The muse who put the “used” in amused-

Useless List* of “Muses”. Sort of.

  • 01: Name resembles a shade of the water. Was a childhood friend from church. Twice my age, then (so what?) Owned a store selling soup. Grew apart (what these things are for).
  • 03: Skeletal. One of the smartest people I knew. Thin fingers and a piano. Umbrellas, books, and framed glasses.
  • 02 & 04: Forgettable – save for the fact how both were destructive (one more so than the other). One returned as a friend, following a long period of misfired revenge plots and attempts to engage vultures, etc. The other, out of sight, has his bones breaking from too much effort, or some other reason (last I heard from a friend of a friend).
  • 05: Uninteresting, eventually. A failure (the person, and perhaps the relationship as well) by choice. Quite civil, no longer chummy.
  • 05.5: Whom I know not to go to when the world turns bleak.
  • 06: The Quietest Boy.
  • 06.5: Weak. Also: What a waste those weeks were.
  • 07: The Boy Most Likely (to: a.) burn a building, b.) kill himself, c.) kill someone else, d.) set everything on fire, e.) disappear)
  • 08: Smiles bright as the sun, feels sad only if out of food. Assessment so far: Strange.

Currently: Keeping a safe distance for my own good.

*Save for 05.5, all have names made of two syllables. Hmm.

Life-related: I haven’t really been ~writing~ since a.) I’ve been working on some illustration deadlines (yay, art!) and, b.) I’ve mostly been busy attending to this little fiend named Scaramouche (I call her Mumu for short):

 

I love this Fattybutt monster to bits.

Also: the most interesting thing I’ve read all day. Be warned though, it’s got some heavy stuff. One secret grossed me out real bad (well, my fault for reading it while eating dinner). And I’m the type of girl who can eat a sandwich beside a cadaver. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

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Play: List (or, Why I Never Let The Boys I Love Listen To The Music I Like)

After Marrian Pio Roda Ching

 

 

I poured my aching heart into a pop song. I couldn’t get the hang of poetry.

– Suck It And See (Arctic Monkeys)

SIDE A

[Track 01]
The start is the hardest part[1]: I coughed
your name, I smoked
all day[2] – I call your number
but I can’t get through[3].

[Track 02]
It’s the same fucking
habits[4]: watching you turn
from me towards your friends[5].

[Track 03]
You told me you wanted
to eat up my sadness[6]. In a soft-porn version
of the end of the world I quake at the knees
as my intentions unfurl[7]: we’ve got a minefield
of crippled affection[8].

[Track 04]
Here’s to all the pretty words
we will never speak[9]:
“How you gonna keep me
warm?[10]”, “I’m glad
you’re on my side[11].”, “What’s wrong with you
is good for what’s wrong with me.[12]

SIDE B

[Track 01]
We find it hard to deal with
when our dreams come true[13].
But now we must pack up
every piece of the life we used
to love, just to keep
ourselves[14].

[Track 02]
Oh you can lose yourself
in art, or you can break somebody’s heart
in two[15] – I’ve written pages
upon pages, trying to rid you
from my bones[16]. Medicine clouds
my mind[17]. There’s mercy
when the lies kick in[18].

[Track 03]
You were a truth I would rather lose
than to have never lain beside
at all[19]. I chose to feel it
and you couldn’t choose[20]. I’m sorry
about the phone call and needing you[21].
You chose that moment to say to me
“Has all of your life been this lonely?[22]

Tick tock

So we are given
time: how little it means
within the confines of a room running
on the long road of laughter, our voices dancing
through the cold air, as if breaking
the silence our bodies would never even dare
slough through- how easy: this task of forgetting
the things we are not, people we already belong to.


Hi. Not dead. Just exam week. Killing me softly. One shaded box at a time.

Please?

For the longest time the question lay quiet, tucking
its frail hands into pockets, keeping
that shy stare to the sidewalk, constructing

monuments from mounds of dust, sighing
to itself. Inside, something stirred:
a whirlpool waiting and aching

to be strewn into song, implanted
like stars on a patch of sky. This question picking at seams
for an answer that was once a name, a face, a farce,

a story made too well, told
far too often, winding
tendrils around heart and ribcage, coiling

into the snakelike syllables of laughter, gripping
at your insides each time, fingers you hoped to fight –
this question and its clarity: soft, perfect, familiar

as the feel of the only hands you ever wanted left touching
your body, bearing the weight
of this longing.

Permit yourself

to start once again. Leave
whatever words have wound
around the thin skin of your wrists,
affixing your fingers to the past:

how he called you
by your name, the first time,
amidst a flood of faces, flushing
away all sounds save

his voice. Commit all these things
to memory, offer it up- yes,
even the feel of his face, when you dared
reach out, fingertips on skin mapping out

the only landscape you ever wanted.
Let the ghost of his grip loosen
its hold on your wrists. Unfold your fingers, finding
all you held is air, light and voiceless.