3.17.2010 :::
Something
Wrote a song for you last night,
And forgot it in my dreams.
Snake feathers, Fate weathers,
Nothing was as it seems.
Then upon my waking hour,
I gained some latent fright,
Moonlit skies, Devil lies,
Became my guiding light.
There you were in front of me,
Gaily watching from your post,
Thunder Claps, Bear traps,
Thrilled me more than most.
Oh then all hell broke loose,
Changing all the ugly rhymes,
Rusted nails, Beached Whales,
Just a sign of the times.
And just then I remembered,
The narrative I wrote to you,
Broken Pens, Headless hens,
Just to name a few.
We were both just strangers,
On a train with many tracks,
Fifteen wheels, Bastard deals,
Paying the bridge man tax.
Playing this game so unfairly,
Called love or some near word,
Hidden Sounds, Fertile Grounds,
There's nothing more absurd.
I wrote a song for you last night,
And remembered it with screams,
Not being there, Without Care,
No, nothing was as it seems.
::: posted by Matthew at 9:54 AM
11.28.2004 :::
Underneath It All
A spotted shirt with spotted flower,
Telling us that it's all over,
Wrecking balls, and waterfalls,
A natural crashing down.
Wilting holidays, and unseen
Circumstances.
Man, spirit and the holy ghost, mean
Nothing less than droughts to you.
A famine of the family,
A famine of the flocks,
A simple shortage of passing time,
Lost from broken clocks.
We'll wash our hands, and remember
Michigan, some girl we killed long
Ago, though she killed us in two
Many ways.
That was seventeen years ago,
And we were decades old.
A movie star cameo, attempting
To tell the news program how badly
The trainwreck ended a career.
We do not talk of things that
Have the ever possible likeness
Of ending sadly.
Holding hands with manakins,
Do you feel that familiar spark
Or do you need matches to see
In the daylight of our bedroom?
I know you got lost, when
You visited his home.
If I had a guitar, I'm sure,
It'd be weeping, as my loves
Are out sleeping,
Sleeping with my presidential
Favors, branded on the sides of
Hospital beds.
Michigan was a little girl,
A little girl we aged and raped.
She'll be happy where she is, and
Plentiful will be her bounty.
Darling, we made no mistake,
We just weren't made for this.
::: posted by Matthew at 8:03 AM
6.08.2004 :::
Sr. Mal Suerte
He goes along a road with one path,
Sr. Mal Suerte.
Thinking that it takes two hands to hold,
two lips to kiss.
Taking no initiative.
Sr. Mal Suerte just watches as she
Rides into the moonlight.
Electric fences and polio paranoia,
He still has 2 weeks in the future.
But they won't matter.
Sr. Mal Suerte, has a back up plan,
He'll learn some mandarin,
And teach the children.
To take his mind off things, magical
And then he'll vanish all regret.
Oh, Sr. Mal Suerte, put down your
Gun. The post office opens late
Today, and plus it is your fault.
It takes one to please,
And another to forgive.
So I'll just bite my tongue,
As I am Sr. Mal Suerte.
I'm not sorry for the things I've done,
But regret the time I knew and acted not.
Goodbye Sra. Buena Suerte.
::: posted by Matthew at 8:50 AM
4.19.2004 :::
Pieces of Me: A Scene From Suzanne's
There is a room with a soiled bed,
By which I mean in soil, growing.
Growing ever since I grew uprooted.
I'm here, in this room as a scavenger.
Not the historian or hopeful youth
I ought to be at this point and time.
Sliding open the door, it makes a
Sort of whooshing sound, giving way
to ghosts and memories, they will
Return. This is where they live.
Where they were born and ultimately
Where they will die. I come back here
From time to time, to remember these
Pieces of me, and that's all they are.
I find my Neitzsche trees, that taught
Me "God is dead."
I find some tiesty fleas, which
Infested my bed.
The mildewed posters with famous
Faces, and turtle superheroes.
The Magic cards, with window
Shards from a vagrant neighborhood
Baseball.
