Ungrateful - Thanksgiving

I know this is bad,
For it is thanksgiving,
But I need some cash,
To make my living.

I have all that I need.
How can I lie?
I have a bed,
I can make my own chai.

I adore my dog,
But good god,
I need college cash,
Before I commit fraud.

I've labored,
I've sobbed and cried -
I'm pathetic,
But hell, I try.

But for now,
I am option free.
I've worked my butt off,
With my college philosophy.

So I'll try yet again,
Keep fighting for life-
Education is what I need,
Though it's laden with strife.

Grateful - Thanksgiving (Blah)

I am always thankful.
It's a bit of a hereditary problem.
My father is grateful.
 my mother is grateful,

And my dog is grateful.
 So, almost by default,
I am too.
I am grateful that my family's grateful.

I'm so grateful that my family's
grateful enough to make me greatful.
So grateful for the love.
So grateful for the turkey.

And so, so damn grateful,
Indeed,
Always truly,
For my dog.

                   Can't get into my creative strory-writing mood today! On the other hand, I found a massive website full of funny poems. Funny, as in vulgar. They amuse me. It makes me want to try writing again!

A gentleman from Surrey
Ate too much hot, Indian curry
It was just like a hit
When he shouted: "Oh, shit"
And ran to the loo in a hurry

           -Anita V

 

Winter is here and a grouch
It's a time when you sneeze and you slouch
You can't take your women
Out canoein' or swimmin'
But there's a lot you can do on the couch!

-Doc'




 

Halloween Story / The Key

    "You know... there's nothing as tempting as a locked door." His lips curved into a leer, teeth flasing ivory underneath cracked, rosy lips. He was beautiful. Enticing, seductive, dangerous. His entire being was a siren-call, a warning in designer jeans. I loathed him.

      He exhaled, blowing vapors in my face with exaggerated slowness as he waited for my response. His eyes flashed, fingers twitching with calculated strength as he ground his ciggarette into the heavy cement walls. I shivered, reminded again of our close proximity and location. It was an old bunker. Spent condoms and empty bottles littered the floor, forming a dense mat beneath my KEDS. The door waited. It's deadbolt sat slightly ajar - techinically, the door was locked. But a simple shove would knock the deadbolt from it's perilous perch, and allow this boy and I access to something I wasn't sure I was ready for.

     "Let's just stay out here," I mumbled uneasily. I attempted to turn my head away, but suddenly, those fingers were there, gripping me in place. He sneered and blew his foul, empty breath into my face. Frozen, I watched as he moved closer, dropping the spent ciggarette down my gaping cleavage. Startled, I started to pull away - but he was there again, holding me in place. He was beautiful. He was all dark eyes and long, unashamed stares. A part of me hated it, hating the way his eyes roved my body andexplored the swell of my breasts. I part of me loved it, and I hated that too.

      Then we were moving. His hands were moving, our feet stumbling, my head was reeling. His hands ripped at my shirt, cold nails skimming the soft expanse of my stomach. I hated it, I hated it. Then came the locked door - a quick shove, then an unlocked door. On we stumbled, his eyes narrowed and cruel now. So beautiful. With a quick, harsh shove, I was no longer standing. I hated it, hated it, hated it. But there was no stopping him now. The door was open.

Autumnal Meaning / Somewhere in Valley River

Victoria's Secret alarms me.
There's money in the air,
Crazed women, heavy and frail,
Each throwing panties here and there.

It's an assembly line.
You admire a bra or two,
When suddenly "Wabam!"
An attendant; "What can I do for you?"

Henry Ford could not have done better,
He with the gears and the automatics -
These women have bras and panties,
They're hard-boiled fanatics.

It's a "What's your size?"

"You look like A 34D,"

"Right this way!

Come along with me!"

They stuff you in rooms,

Whom have nice big mirrors,

To inspect your chest, 

and realize your fears. 

So they offer you alternatives,

Throw lace your way,

Tell you about pricing,

Until your face is gray.

