| Can't Stand It Any More |
[Jan. 4th, 2009|10:48 pm] |
A refugee to memories of days gone past, he sat in the midday sun, staring out the diner window. Slouched behind a linoleum covered table with worn chrome lining around the sides, he stared at a brown haired girl whose eyes tunneled right back into him.
"You really are an asshole. You know that, right?" she said with a half-joking scowl.
He looked as if a spade had hit him square in the jaw. He also knew that he was staring at the love of his life. Thousands of miles lay between the first time she said that to his face and now and much to his chagrin and disbelief, he still got a hard-on over it. Wild nights were shared between whispers of "jackass" and "dickhead" passed between cheap motel sheets. The quiet moments gazing over the horizon without a word said awakened a dormant spirit he hadn't felt since he first kissed a girl. That girl. Sitting opposite the table. He produced a cigarette from his pocket and tapped it on the deck.
"Who the fuck do you think you are, dumbass," she said with a cheeky smile. "Frank Sinatra? You don't even have blue eyes."
Of course, then came the chuckle as his face and arms froze mid-sentence as if a mortal blow had been hurled at him. No really; he was loving every second of the abuse. He was just never taught how to express it properly. Socialization and normality for him was a tortuous process which he gave up on before too long. The friends he had from childhood and the people he met along the way were just extras; extras in a show he didn't even want to keep watching. He tried to turn it off every so often but ultimately held off, wracked by guilt as he held the remote aloft, waiting for the end to come.
Right here, on a dusty Louisiana highway, he was content to light up his cigarette and let his worries (not ordering enough fries) and his cares (whether his love will stop bashing his ears) drift away. The love of his life, smiling from ear to ear at the sight of his discomfort, seemed happy enough to do just the same.
|
|
|
| Omerta |
[Jul. 18th, 2008|09:15 pm] |
Clouds crawled overhead like weary souls dragging their bodies to work. My cigarette burns softly into my lungs and deposits sweet nicotine down into my innards in exchange for some violent wretching every so often. I stand across the street from my old house. Hulking and forlorn it stares at me, crying out for love and care where there is none. I throw my cigarette and think to myself how I could I care for this house when I care not for anyone? Those souls that confided in me, that have given me comfort when I returned no such courtesy, I pity. Those images firing off signals that flood my head aren't anything to me, I can't relate and never want to. If I do nothing in this life save howling down these contemptible cigarettes, I can say nothing more to all those who pick me apart and wish to savor the aftertaste, and simply relish the thought that contentment lies at the end of a orange colored stub. Well, at least to me. What you decide is up to well, you. And still up in the heavens, the clouds kept crawling. |
|
|
| A Circle of Dependency |
[Mar. 15th, 2008|05:28 pm] |
| [ | soundtrack |
| | Fair to Midland - Vice/Versa | ] |
Within 30 meters there are approximately five people. Three don't care whether you live or die. Two love and care for you in their own, twisted way. The last person reviles your existence. The last person contemptibly reminds you of your worthlessness and utter irrelevancy on a daily basis. Despite this, she is content to use your insider information to fuck your better looking friends and your money pay for half a shitty car or Toblerone when the need arises.
So they say this is modern life - recorded from another recording, modified and uploaded as a ringtone. We haven't transcended the confines of neat houses and categories to slot them into, but our finest theoreticians are probably talking about a framework as a step toward a possible solution as I write this.
The arseholes greedily exploiting Mother Earth are retarding our progress because they asked for it. That's right, they asked for it. The boffins on the other hand, smartly dressed and little else, are still forging neurons with butcher's tools so they can conjure up the right question.
One day soon, all they'll end up asking is "Why did I do that, too?" Worst part is, they'll be asking themselves when they had the answer inside their greasy little heads the entire time. |
|
|
| Protect me from yourself |
[Dec. 11th, 2007|03:14 pm] |
The only thing we can grasp as absolute truth is the present. The Gestalt: this eternal instant. We distort the shapeless future; we exaggerate and rationalize the past. We ravage the rotting carcass of our histories until they are bald and toothless fictions, as harmless as possible. We say things that come out fractured and end up meaning something else.
Recently, I've found the key to my own past. It has now been uncovered, once rusted by the pressure of a granite hard unconscious that mercilessly threatens to eat me live, whole and endlessly screaming. This angel-haired savior who discovered it again comes not from the Citadel of Gabriel, the province where all fear have been lain to rest. She comes from this very Earth, this ground beneath us that I've been yearning to escape from ever since I could remember.
Her plump lips and azure eyes that glistened like a sun-kissed ocean awakened my moribund spirit, crushed by the expectations of all, pummeled by my own self-loathing. How to thank her is not within me. Gratitude for this act escapes my purview - it lies somewhere far beyond. In my confusion, my psyche flails in a thrashing curse. Do I take a blade and sever myself from this siren I so desire? Can I bear to watch my walls of contentment and love fall like soldiers, destined to march into a bloodied killing field? Or do I hang on, clinging like a child to his mother, hoping my love can breathe life into a corpse stained by the teeth of time, when the shimmer in those beautiful eyes match the gaze of a much better man than I.
I guess I won't have to wait too long to find out. I'll be a fool resting my being upon you, and I'll think I always will be.
they say your love is a fog
that disappears as the wind changes
but mine will stay as stone
if yours does |
|
|
| Embrace Me/Back Away |
[Jul. 22nd, 2007|08:04 pm] |
| [ | mode |
| |  creative | ] |
There's a bright star hidden from sight - an existential darkness blankets a crowd with hate-kissed faces. Haunted by scorn, the flames from their torches whisper destruction into the air. I cry out to the mob to be calm, but no one is laughing. Nobody's laughing here. They'd rather scratch their ears until they bled and their weary knuckles fell to the ground, covered in carmine trails. Frantic echelons of contempt form ranks and abruptly halt, perched at the top of my throat. They are given no signal to storm that brittle frontier. Soon enough, scenes of violence play out on the broken down stage of suburbia and I wonder if it's all just a ruinous game. Time passes and their marching orders lay scrunched on the sidewalk, soon forgotten, just like me: my own indivisible self. |
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
| [ |
go |
| |
earlier |
] |
| |
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=92.1){kind=small}
crushtor's journal