All these are pieces of me, and
Pieces of something more.
The plastic cactus which isn't
Mine lies in the corner, but
I do recall when not so tall,
I feared its plastic spines.
Action figures both open and not,
Reflect in me old story lines,
Where Batman was a wrestler
But never fought a Joker.
And then, sometime between the
Lined up yearbooks with scrolls
Of "Have a nice summer" from
People i've long forgotten. Forgotten
Even though they shall remain
Lasting forever as a piece of me.
Up on a shelf sits old Big Nose,
a stuffed bear, given me by my
Grandmother, named for obvious
Reasons. He watched me touch my
First woman, and sadly my last.
I was a child then, and yet
Six years later I am one now.
And then again, here is a book
Of poems, I wrote about a girl,
A girl named Natalie when I was
Just fifteen. This from that era,
The era I tried to kill myself.
Why, I'm not too sure. But now
Reading this book of poems,
With a dolphin on the cover,
I think I begin to understand.
Standing in the middle, of this
Old breathing room, I attempt
Not to inhale, and failing to
Do so, I resume attempting
"Never give up" proclaims a pillow
Stained with Kool-Aid or cough
Syrup. On it, a picture of a bird
Eating a frog, but in one last
Attempt at life, the frog is choking
The bird. Frogs do not have hands.
But the message is not lost.
The door connecting my old room to
The house is not the type with
A knob and a key. The door is
Glass, and slides back and forth.
It, the door, offered little privacy.
I used to look out as a buffer,
To spy on my fancies, to lie to
Enemies. Now it is a torture for
My memories. A jail they look out
Of at me and know they are forgotten.
Forgotten, broken but still pieces of me.
And then, I get old, past the
Driving age, and my room became
A place to sleep and little more.
This is how my material things
Turn into memories. And i'll
Keep them here, until the room
Is full, or until Suzanne moves.
Ah, here is what I came for,
A letter from a girl I love.
A letter and a card among many,
But this one was the first.
Maybe it was this, I fell in love
With, maybe not. But in this
Room, it does not belong.
As I've not fogotten her.
She'll not end up in this place,
With her pretty face.
Maybe someday, after we're
Married, and this place it
Buried, I'll bring her here,
To my biography. To my
Old memories. And symphonies.
Now I'm learning that, the pieces
of me are no longer me, but
Something before.
These pieces of me, are pieces,
Pieces of something more.
::: posted by Matthew at 6:50 PM
3.26.2004 :::
Tea With Both Sides
I
I walk, so slow. So slow, I don't
Walk anymore.
Falling down into a mousetrap, set
Up for those mice,
Crawling upanddown your chesterfield.
A man of York stopped my standing still.
And explained.
It's just like spinning plates. "What"
I exclaimed, not asked.
But he just vanished, into
A Magician's bus.
Again, I'm walking still, standing at the
Stop sign.
Waiting, expecting the green light.
Life's waiting for a green light.
Stuck being a caution flag.
See me, talking to a stuffed bear.
Who is exciting to me.
It's coming soon, I can see it in the
Thunder clouds.
It's coming soon, but I don't
Know yet, she smiles.
She's who I'd do most
Anything for,
Except for those things, I cannot
Do.
Why can't I last forever,
We will, but we won't know.
What if you are wrong,
And the highways die.
II
Why did the fire go out today, and
Leave you to fly away.
Because I'll not find you in the night
Skies, or in the vacuums you find
So silly. Remember that I woke
Up on the wrong side of the bed
Someday soon ago. And while
I was walking down to Mulberry Lane,
I came across the most quaint cafe.
Calling me with it's spirits of old.
When was it that we made love into
A game, to be won, or lost, most
Often both of these.
But this is not a worry of the Café de
Exquisite.
Where it is, that upon my daily
Pilgrimage to find whatever
Lives inside the city
I come across the place of worship,
To those people who have nerves
That serve life, a devil's tool.
Alas. upon arrival, on the day before
The end begins I find nowhere,
Nowhere to begin my soothing
Rituals at the Café de Exquisite.
