Throwdown Teapots

It's sick how much I'm still in love with you.
It's astonishing, how I've memorized your looks.
The one's you give when you're upset or unrealistically joyous, which come about much more often than the prior.

I've ingrained your being into mine.
Your essence has been captured by me.
Bottled, inspected, labeled and sold.
You've been shipped off...

I have no idea how many of these I've written to you.
After a while you lose count.
You never lost anything.
You always kept everything right in the palm of your hands. Simple and concise.
No reason to complicate things...until me.

You don't know what you've done. But it's not your fault. You couldn't hurt me, anyone, if you tried.
You've only ever thrown teapots.





© m.f. /Roxywaters Apr. 2011

Everything

I've been selfish again. I hope you'll forgive me.
Its moments like these, the small incandescent ones that form the landscape for all the rest.
I get so close to giving you all the keys that unlock the various doors and windows. Then you blindside me with something so innately wholesome and melancholy. And just like that I can't look at myself for days.
I could quite possibly be in some form of love with you, if I weren't too busy making my self fall apart at my own seams. Relapsing into a purgatory of uncertainty.

I crave your conversation. It nags at me like the cold whistling in from under the door frame. There's a constant reminder that I'm not doing it right, that I'll never get this right. But I know some things that not everyone knows. I know what his hands should be. I know the peculiar way his lips frame his teeth. I know his hair down to the grain. I can trace his shoulders with my hands as if I were molding them from clay. I'll know.

You can't tell me who you are, despite your efforts. And that could make sense... I don't know if I'm strong enough to take care of you. I'm scared to find out if I'm strong enough to let you take care of me. Such a funny word care. Conjures comforting feelings and thoughts. I wonder if I'm ready for that. To go head first and stead fast into your grasp. You'd never let me go, that much I am sure of. Do I want to be let go?

Maybe.

© m.f. /Roxywaters Apr. 2011

Bring the bookfair back!

These clothes are just clothes rags to keep me warm, not definitions.
Wouldn't that be nice.

It's "wha?t" 356 times a day.
Read SOMETHING. ANYTHING.

We are of a different caliber.  (class, sect, religion, region, dialect, background, lives, worlds,)
I'm just better than you. (but honestly I don't know that much)


Iwantmychildhoodback.&mymother&myfriends&alltheopinionsihadwhenIwas6.
What makes something write or wrong?

When did this become okay?


Sleep should be worshiped.
Drugs should be banished.
They just wanted to see what could be done with no outside knowledge. They wanted something pure. I can't blame them for that.

Mad science revels.
Bring the bookfair back.





And with it the idea of flying away in a peach.  He was on drugs too when he wrote that.

Luck and work, life and death.
Every time, I've come up short. but only within my hand, and not my poker face.

Don't give dust a place to settle and you'll never get tied down, but where on earth have you ever seen dust never have somewhere to settle?


© m.f. /Roxywaters  Mar. 2011

I'm completely misjudging this whole thing.

No one here can give you the advice your searching for.
No one here knows who you are.
You look in the mirror and know what your destined for.
You break the mirror because you can't see what it is.
When life becomes a series of slept with, could sleep with,  and would never fucking touch.
This bar is not your friend, it's a leech on your bank account.
None of these people care about your moral fiber.
They are all nothing. Cardboard copies. Mass produced thoughts and ideas.
It's when everything is fabricated and it all has to lead to something real.
You don't know your body.
You don't know your face.
And you sure as hell don't know him.
Every one has been taught what to say, taught how to act by different actors.
What's left but this small world after all?
It doesn't even matter how big it seems here, you can never get away from your fate, no matter how you change.
I am not you as you are not me and we are not all together.
This world is all made up and dreamed of and everyone was on drugs when they wrote what they did.

You never say the right things and that makes me hate you. 






You have no preference in anything and that makes me question why I'm still listening.
Perception is everything melted down to nothing and funneled through the meaningless.
It comes back through the other side in the face and nameless.
When you can't identify your self what else is left?
This is retaliation. This is ignorance. This is depression at it's finest.
This is me not giving up, being completely lost, ashamed, embarrassed, and vulnerable.
This is you saying what you never could.




© m.f. /Roxywaters  Mar. 2011

Notes on a Generation

Journalism is made up bullshit.
Fashion writing is the only reason you're here.
You have interest in clothes but no style.
You have interest in fame but no talent.
You have interest in expensive habits but no financial backing.
You have no way to get your foot in the door so you're getting a degree.
You're not glamorous. You're obsessed with petty, insignificant things.
You're all going to end up at a local newsroom.
None of you will make it to Vanity Fair.
But you're American, here to get your dream, the dream that's owed to you.
NEWSFLASH, nothing is owed to you.
You're wasting your time and money here.
Go into to porn, you'll "make it" faster & you'll be able to afford your parliaments, double shot, and those ridiculous shoes.
Entertainment killed information.

