This Week's Theme

"In the Musicals"
this is a terrible theme.
Ignore it, s'il vous plait.


One Man, Another

One man, another.
Hanging in space
or another high place
with less gravity
and prettier sunsets.
Where you can talk
about the tanned giants
who roam this land
conspiratorially, boasting.


It's about fast cars, sex, rock and roll.

I'm lying in bed with my hand
on my cock thinking about love;
and that girl,
the one I saw at the theatre.

she smoked
bet her hair reeked of it.

It's 8:30 in the morning
hard-hat steel toe painted pants and shirt.
two fourteen-year-old girls
giggle back seat bus brace-face a-cup training bras.

I want to fuck them and eat their pussies,
because I

care anymore.

I've been wearing my leather
jacket a lot lately;
and think about that girl I saw at
the theatre, and
her fuck-me-bleached-orange hair.
her bloodshot eyes
I bet you only smile when you cry.
We don't need drugs anymore,
do we?

let's meet behind Science World
and smoke half a cigarette.
we could do something banal
like coffee,
or dinner.
Perhaps we'd have sex;
but I wouldn't ever let you cum.

A Cold, White Christmas in St. Paul

Despite the fact
that I'm sweating buckets,
I can't help but pull my sweater
tighter to my body,
while I try to forget that
you were never talking to me
to begin with
and to forget
that I wouldn't blame you for a second.

Despite the fact
that I don't believe in anything,
I can't help but find myself repeating,
stuttering over the same words
that everyone expected
but nobody told me
were coming.

But more than anything
I'm just sick
of feeling the victim
or feeling the victor
when nobody will come
out limping from this wreck
because this wreck never happened.



It's always been about disconnection
Just as it's always been about rock and roll
Rebelling or conforming
Through noise and bombast or whispers
And even silence.

The silence between the here and what's after

The noise at the boundaries

The vacuums of nowhere.

Distance is disconnection as a natural thing
Something left free, denying a form or function
Unbound to anything or anywhere
Just the existence of two points;
isolated and in extreme.

The extremes of this hysteria.

The absence of motion at either end.

The sameness in everything.

We're recoiling all the time anyways
From everyone and everything
Anywhere and anything between
These two points; this distance, this disconnection.


im just tired

one month ago
and I feel that hand clutching mine like it was only yesterday

it pains me now

to think of the week following

when I seem to recall you repeating "it couldn't have been a worse time"

and I trying to reassure you that exams didn't matter to me, and that it would be okay, saying " there could have never be a 'good' time."

but you were seeking a different kind of comfort
not affirmation that I would be okay

...and I thought I was helping
but listen, I'm not trying to make things worse
I don't want to act bitter

it's just that I'm really tired of this


Random Spirit Lover

I've missed this.
I've missed laying on roofs, wishing I were naked.
I've missed that heart-break of knowing.
I've missed the unsurprised revelations.
I've missed the laughter of strange women.
I've missed going crazy in the streets.
I've missed scaling the buildings and running from anything.
I've missed their sinister laughs from somewhere in the periphery.
I've missed those low men in low cars who run our streets.
I've missed the growing up and blowing away.
I've missed feeling disconnected, alive, dead and united all at once.
I've missed everyone.
I've missed everything.
I've missed you, I promise.


Heavy Metal

So, I'm sitting here at 5:00AM trying to write a blog post but instead I just keep reflecting on past posts. That's okay though because it's made me realize a recurring theme in 'my work'. The theme: Sex, Rock and Roll and Fast Cars. Take for example the semi-recent piece title 'In Metal' on the Blog; a delightful tale of catharsis and vengeance (like there's a difference.)
Fuck you, I'm not explaining how the themes of Sex, Rock and Roll and Fast Cars tie into that. Figure it out for yourself, it isn't hard. I don't need to hold your hand and I don't even fucking want to. Your hands are clammy and I'd rather just keep holding out for the same old ghosts. Anyways, besides In Metal there was also my English 10 provincial exam composition which was based on the cover of Sonic Youth's 'Goo' album; which reads "I stole my sister's boyfriend it was all whirlwind heat and flash. Within a week we killed my parents and hit the road." Again, pretty obvious connections to Sex, Rock and Roll and Fast Cars.
So, anyways. Like Whatever.
I didn't sleep tonight, I haven't been drunk in over a month and I haven't kissed a boy since last year. Let's change at least two of these things, okay?

This week's theme:
"Fast Cars, Sex and Rock and Roll"



I should be doing something else
Sleeping or even living
but instead I'm just writing poetry
The Smiths on repeat,
no hands on the steering wheel,
with my foot on the gas.

God, I hate the Smiths.
This is the soundtrack to this exact moment in my life,
but twenty years ago, if you understand what I mean.
I can't appreciate this, it's a carbohydrate too complex for this generation,
or too simple for that matter.
The Smiths have been an anachronism for as long as I've been alive,
but they still understand what's happening.
They can see the hate in our eyes
and they know it doesn't make us better men,
and they know that change happens suddenly but with ample warning,
like the ticking of a clock.
Our lives are shaped out of the tiny castles we build
as the sound destroys the peace between the past and the coming silences.
But it's our friendships which are defined by the silence that surrounds us.

So please come knocking, next time the noise is too much to bare.



"Seriously Samantha, I think your tits have grown!"