III
Before progression, rewind now.
And lift the curtain that leads forward.
A pale ghost, with Blonde snow on
Top. A child of God, who is not
Wrong. Lights the sky,
And lifts the day, among the
Clowns that put on the play.
Does like a woman will do.
To all those she is a mother,
Among saints, and fails
To topple my mighty
Monalith. But fails not in those
Of most important merit.
Again she is my fair fire queen,
Leaving behind only ash.
IV
(still working)
::: posted by Matthew at 12:38 PM
3.04.2004 :::
God, he's your Devil
In heaven, everything is fine.
In heaven, you will be mine.
Backup in the doorway, and say that again.
"God lives in a house at Versailles.
And I don't know, don't know why."
Mary Aunt just looked at me, and
"He won't leave me, to my things"
Don't let the devil, in your door.
In heaven, everything is fine.
In heaven, everything is mine.
Clueless, the marble statue stands.
With diamonds, in their hands.
Is it temptation, or just a passing sin.
Tell me tell me, are you the end?
Or the beginning, maybe both.
Tell me, are you the foe or friend?
In heaven, you will be Queen.
In heaven, you will be clean.
Still now, with the doctor's tongs.
Or you'll just find youself in pain,
Singing the Jesus songs.
I'm not perfect, just a copy,
Of the Son of Man, devil's coffee.
Sooner or later, I'll find out soon.
In heaven, I will be dead.
In heaven, you'll be in my stead.
::: posted by Matthew at 5:36 PM
2.04.2004 :::
Temporarily In Motion
Walking the Razor's edge, between
Blind love and death. He's Temporarily
In motion, because he's not yet dead.
I think we've seen this movie scene
Once before, and didn't like the end.
She's a hypocrite, a healthy person, sick.
And she's gonna plague us once again.
She's what's left, when the fire's
Gone to sleep. Making grown men
Weep. And something driven in.
Masacring my friend, painting his
Fingernails pink, with X's and sins.
And then there I am, confronting
My friend, Mr. Temporarily in Motion.
"Tell me who you are, Tell me what you're not"
"I believe in nothing, nothing's all I've got."
The look in his eyes, like losing a bet,
Dancing around as a fallen marionette.
Let him go Ashen Queen, magazine.
He used to have a sword, now it's yours.
And I've paid his debt for the last time,
If he wants your disease, he won't get mine.
::: posted by Matthew at 12:01 PM
1.23.2004 :::
Just To Remember
How can it matter, why you, brushed your hair today.
Do you rememeber that there were games, games
we used to play.
Without the lovers and the indescretions, why did those
days go away.
You allude to the pink bunnies in your, your hidden dreams.
Asking me and God, what all of this means.
I am drifting on a cloud, to you or somewhere in your
direction it seems.
I'll grow up, and remember all the stories that we made.
Stay young as long as you can until the world picks you
up and makes you fade.
What was it that old man to us once said.
A thing, a diddy about young loves not missing chances.
To go out to the grass fields and remember all the
unlonely dances.
Just to remember all those old time romances.
Now it's too late, cause you are new and I am used, I
now love you, because of miles.
I vow to make things right, and I drive to the nearest
telephone while my finger dials,
But the station you're on doesn't come in on my radio,
my devil smiles.
Everywhere I look there are demons bought and sold,
Love stories to be told.
But you are too young, and I too old.
::: posted by Matthew at 12:19 PM
1.01.2004 :::
A New Mistake
There was a man, once upon a time,
Inside a life of glass n' rock climbers.
He sold relief and gave away a tale,
To all of us aging five and dimers.
He'd say, "Son I hope you're learn
You can't just keep running round.
You'll find that fires indeed do burn,
That you just may die with no sound."
His name was Forgotten, so he said,
But his stories had a fable, or such,
Fifteen years it been since he be dead.
His name was Mistaken in the dutch.
But he meant so much to the old timers.
Because he's messed up longer before,
All the poets and depressed rhymers.
Feeding of the withered host for more.