They have sales for your needs,
Swimsuits and yoga pants,
Everything possible,
All for overpriced romance.

You admire wands of mascara,
Oodles of bronzer,
Then there's a lady at your side,
Applying strange colors.

She's orange.
Soon you'll match!
Your eyelids bright blue,
Your knickers aghast!

So come to Vicky's,
Where grown women play,
and where men avoid,
But are dragged through all day. 

SAT Desk Blathers -Education

       The slapping of test booklets against a desk; How similar I find it to the last writhings and gasps of wary, dying salmon on an ancient wooden deck.

So I did them,

Yes I did,

I'm alive,

Although my brain is dead.

The SATS,

They're monsters!

Pinching, demanding-

Like large blue lobsters.

So RISD, SAIC,

Hear my plea,

Send me money,

And educate me!

Song Lyrics

      I spent my childhood crawling on my knees with dirt engrained in my shattered nails and a callouses on my bare, dirty feet. I smiled wide and unashamed with hair just as rabid as my dreams. My days were spent in the dirt pits. When it was too dark to see my toys in the dirt, I was reeled inside, where I relocated every grubby handful of dirt I could to the living room coffee table.

      In an effort to quiet me down, music would be played. Papa would ease off his boots behind me, and Katie would ruffle through her CDs until she found something suitable for impressionable young children and sharp-eared mothers. This selection included a large number of musicals, bollywood soundtracks, ballads, and sailing shanties.

      And so, the Witch of the Westmoreland came to exist in my private universe. Archie Fisher wrote it. Stan Rogers sang it. The Waybacks enhanced it. And I sang it until I was convinced it could be improved no more. Even know I can still conjure the images brought to mind as a child by the ballad. I can dream of tired knights and brindled hounds as easily as I can breath.

      The song has even grown with me. Mysteries and lyrics have unveiled themselves over time, leaving the Witch to consistantly evolve as I grow.

Pale was the wounded Knight
That bore the rowan shield
Loud and cruel were the ravens' cries
As they feasted on the field

Saying beck water cold and clear
Will never clean your wound
There's none but the witch of the Westmoreland
Can make thee hale and sound

So turn, turn your stallion's head
Till his red mane flies in the wind
And the rider of the moon goes by
And the bright star falls behind

And clear was the paley moon
When shadow passed him by
Below the hill were the brightest stars
When he heard the owlet cry

Saying Why do you ride this way
And wherefore came you here?
I seek the witch of the westmoreland
Who dwells by the winding mere

And it's weary by the Ullswater
And the misty brakefern way
Till through the cleft of the Kirkstane pass
The winding water lay

He said Lie down my brindled hound
And rest ye my good gray hawk
And thee my steed may graze thy fill
For I must dismount and walk

But come when you hear my horn
And answer swift the call
For I fear ere the sun will rise this morn
Ye will serve me best of all

And it's down to the water's brim
He's borne the rowan shield
And the goldenrod he has cast in
To see what the lake might yield

And wet rose she from the lake
And fast and fleet went she
One half the form of a maiden fair
With a jet-black mare's body

And loud long and shrill he blew
Till his steed was by his side
High overhead the gray hawk flew
And swiftly he did ride

Saying Course well me brindled hound
And fetch me the jet-black mare
Stoop and strike me good gray hawk
And bring me the maiden fair

She said Pray sheath thy silvery sword
Lay down thy rowan shield
For I see by the briny blood that flows
You've been wounded in the field

And she stood in a gown of a velvet blue
Bound round with a silver chain
And she's kissed his pale lips once and twice
And three times round again

And she's bound his wounds with the goldenrod
Full fast in her arms he lay
And he has risen hale and sound
With the sun high in the day

She said Ride with your brindled hound at heel
And your good gray hawk in hand
There's none can harm the knight who's lain
With the Witch of the Westmoreland

D&E Plot - WARNING, Dark Content

    This kind of a thing I do. I create plots for my characters, and I spew them all over blogs. It just happens. Brain spweing. I'm sorry. :) Well, I feel sorry that you have to see this. My mind's a terrible place divided into two sectors - the happy, mischevious, light-hearted side, and the twisted, mischevious, dark-oriented side. Side A includes pranks, light dirty jokes, and the smell of milk on warm puppies. Side B includes prostitutes, war, rebellion, and forbidden love.