© m.f. /Roxywaters  Feb. 2011

Astonishing

Paralyzed on
the gournie
again but what
I'm really talking
about is sex of
the color blue.
fuck you self
expression is the
only thing living.

© m.f. /Roxywaters  Jan. 2011

Empyrean

I'm trying to write you down but the words won't come out. A few lines of letters combined and we think we'll be immortalized forever. That's not how this works, but I don't know how this works. I don't know how any of it works. The truth is I'm trying to figure it out. Figure out what is truth. You keep inexplicably coming in and out of my life. All of you. One by one you blur my senses like a carousel of moving morals. Songs  fade, flooded memory, come back...

You don't want to talk about it. Conversation is not your strong suit. Nothing is your strong suit. You don't even own an actual suit, which I always admired about you.

I'll always be waiting for him. To come take me away from this place I've built for myself. For his experiences to become my own. For ours to grow and blossom in that french house by the water. You know the one, with the clean lines, sweet smells, lovely melodies. The one made of books and experience.

It's a reoccuring dream I have. Shes in a field playing with the daffodils you sent me, you never forgot. She looks up and yells my name. She's beautiful. She has golden locks of hair she repeats my name and I don't know hers. I am overcome with happiness. Her two brothers run over and ask if I'm okay. Tears stream down my face and I am about to fall to my knees and thank whoever I can for such a gift. They look up at me scared. Her brothers tug her sweater that hangs awkwardly over her white cotton dress. She walks to me with knowledge in her little eyes. She presents to me a daffodil. I touch it, still in awe of my life. I lean down and meet her height. She touches my cheek and asks me why I'm crying. I muster up, "Because you're beautiful darling, more beautiful then I could have ever imagined." You run over redfaced and anxious. You pick up the boys and pull her back to your hip. "What's wrong I ask?" You scream at me. I'm lost. Confused as always. You take them. I watch you go until I can't see anything. I back up until I hit a solid mass. I know the texture of bark from my memory. I follow it to the roots with the rest of my body. The warm wind blows and leaves of the great oak start to fall all around me. I realize I'm weak and pale. I stare at the place she was standing. I stare forever. For years I sit and I stare, waiting for her to reappear again.

Just as I wait for you now, I'm waiting for her. I know nothing else but she and you and her brothers and that house.




© m.f.  Feb. 2011

"I've alway relied on the kindness of strangers."

These city streets aren't what I thought they would be. Nothing ever is really.

I'm wading ever closer to what I think I want, but who will look back at me when I arrive?

If I get there.

People don't think like me or I like them.

Nevertheless, I've never been privy to logic, that much is true.

I've been given a craving like no other I have ever seen.

Created by one I've never come close to meeting.

I'm starting to confuse visions of greatness with headaches.

I'm left starving and unaware.

My actions have bewildered me and I'm left naked in a powdered forest, yet the breeze still hits me as refreshing and the trees still astoundingly tall.

I'm turning into something that my blood rejects.

I'm here and there on two different plains and I wake up abandoned...forgotten.

I find comfort in small things, but I cower from what I've always known.

A beautiful inception.

I'm drowning, but I know how to swim.

Find solace in poetry when you have nothing left.

What's left?

Raise from the ashes with that achilles heel.

We know what is right. We constant what is wrong.

I will not fade or fall. I will either succeed or fail.

Black or white, I've always been partial to gray.

I'll find myself somewhere along that dunned path of forever, and hopefully when the water meets my feet I'll still see my reflection.

© m.f. /Roxywaters  Feb. 2011

Felicity

An earthquake behind my eyes. But the room is still.

Ants scattering up and down the page, but its just literature at seconds glance.

-

Life moves in blinding lights, buildings, and sunsets. 

 But today is unlike the others. Time is lost on the faces of memory. 

-

 Seeping through the holes of that hospital blanket. I start to cry.

The melody of the song is pure & strong. 

Something hits close & I lose everything in my Mothers face. 

-

 Vinyled music streams in sweet like sunshine & I can't let go. 

We waltz there in the moment. I conjure up my envisions of the future. 

My first baby in a field of wild flowers. Her hair brushes against her rosy face. 

Skip later to her first meant "I love you." 

"I love you."
As if it meant anything until that moment.   

-

The dust of the blinds falls into the path of the windows sunlight & acoustic guitar fades in. 

Our golden retriever sits lazily in front of the porch door. 

go back.