::: posted by Matthew at 1:32 PM
12.24.2003 :::
Christmas Eve
Do you remember the times when we were so young,
The looks on our faces before we dived right in.
So bold, and ignorant, but it sure was fun. Right?
Yes it was, and I don't remember where it went.
You can't buy the past in stores, or wait in long lines.
Just remember old boy, that's what Gran said, but I can't
Or don't. Either way it's not really Christmas anymore.
Not in that pure, traditional sense that I miss so much.
Right now it's a burden, my wife, well I don't have one.
And my mother wishes me away til I do. It's Christmastime.
I want a baby boy, so I can see his eyes, opening, ripping.
To feel that prescence of presents. The joy we lose.
::: posted by Matthew at 10:55 PM
12.14.2003 :::
Sunday Night Before Finals
I wish I was an annual, or at least an inauguration,
But I'm a non-existant, a never was. Not even your
Lesson learned in pain. Rather your soap box,
Standed on, to tell people you don't know my name.
I'm sure you don't tell them of me, as your friend.
Because you've said before you don't know what
It is we are, no matter how many I love you's.
My stomach hurts, because you just hung up. And
I know it doesn't make sense. But I'm not cold
Outside. And my studying hours are consumed,
Because I really do spend time thinking of you.
I've so many more letters than you, and it's because
I love you more, I say. But that makes no sense.
Burning letters is my favorite past time. I kid.
I will cut my hair, because it's in my eyes when I
Try to look at you. That isn't funny, but it is.
And I don't like these guys you see, because I know
They don't see you, like I have on all the springtime
Winter mornings. And nothing could be perfect anymore.
Because you're not here, and I've not even met you
In my dreams, where you should most likely be.
::: posted by Matthew at 6:07 PM
12.10.2003 :::
Josée's Penguin (Take 1)
I bought Josée a Penguin
From the record centre,
Down the block.
It doesn't fly, or say hi.
It's not real, it's like me.
Stuffed with cotton and words.
His name is Leopard. Because
He's not like me, a quick one.
She just said goodbye, to
Call her mum down the road.
At least that's what I'm told.
Her penguin, his name is Leopold.
More dignified. He's prettier than me.
Josée doesn't like monkies. They
Throw, what shouldn't be thrown.
They're like me, they don't belong.
Not in the cold weather up there.
I'm not a penguin. And I don't
Fly. I'm a prince, or a messy haired
Degenerate. Maybe that should be
Hyphened.
I bought Josée a Penguin. His
Name is General Ham. Why I cannot
Tell. He's an eccentric type, who
Plays the guitar. Not like me. He's
Neat, and cute, not like me.
He can't fly and he likes fish.
Not like me. I know she wants a penguin.
She told me in the victory dinner.
Maybe I'll buy her a girl Penguin.
She can fall in love with the General.
Her name will be PennyGwen. And
She'll waddle all the way to Canada.
But she'll be warm until she hits the snow.
I will send her a Penguin,
Because a Penguin's what I'm not.
::: posted by Matthew at 1:29 PM
12.05.2003 :::
Josée’s Hand
I just wanted to be in your poem,
Wherever that guides me to.
In your bed, or in your home,
Whatever the poem says to do.
And I’d be some famous sailor,
Or a mythic figure of ancient Rome.
I’d be the hunchback’s ugly jailor,
All just to be in your hand’s poem.
I would be your Mary Magdalene,
Following you from land to land.
Trailing ink flowing from your pen,
To be a word by lovely Josée’s hand.
Most of all I want to have her heart,
For she has mine without expire.
To be in her mind, would be a start,
Great to be her sleek hand’s desire.
::: posted by Matthew at 11:36 AM
12.02.2003 :::
Men Age (Josephine and I)
He apologized for dropping his halo down the sewer well.
The angel lost his wings for sudden vanity and greed.
Perfection exceeds the grasps of all those in need.
The goddess, impure she is, with forces of dark compel.
Best and worst, the opposites exist, can we be both?
She says nothing's changed, that in us, gone is purgatory.