Trying to have a serious conversation with friends, and she interrupts with that. This is why I love people.


kids on bikes

six o'clock.

Rain drops soak the streets with canary yellow rivers that suture to pavement and split off into parallel road lines , leading me to my stupid tomato stinky neon tarry dirt jungle job.

let's start again

I hate working

Yesterday I was in my jungle, fighting the vines that grab at my scratched up zuchinni arms.
I overhear the loud red tomatoes in a forest of green sour ones
the red ones are disgusted
they moan things like "swearing is really disgusting" and their thick seedy mouths spit when they say the words.
And I thought maybe we could be friends
but now I'm swearing at them in my heads
things like "you stupid lying pompus fucks."
and my scratched up zuchinni arms and legs ooze out their poison
and I feel like the suckers that the tomatoes are forcing us to push away

i am completely without music these days
now I remember why I feel like defiance,ohio
why I've always felt like these simple

I'm telling you, I'm this!

Alright, mother truckers. I've had it up to here. It's time to lay down some fresh beats.
I'm sick of all this heartfelt claptrap about feelings and emotions. Why can't we just be friends and post fun bullshit about kids on bikes?
Let's just be friends.


This Week's Theme is:



Due to the complete lack of posting, I refuse to do another theme again.

Love, Samantha

(It's all up to you now, Travis)


Let's Go Skating

feet through the windowsill
skirts getting higher as they drop down
until they're inverted umbrellas
smashed up on the ground
like in our old colouring books
where the chalk lines didn't matter
and we couldn't tell the ice was just glass


This Weeks Theme:

I promised Travis I'd do one...

I like to stand too close to the edge of the sidewalk on days where the traffic is busy. My toes inch over the lines drawn in cement as indicators of what is safe and unsafe, and I revel in the thought that I might lose my balance and tumble almost unwillingly in front of a speeding vehicle. I secretly hope that the winds from one car might be enough to blow me underneath a large truck; the 16 tires of which I have no possible way of escaping. I like to act with complete disregard for my health and safety.

This week's theme is:




I don't know why anyone does anything these days. What do they hope to accomplish? The generations that came before us did it all already and from their cryogenic paradises they laugh at us. I don't give a fuck though, what difference does it make to me if my life's a waste. I'm content with my squalor; smoking illegal cigarettes I stole from a Puerto Rican whore, drinking the warm piss that passes for beer in the slums and lighting the fires that even the old blind fuckers in the New District can see burning from dusk till dawn.
The semantics of how things got this disparate is beyond me, despite the 'Certificate of Advanced Education in History and Historical Arts' I received from the state-approved Facility for Able-Minded Youths. Trust me, I bare no pride in saying that I completed a program at one of the many state-approved 'Education' centers which have appeared throughout the nation. They spared no expense making sure those things were fucking ubiquitous within a decade of the first one's well-documented unveiling ceremony. You'd be hard pressed to find a photo of it's high-ceilinged dome protruding from the ground doesn't look like a fucking pimple about to start spewing.
I'll spare you the details of the transition from the FAMY to my current state of deranged bliss, after all, all you want to hear about are the fires. I've been lighting them for six years now- yes, I know it's fucking illegal but that's the goddamn point. It started with little things, election posters and 'Support Our Troops' ribbons but as you know, it's since escalated. The smug fuckers in the New District can tell you exactly how much. I've made sure that every building that goes down is clearly visible from that cocksucker Dwight Norman's estate and that the ashes from the fire always falls in his direction.
My girlfriend helps me out, storing the materials and distracting the media at the New District's. The long, pink burns that cover her body are the perfect misdirection. Every week she's on the television decrying the despicable acts of the North Monheim firebug, publicly calling for the arrest of the scum who is thoughtlessly murdering countless civilians in his foolish attacks on the local governors. Nobody suspects her chain-smoking, amputee boyfriend. Nobody ever suspects the fucking amputee...



This Is Not What Revolution is About

I see desire in their dark eyes, its presence indicated by the thick purple fog that wanders about their pupils, clouding the peripheries and leaking out the sides in a slow dark drip. It collects in their hollowed out cheeks and cupped hands, running amok in the creases and scars which have settled into their palms and from there it seeps through their fingers, dropping to the ground behind them in heavy black and purple trails. It sticks to their soles as they trudge down well-worn paths through swampland and mountainsides, collecting between their toes and staining the skin with red and black impossible to wash-out and impossible to detect.

I see hate in their dark eyes, the love scratches from it’s fingernails visible on their naked backs. I can see it’s arms wrapped lovingly around their necks as it playfully whispers in their ears, massaging their broad chests with calloused hands. It’s there when they fuck. It watches from the corner as they stick themselves into each other compelled by force of habit rather than affection. It watches as they stare into each other’s eyes, feeling nothing but resentment as they spill their poisons, buckle their pants and go home. It does not make them better men and you can’t see it until their pants are undone.

I see potential in their dark eyes, though it’s scarcely visible beneath the scabs on their lips and their long wiry hair. It flushes their faces and widens their eyes, compels their eye-lids to blink like the shutters on cameras. It is the potential which provokes their records of want and of anger, their histories of poverty and blood which ran from the feet of their people. It is their desire which wills their hands into fists, the hate which fills these fists with arms and the potential for change that unites the two.


This Week's Theme: