snoring and the children keep laughing and the mothers are tired and the tracks are much too silent.

I woke up to hear a soft chiming sound. It felt like falling. I realized that the sun had not yet opened its eyes, though I could no longer keep mine closed. I made my way to the dining section, only to have it be closed. I could hear the soft straining of the train but I had long grown used to the sound in my ears. I made my way up to the front. I wondered if I could perhaps sneak a look at the engine. My father was an engineer and he worked on many different kinds of crafts. I had been a curious child. I could hear the rumbling of the train getting louder in my ears as I worked my way up to the front car. I never did get up to the front. The door was locked. I was such a fool. But then...

Well, let me tell you that I am writing this from my usual spot on the train, between the man and the window, but I am in a much different frame of mind. I am waiting. It is a much better feeling than you think. The train has stopped. I am making an ill-concieved guess that he was the one who caused it, but then I did see him that night too, when the man was heaved out of the train. I know the man was thrown, because I saw his hands as he threw him, and the cloth around his right one because he had cut it. When I fell into him, the cloth had fallen off and revealed a jagged line down his palm. When the train had stopped and I had fell and fallen on him who had flown out of the door that I had given up on. And now I am waiting for the chase scene. I'm waiting for the part where he robs the passengers and takes off. I'm waiting for my adventure to begin.

-Penny Williams, the greatest fool.

P.S. : They are telling us all to be calm. That something got stuck in one of the wheels and caused us to screech to a halt. But they don't know that I saw him running. That I have the cloth that hid his scars. That, before he fled, he stopped and grinned at me.

Monday, July 04, 2005

To Tell Me...

Day 4

Dear J-

It's been longer than you know. I can only hope that we are close to our destination. I have lost track of the days. Today I saw a curious thing. I was looking out my window, to avoid conversation with the intelligence-lacking man on my left, and, for just a moment, I saw something that caught my attention. The snow has been rolling on for days, and sometimes there are trees and hills, but this...this was different. It was like a flipbook from my childhood. First there was just the same old scenery, but then there was his body, falling, and falling...and then, oh, and then he was just gone, whipped out of sight by the fast moving rails. I caught myself in the reflection of the glass of the window. I wondered if this was real at all. I wondered if it was perhaps my imagination playing tricks on me after so many days of children screaming and men snoring and wives nagging. So I turned to you, and I don't know what else to do. My eyes strain for the window's acceptance but I'm afraid what I will see.


-P. H. W.

To Tell Me.

Day 3


I miss being back home. I miss the birds and the tall, tall trees. I miss Bobby and Jane and Len. I even miss my parents. But, most of all, I miss the light.



To Tell Me

Day 2

Dear J-

If I stare long enough at the back of someone's head in front of me, perhaps they will turn around and have an intelligent conversation with me. Perhaps my breath will make them real. In a different life, perhaps I would love them. Perhaps the train rails are not seeping into my brain and transfixing on neurons that ping throughout my body and make me long to be under those rolling wheels and pressed against the hard metal of those silent tracks. I could be a comic book girl who is stuck in her own fate without a hero to save her. The snow would bury me and I would be a goddess in some other world until in a different century they would find me and I would be on the six o'clock news and everyone would listen but no one would care. My cousins are waiting on the other side of the tracks in cellophane boxes and tissue paper hats. I wonder how long they will be waiting.

It's already been too long,

-P. H. Williams

Sunday, July 03, 2005

To Tell Me,

{Installments of journal entries, you'll have to wait to find out more, I suppose. Unless I get bored and decide to disregard this...haha,'s quite boring now...but wait, it will get better. I promise.}

Day 1.

Dear J-

This is a suffering. It seems that we are on an endless journey to our eventual Hell. The guy beside me snores too loudly and I am afraid that his drooling will start an ocean at my feet and swallow me up like a gulping whale. I would ask to switch seats but the train appears at its fullest. Children are everywhere, screaming and laughing and filled to the brim in sugary sweetness from candies their mothers gave them so they would be quiet. It appears that this is working in quite the opposite manner. The seats are uncomfortable, and too small too properly curl up in. I would like to be outside stuck in a snowy cave rather than here in this slow-moving beast of a transport. I suppose that is the one good thing about this trip; I have a window seat. Too bad the snow tends more to mock me then to delight me as it falls in traipsing circles of disregard. I shall hate this trip and when I get back to see my parents, they will be sorry for making me go.

All for now,

-Penny H. Williams

Friday, July 01, 2005

Tempid hearts fall quickly through
lava-veined heartthrobs.
Kiss me quickly.
Then let me die.
A reverse on sweet, sweet,
Snow White,
or surrendering
Sleeping Beauty.
Call me names,
so I might smile.
Kick me down,
so I can dance,
in a falling stare.
Treasures held.
Secrets kept.
Look away,
so I might not cry.
So I might not frown.
So I might not live,
without you.
There's not much left to believe in.
For you,
and me.
I've wanted so long to stop this monarchy.
You've played cards with the devil,
and dealt your sins.
I didn't believe much in love, anyway.
Flip back my hair,
pull on my shades.
It's going to be a long, long day.
You're too good to be left for last.
I thought I loved you, anway.
Kiss me in a moment of regret.
Taste the love of what we felt,
There was a once.
You are too rough with love.
I don't want your lips,
or your wine.
Take it back,
to those years before,
when the night air
was all I felt from you.
You think love is a gift.
You don't know how I light fires,
at dawn,
in your eyes,
and you are drawn to me.
Do you realize,
at all,
that all this is,
is static cling?
I'm tired.
Of life.
I just want to play cards,
bet your soul,
and lose it all.