Angels don't make mistakes, not humans, but blasphemy.
The gods all play destiny without tearing fabric cloth.
This wasn't meant to happen, Josephine and I remain.
After turmoil, gods created, separates absurd and insane.
We are multiple, Josephine fell into my traps of spiders.
We hid in devestation, cataclysms, quakes and forest fires.
(unfinished)
::: posted by Matthew at 9:53 PM
12.01.2003 :::
Men Age
A weekend soliloquy where you were mine and mine alone.
I knew it wouldn't matter in the end, my sister's friend.
I, that's not me, I don't do these things, but you offered,
To take my mind off things, to become my midnight story.
You're not who I want you to be, but the drinks race along.
Forgetting all the romance, I practiced in the evening rain.
It's awkward at first, like the first time, because you're new.
Is this a sin, when the day began so terribly against you?
Everyone, even the children, you try to make amends, also
You find the time to say, we'll see the same old starts, go's
It'll be February, and I think I've just made you up in haste.
But I can't, won't want that to be true, though I won't think.
I'm not in love, and you can't break my heart, you're relief.
From a grungy adolescent teenage funnybone wedding.
I know it's not love, cause I thought of her, the mystery.
The uncertain confusion, who I only know a supposed name.
She never gave in this easy, and I told her I never did, lies.
I never wanted this, the choice to ruin a lifetime of love and
More, because you were foreign, well as foreign as could be.
Thanks a lot, it helped, and maybe I'll see you on the road.
::: posted by Matthew at 9:33 PM
11.19.2003 :::
Learning Italian
I'd play a song, if you'd stay awake for just one more night.
I'd like to think she would, So good to see you.
It's been a long time. Stay awake, it's been so long.
We won't let him take you, that snake, in the fold.
What if there isn't a tomorrow. The sun will fall.
That won't happen, but it will shine in a different light.
For will it not be a different sun, if both our eyes don't see.
So please, my love, stay away,at least to hear my song.
It's go something along the lines of, hope and such.
Love will last, and it shall conquer all, but we'd smile,
And sing the chorus together, for a few bars, humming.
When you meet the sun, you can teach him the lyrics.
And he'll show you how to shine, though it won't be hard.
Not for you, not your smile, but that's awhile off now.
For now, just stay awake. Until the sun's break.
I'll whisper in your ear. For one more night. One more.
I miss you already, and you've not even left, or came.
I'll be here, just here, playing my goodbye song.
::: posted by Matthew at 8:37 PM
Dmeifsifnoirttiuonne
How simple and magnificent,
The symbols that read our minds.
They portray our ideas and feelings,
And the holy truth it finds.
We may search ancient texts,
Our friends, we don't gather words.
But ideas, for words are these,
Together with nature, stirred.
For now, what we judge together,
Are not bad symbols, but ideas,
For those indeed are plentiful,
Set to sail on ocean breezes.
::: posted by Matthew at 8:11 PM
11.17.2003 :::
Things She Said This Weekend
Come down from that ledge, now.
It's not worth the fall, Let's just
Say what we forgot.
I wish I could tell you,
That you're good in bed.
Or that I love your lips,
When they're red. They
Taste a special hint,
Or something, and that scent,
I wish it drove me crazy, and
Warmed my blood on a cold
Windy night. But I don't know,
I just don't know. Won't you
Tell me what I'm supposed to
Feel. Is that silk, or cotton.
Maybe you're not even
Wearing a coat, but said you
Were. The Mercury is rising in
The Thermo-Stare. Quit looking
At me, I don't have your answers.
I wish I did, but you took them.
And don't give me that He-man
Gaze. I don't think it works on me.
Fuck you, you're not here,
Why aren't you here,
Thanks for asking. I've missed him
Oh so long, a time. Now he's gone
Before he left, left, left.
He was right, right, right.
No he wasn't. He tried to tell me/her
That it was the truth. That he had
My ring. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
I don't know what this is about.
Not you, some bizarro you,
In a bizarro world. But if it means
I miss you, even though we're
Talking now, I guess that's
What it all means. Is it a poem?