Outside Story;

• Mute fiddler
• Sees pretty girl/dancer
• Sees stupid attractive guy talking to girl
• Drowns out guy's words with music
• The two dance away

Dmitri & Evelyn; (Rated R)
    Timeline; Second time he sees her after separation

• Goes to rebel encampment for first time ever, trying to convince self he's not just here to hopefully overhear & see Eve
• Gets within territory, gets mauled by a couple of idiots who realize he's a foreigner (Not necessarily realize he's Russian)
• They cut out his vocal cords as a warning
• Semi-heals, stumbles into camp with violin and ragged, bloody clothes (looks even more like one of them!)
• Finds big-boss-man tent (Head (young) boss man and sub-head man (older and grizzled)), leans outside, rosins bow as he eavesdrops
• Big boss men just finishing inside, pop out, see Dom
• Advance on him, having not seen him before
• Push him against tent, D awkwardly half supported
• Alerted to activity, a man (tanner) emerges from next tent
• Young head of operation asks where he's from
• D can't answer
• Young H.O. pissed, even more suspicious, grabs him by shirt scruff
•  (would have grabbed him by hair, but found D was too tall)
• Old H.O. stops younger, opens D's mouth
• "Still has his tongue, but no vocal cords. 'Looks like he got on the wrong side of a knife."
• Younger scowls, questions his nationality
• Older about to check - Russian Orthodox circumcised 
• Dom makes weird noise
• Older man just stops and laughs
• "Not worth it!"
• Younger boots him in the butt, sends him stumbling off
• Tosses violin after him
• Violin splinters 

Summer Day

           Moment after moment flashes by, even now. I can pause, reach into the depths of my thought process, and reflect. But I can not live it again.
          Nathan writes beside me, and I feel guilty. The shame digs at my gut like a night-crawler. Ryann and I found two mating once. She poked it in her yellow clad boots and the two split, spiraling back into the ground a respective two inches away from one another. Is that what Nathan and I are to be seen as? Two overlooked life forms, desperate for an unknown emotion? Upon being discovered, will we retract from one another in fear? I hope not. I'm scared already.
         He's writing of his best memory of the summer. It's of the day I returned home from my long stint at RISD. I am not. I'm writing of how scared I am of the conflicting emotions and ambitions inside me, and whether he'll leave me or not. Simply an extension of my summer, that's all.
         They say that things never happen the same way twice. Gatsby proved it so, and Nick Carroway was the only one alive to repeat it after all was done. I can only recreate and improve. Am I okay with that?
          He's one of the best things that's ever happened to me. He says he loves me. I know I love him. Can he still love me even if I'm orientated towards a life he won't like? I'm only human, and I only know facts and feelings. I know I want him more than anything I've ever wanted before.

      And that's enough for me.

BeastlyFroth Hello!

And now, for a housewarming present before I make this thing pretty. :)

He's Got My Nose - POem

He's got my nose

This beastly foe!

Quote me now,

For he has my nose!

My skin, it tingles,

My scalp, it gapes!

I fear the obvious-

My face is reshaped!

So where is my nose,

The instrument of scents-

I've lost it as of late!

It's my utmost lament!

Nathan has it!

That unruly boy,

He has no fear,

But I'm out to destroy!

          And so there it is. I sit here nose-less, bathing in my own saline tears. They don't flow as normal tears do - that requires a nose. Instead they fall randomly, sporadically, across my keyboard. Snot bubbles from my gaping face and dribbles gently down my quivering chin. I can see it all. Noses get in the way.