Monthly Archives: June 2010

Rubies Fell From His Lips

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We all have our ghosts. As much as I adore rationality, it is my most haunting one yet. Simply because I am shaped so much by it. We infer escapism to combat for a breath of air, whether you paint, jog, dance, drink or fuck, we all have our escapes. My indecisiveness has caused my adventurousness, but to me, that simply means I cannot commit. Rationality always creeps in at night, and I become a clairvoyant visage for despair and or mischief.

I have books on movie comedy next to Anna Karenina and Atlas Shrugged. Among my cd’s, I keep my soul next to the blues. I laugh when I’m supposed to cry, and laugh at even that. Oddly enough, I know you’re the same way, dear modern lovers.

I’m starting bartending school soon, and have started a book club. I’m growing tired of thinking and having courtroom debates in my mind, its quite crowded and hard to breathe.

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Black and White Emotonites

It’s cliche to start off an idea with, “there are two kinds off people…” Whether corn or flour, Beatles or Stones, or night and day, we all have this insuperable comparison that weighs heavily on us as individuals. We claim to surpass the eye of judgement and treat each others as equals, but we know that idea fools no one except ourselves. We judge… impartially against a book by it’s cover. Through this hasty voracity, we are left on the world of black and white.

This applies to you, you know who you is, Kitty Kat, but dealing the world for what it is is completely different than from what it means. Your actions are louder than feelings, which are mute, but your actions were the only things will ever mean anything.

Classicists and Romantics. The difference between the two is that classicists rely on information, detail, intricate analysis on anything that may mean anything. Romantics rely on outwardly aesthetics, inspirational, intuitive aspects of ideas. Somehow, along the line of realization, we’ve forgotten that neither were ever enemies, but we’ve forgotten how to coincide. Its natural for us to pick sides, but both would go great lengths… simply to prove a point.

We are all savage beasts without fangs.

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Cooperative Redemption

I may have a natural inclination to seek and connect with people that have problems. They just seem less mundane and somewhat twice as exciting, yet since they present themselves as natural beacons through my natural goggles, meeting a normal person would throw my world into disordered flux.

As hopeless and pointless as I deem it to help people, I still selfishly find it enjoyable. Now even that has become secondhand. I do what I do, and my reasons for my actions label me “twisted,” but at the end of the day, I really don’t mind having helped someone sprout a smile, regardless of my inability to do the same. A gibbous plastic heart can sometimes be the most luminous item in the dark cellar.

The circus still laughs at midnight.

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Phantasm

Ghosts. Scientific or spiritual, they are real and they are fabrications. They haunt us in our sleep and haunt us in reality. they are spirits, and they are ideas. Depending on it’s convincing content, they can haunt us just as well as religion or laws of science. Both have been in existence before human thought or the creation of man. But both ideas haunt accordingly. It is the ghosts who are really the ones ruling the world, and they derive their power of influence through antiquity.

Now, do you believe in ghosts?

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Created By Clive

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June 20th. Sunny. The summer solstice marked both the beginning and the end of our windswept motorcycle roadtrip across the new world. We had two lifetimes worth of conversations, yet sometimes, the best conversations were the silent ones. Just the wind rumbling through our helmets into our ears, and the beauty of the land relentlessly speaking everything that had and would ever have had to be said. Eyes on the road, playing it safe, our eyes rarely met, themselves.

The wildwest pilgrimage through small towns and roads without signs, and gut feelings to navigate. Main roads simply weren’t our style, we weren’t part of the herd. Frigid rides through the nosy night, dictating our warmth with whisky. And two-wheeled dances beneath the suspicious moonlight. We didn’t stop for anything, even the thought of sleep wasn’t auspicious.

We had read about a certain beach on this looming end of the continent. The beach of unrivaled beauty in endless blue ocean, golden sands, golder than, well, gold. We flipped through countless pages of fairytales the scribed it, even found allusions to this particular beach in everything else. The beach was in our hearts. We even heard hearsay regarding the feeling of euphoria when you arrive, from the chapped mouths of old travelers and lovers, telling us this folklore as their clasped hands remembered the beach themselves.

Somewhere along the way, our hearts of adventure had gradually given up. Some days, her grip around my waist was tighter than a child’s to a stuffed friend, and some days, I didn’t even notice her there behind me. When we had finally arrived to the beach, there was no feeling of euphoria or even accomplishment. All before our eyes was an old ship dock full of old rundown warships, no golden sand or endless beauty, not even warmth. Just rusted metal and retirement. A graphitied sign to the left said, “you’re not lost,” with mocking dribbles of paint running through the “o’s.” Society had gotten here first, and riddled it with commercials and vomit. There was no beauty, there was nothing new.

We parked the tired Norton Commando as a gravestone at the end of the dock, and threw the keys into the sea in submission. When we finally turned to look at each other, we’d discovered we had become covered in wrinkly skin, old age had gripped our bodies. Her hair was ghost-white and mine had almost completely fallen off. She walked down one end of the shore, avoiding the cracks, and I walked down the other, tapping at everything with a stray branch. We would not be leaving the sea together, nor would we be returning to the one we hailed from, which we never realized, was the same beach all along. We wrote the fairytales, and ran in circles for what seemed like an eternity. Repetition stretches time in arrogance. Our hands were clasped and now we were home. Alone.

Photo: ┬ęBryan Travis Smith

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Halo Chandelier

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Emptied the last of the olive oil into the frying pan as she watched from the kitchen table. One foot propped on the seat of the white wicker chair as she clipped pictures out of magazine and glue-stuck them into a big notebook. Water started boiling in the spaghetti pot as I threw a handful of sticks in. Sliced thin layers of garlic onto the pan and a teaspoon of cilantro. The Jesus and Mary Chain were playing on the ipod jukebox and her quiet eyes watched me every few moments as I made my artpiece on the stove. She smiled.

Paul Newman makes great tomato sauce. I like to put a pinch of Tabasco into it then throw it into the frying pan. Stirred and watched. Then was watched, and watched back. Smiled. She tapped her slightly dirty foot to the time of Just Like Honey, the chandelier above her head looked like a glorious halo.

Water boiled too long. Spaghetti came out soggy, useless. The sauce stuck to the pan and turned into a tomato pancake, not enough oil. The smell sets the mood for Italian as I hear her chair grumble as she slid it out along the tile floor. She handed me the hamburger-shaped kitchen phone, smiled and said, “mushroom and olives, extra sauce.” Her hand on my face, she kissed my cheek and strutted into the living room. At her work station, bits and pieces of waxed magazine paper were scattered. Right in the middle was a coupon for the local pizza shop up the street. I turned around to smile but she had already gone. Shower running like guitar distortion.

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We Are One, then We Are None

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I want to live fast, and die young, while slowly kissing and savoring the embrace of the one I love. We were all two headed beasts, split in half by the bolt of Thor, doomed to never be at peace until we find our other halves searching on every shore. Cast upon others in the same predicament, we interchange until the combination is right for dreaded commitment. No race, no money, no gender, no age can possibly intervene in your search, but more castaways come into play everyday, some guided by tempting demons, on high towers they lurk and perch.

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