Or a conversation, in and among myself
You'll have to tell, because I don't
Tell myself things anymore.
They never worked out with the
I Love You's and benefactors
All putting their stock in me, and
When I fell, so did their love,
And those things do not
Replenish quickly. But I'm
Glad we're okay, and glad
I can call you cute, because you
Are, in every way, for this
And this my dear, I laugh,
Because I am optmisitc.
::: posted by Matthew at 9:07 PM
11.04.2003 :::
The Sickness
5 of 15
They just laugh and point at the kid with one bad leg,
He's different, smaller, inferior, something odd.
Can't think of all the things he could teach,
The hopes and fears he could portray and smash,
They just laugh and point at the kid with one bad leg.
He isn't weak, just starts a little farther behind.
Not an evil wrecked body, riddled hopeless by his peers.
Shannon, a girl's name, a boy's mind, no good fit,
A random list of god's, has he played a trick?
This is nature, human, and imperfect. Changing.
A single day, one of hundreds, thousands,
We forget one can change them all. So does he.
He buys it from the street corner, because it shines,
More than the rest, and he heads to the school house
All because they pointed, now he has...
The sickness, it riddles her everyday, her love,
Shot down before his smile faded, looking happy.
Though it's not true, and she wants revenge.
Forgetting about what they put the boy through.
Only thinking of the cure, to her sickness.
She finds the tagged wall in the south, the place,
The selling of happiness, and even vengeance.
He'll have to pay for emotions unrestrained.
And the lover's fight will be unstained, again,
Because she's found the right man for the job.
He enters the cafeteria with a fist in hand,
Something more but he doesn't plan on it,
The using of the ultimate price, the sacrifice.
Too late, he sees the plot, and wheels around,
He unloads a scare, and the target's...
Missed the last time through, and it's true.
She lost her son due to folly, and now loses another.
It might be a son, or possibly a daughter,
She'll never know. Wainting outside the clinic.
A man holds her hand, though not her husband.
Have I deserved this she asks the sky, not the sky.
She know's she does, but fails to confess to him.
Him, the husband preist, who would forgive.
She cries because she lost her chance, only chance,
At motherhood. Because a tragedy. At home.
He tells her god doens't hurt good people,
But she knows this isn't god's doing, but below.
The mystic tool, or unravelling parodies, and frowns.
He tempted me with a test, and she did fail.
Now she can't escape this, the inevitable sickness.
::: posted by Matthew at 5:08 PM
Numb
1 of 15
It's at the door and cannot speak.
It knocks and knocks, you cannot hear.
You would come and it would run,
But you won't, it's not really there.
The child screams, because she can smell
The fear of things, that live so near.
Fingers curl, mobiles twist and turn,
Hypnotize the monster 'til morning.
It comes home, after last call,
Using the amplifiers to gain a roar,
Wakes the dogs and with his snore,
Calls the cops, unlocks the door.
They pull him off the golden chair,
Wait officer, there's something there,
A mother's head, a bizarre smile,
A daughter's scream, a red mile,
Streaks the house with domestic stress.
The baby's cry up the stairs,
A year too late, some taxi fares,
Too bad it's never there,
No it's never really there.
::: posted by Matthew at 3:52 PM
10.28.2003 :::
brakes
How do you know it's true this time?
That the sirens don't call you name,
But another, less fortunate.
Is it a miracle if someone still gets,
Gets the raw deal in the end.
No more moutains to climb,
These days, just like the last, same,
This mobile's owner, it's corporate,
And Las Vegas never halts the bets,
What do you have to say friend?
Just stop, stop right there, do you see?
Could have died, or worse, if possible
We could have been separated,
And it's, it's all my fucking fault.
Don't apologize, you never need to.
Officer, it's not her you want, it's me.
Nothing to the event is comprable,
The wheel, and face, lacerated,
Open me up, my skin, lay on salt,
It's starting payments, on what's due.