Faint lapping hushes the atrocity that my eyes fall upon. How could water ever be that cruel?
I collapse into your arms. Whoever you may be. You bid me to look away & in that awful place I know I could be nowhere else but with you. The trials of life bring us closer & happiness pursues us at our front gate.

Is this all okay?
Where is the golden egg?

No, I may be lost. But I'm still here. 

-

I wade into that image of my Mother.

I think of the life I should have grown up with.

Or perhaps one I've already lived. 

The clean lines, the lime green fixtures, the moon landing & everyone smoking.

-

I touch her grave &

it all feels the same.

-

Scripture could never save me, 

but literature might.

-

An angels choir falling around me like feathers. 

If I don't find it, I dare say that might be the end of me. 

But what if I die looking? Is that enough?

 -

       "I won't let them fail. I can't, I'm responsible.

            Those are my men. I won't ever fail them."

-

It's all worth it if it's like it is in my head.  
Nobody knows but
     "I've got a feeling...a feeling deep inside. 

           Oh yeah, alright."

 

© m.f. /Roxywaters Jan. 2011

Darling.

                                                                    You leave the morning after.

                                         You took, tried, tricked, and told, but not of what you think.

      I know now of the little man you are, which is such a shame. A man with a mind like yours shouldn't be in the forces. Your warped. But you can compromise and be persuaded and enticed rather easily. Your emotions will only degenerate over time. You'll come back worse than you are now. You'll be a machine that runs on instincts and fear, not pride. You'll be left with nothing but severe mental health issues. But why not kill?   

      I let you in and saw your motives and you begged, like a child for some red vines. In the dark you come alive. Feeding on words and descriptions, playing on emotions and trust. I've been infected with you since the day I saw you. Creating something much more divine than the parasite I now know you to be. I wanted something,  you wanted me to risk everything. You groveled, pleading through your intoxicated sleep like a drunkard in an alley.

   You are disgusting and pathetic and all those other words that I could never figure out how to call you. 

      Fill your excuses with those green bottles of sweet nectar like you have for years. But don't treat it like it's not an issue. I've loved you for so long and within the span of an evening you have disproved all my theories on the subject. You have successfully ruined me without even trying. You took all of my efforts and threw them away, like lowly pocket change into a tarnished dish. And because of your drink you wont even remember.  I was the only one to ask what others never would. I was the one that said no to you. And you took it horribly. Stooping to every possible low within fifteen minutes.

      So now I'm broken and your bettered, or at least you would be if you could dredge up what happened last night. There is nothing left for me to say to you except you are the snake in the eaves of a garden and your good at what you do, I hope one day the others will get the chance to fuck with you.

© m.f. /Roxywaters Dec. 2010

Little Johnny

This morning I thought of what would happen if you died. I wouldn't belong at your funeral. I never respected you the way I should. Just thinking of all those people there that would never tell you to your face. It's sickening. And I'd be one of them if I went. It just would not be my place. But today is Sunday, and you're not dead. No, you're incessantly present.

The beams warm my hands and feet on the concrete steps. And I think of deaths brother, nothingness. Now, he may not be dead, but he's more dead than you. More dead than your conceivable funeral. Because he's nothing. If you want nothing, then you are nothing. Emptiness inhabited. Be anything until your dead, chase is chance. 


© m.f. /Roxywaters Jan. 2011

Color of wind.

 Left behind by the incandescent filth of man. Space ruined by time and want.  The pleasures of knowledge take over and consume. The processes become forgotten and the bills pile up. Gold glitter and shiny things.

Dye it down.

The conversation halted there. and I quote.
        The perceptions invade the senses and the nothingness resumes.
Get gone, get out.
Be heard, by yourself.


© m.f. /Roxywaters Jan. 2011

uoymednocsehctiw

GET ME OUT OF HERE she spat, clutching the wire mesh fence.

 & then it was over. all were dead & nothing was left but the long forgotten idea of love & the inconstant cognition of the time capsule.


© m.f. /Roxywaters Jan. 2011

The Great Voyage

dont. stop.
figure me out.
douse it out & hit it up.
done done doing.
find the north star and sail west,
but make sure you have plenty of lemons, limes, or ballpoint pens.




© m.f. /Roxywaters Jan. 2011

What is The Verb. To. Go.

To each his own, cubism is not reality.
Bite the boat and take the reigns.
Forge the shareholds and keep the stocks.
Faith is irrelevant and truth is nonexistent.
"Where's your god now?"
There's nothing here.
Go to the mountain, see the falls.
Kill and hurt and lie.



© m.f. /Roxywaters Jan. 2011