She's gone, because I couldn't stop,
The street, with rain was too slick,
I didn't stop, not one little bit,
And the heaven's, they celebrated,
Because God took her from me, through me
I will plead guilty, fall to the feet Mr. Cop,
Put me away before I get too sick,
Before the sun in the sky is lit,
My happiness, it has vacated,
Maybe in a next life I'll meet Serenity
::: posted by Matthew at 11:38 PM
10.27.2003 :::
Two Weeks From the Post
It’s coming soon, the anniversary.
You can’t feel it because it’s not there.
The vamps and their delights,
Robbed the citizens of their
Crops and their nights.
Forced to retire for the sun’s set.
Electricity has no place here.
What is it Mina? Did you have
A bad dream of things best left
Unexplained? Go to sleep,
And forget it with candies
And peppermint slumber.
I’ve nothing left to say,
Good thing you passed out,
Because this doesn’t feel right,
No it just doesn’t feel right,
That feeling that you left,
You know you left it, right it,
Correct it, send it to the Editor.
He’ll tell you what’s wrong with it.
The doctor and his patient,
Diagnosed for something non-
Existent. This is not the end.
Visit the egg farm,
You’ll be lucky to get in.
Just like the morticians who,
Who always have something
To hide. Tell Selene to go
To the market, and find only,
Only the apples fallen from
The trees. It’s not crazy.
Everything is worse when
You understand it. Behind
Locked doors. Doors of
Perception? Blake’s Bible,
A diffident aroma. That’s
Not right, no that can’t be
Right. Go to Sleep. You
Won’t be wasting time.
You won’t miss anything
That won’t be on the news.
They television is your new
Time machine. It’s puts the
Quotation marks where you
Please. It’s put the bad people
All in jail. Well it arrests them
Anyway. Maybe I’ll give you
A Veil on your wedding day.
So you won’t have to see him,
Not that night, because he’s
A Thief who’ll rob you,
And he’ll never get it back.
Sometimes, just sometimes,
It’s better when you don’t
See it, or if you get it,
Get it two weeks late.
::: posted by Matthew at 10:44 PM
10.13.2003 :::
The Director’s Mirage*
I
I’m the director, you’re the actor
That’s not the way it’s supposed to be.
You can’t act out my script,
Perhaps because it’s poorly written
They think that sex will sell,
But no one can live up to it.
They don’t want an idealist,
Or someone under iron fist.
The middle man, the middle class,
Between depression and happiness.
No characters with talents lost,
Or tyrants who afford the cost,
I can’t do this so-called art
Check the lights, make them write.
To capture my unwillingness.
A drama queen, in a drama scene.
I’ll make them pay in the office.
II
Don’t go, you can’t leave,
It’s not the way I wrote it.
First you meet, then you kiss,
Then you have a bunch of kids,
Live life happily, behind the press.
Turn down the lights, remove the dress.
I’ll chose the music, for the rest,
“This isn’t real life, it’s a script.”
Well I say, this is how it is.
Get used to it, I’ll never change.
“You will or I’ll leave the stage.”
If you leave there’ll be no film,
Of course, that is a metaphor,
You weren’t supposed to retaliate.
I’m just that disconnected,
To the world outside of Hollywood.
And my home on Mulholland Drive.
A million photos strung together,
Capture motion and everything.
The producer and his producing.
III
I come home and there you are,
With several hairs out of place,
I’ve got a problem, a cinema dream,
Wanting a perfect wife with perfect face.
She’ll be an artist, a famous painter.
No one reads books anymore,
The only poets are musicians.
And me, the virtual pornographer.
Give me your smile for tomorrow.
Tonight we’re gonna have a fight.
You’ll scream and I’ll repent,
It’s made for the audience,
The evil man would strike his mate.
But I’ll just stop to hold you,
You’re not wrong, I’m not right.
Fade to black til tomorrow night.
We’ll have worked out our problems.
You’ll be pregnant and I’ll be off.
To have another dream, I’m not right.
You’re wrong, I’m an artist, not a fraud.
Not the attention loving whore,
The underachiever, under achieving.
And you’re my pixilated muse.
IV
Tripping on the low cement curb,
I do not attempt to halt your fall.
A star doesn’t fall without wishes,
Just as I given no direction, false.
You my love, paint but one scene
I birth a million at a time.
I can make you a leper, clown or saint.
What’s so great that you can do with paint.
“This” you say “I can make a heart bleed,
While you kill souls with infiniteness
I, the woman illusionist can do my own
Needing not you to make me whole.”
But I do not see that, I am blind.
The world to me exists in cameras,
Lights, camera, action, cut, wrong.
Wrong again, I’d act if I could.
But I’m one man, short of perfect.
I spend their millions to make a buck.
But you my wife, I’d love still.
I’ve got a problem, yes I do.
They don’t know what to call it,
Though you’ve said it’s idealism.
V
Idealism or some like word,
Divorce? Such a somber bird,
That comes not at the end, but splits
The film in two, to create suspense.
To materialize anger, passion, fears,
To bring the large crowd to tears.
So when our lovers connect again,
There's no question where they’ve been,
Because people don’t cheat on another,
I am the writer, these thoughts, I can’t cover,
I can’t write of those who produce sin,
Or smiling fools inside the devil’s den.
My mind you see, houses a perfect world,
Countries united under one flag, unfurled,
A world where only loving people kissed,
My world, you see, does not exist.
VI
Paint for me, my love, a new vision,
With fallacies without our division.
Because I’ve made you angry, quick.
To wish to be perfect, is simply sick,
Of type that prescriptions must,
Blow the perceptions all the dust,
No one wants to be the fool,
Except those who claimed the jewel,
So their life’s work may start over,
And drunken dreams become sober.
What can we do after plastic surgery,
After committing acts of perjury.
Doing all in life that's called wrong,
Wishing life were much less long,
But those that act right, have it all?
Have experienced life without a fall?
Nay, one need a bit of both,
I say, with the right being of healthy dose.
So my love, this is my poem,
As the director, who in fault, is home,
Instead of course, with you, outside,
But now I’ve nothing left to hide,
Have learned to see your crooked smile,
That it’s not something most vile.
But beautiful, radiant, and it’s unique,
Like every natural mountain's peak.
The wine now, tastes just as sweet,
I do not, anymore, have small feet,
They are a part of me, myself,
To make me whole, as incomplete I felt,
And you, who lies outside perfection's grasp,
Are indeed perfection, gaining fast,
Hair's not messy, but disheveled by God’s hand,
Now this, my love, I finally understand.
*Other title, "What I Should Have Said"
::: posted by Matthew at 4:35 PM
10.12.2003 :::
All In, With a Pair of Twos
We've discussed these issues,
So many times before, and nothing,
So why now, because of the summer evenings.
When for once I wasn't there, neglecting you.
It wasn't my intention. I know it's real.
Plastic things don't upset the ways
Real things do. We've hurt each other,
Though you get it more than I,
Because I did know, always have known
I would no be good enough, therefore,
You were made, subconsciously not
Good enough for me. The number
Of words I written about you number
Thousands, too bad twenty of them
Give you the final message. I wish
You'd remember all the rest.
1000 Rights don't undo a single wrong.
I won't take anything back, because
I meant it, I'm not a liar, though to
Have to conduct myself through posts
On a unmoving web, it's what I'll do.
I can't imagine, after everything,
All those I've outlasted, All the stupid
Things I've done, you let me outlast.
I guess the straw broke the camels back.
::: posted by Matthew at 10:01 AM
10.11.2003 :::
Thomas the King
It's not enough to be a millionaire
They still scream for richer blood.
I souled my soul to make a deal,
No it's just not enough.
To be pleased with yourself.
Your not yours, anymore.
I'm not a savior
Or a matyred cause.
I left my wife,
To make the company big.
I took their drugs,
To get in the magazines.
It's all publicity
Little kids, who are you
Burning my life away.
I won't be around long
If you keep it up,
I'm my own worst critic,
So don't you worry about it.
::: posted by Matthew at 1:32 PM
