anticlimactic crescendo

Real Blogging

paintmeblue88 — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 22:05:59 +0000

I’ve only got a moment, so this’ll have to be a quicky. I’ve decided to try out this real blogging. Although not for long. The truth is my status update would be of no value. Just waiting for an open shower, sitting in the right sound, content. To the extent that I’m still waiting thus anxious. And ready to be somewhere else if only internally. No falling behind in this real blogging, eh? Who knows how this will come to be, just a stream of consciousness flowing. There is someone missing, in this moment, piece of string. Soon, very soon a zip-zap of pixels churning and there she’ll be. With me. Hopes for a beautiful life lie in the tortured artist, the one who tortures herself. May truth find us during our commitment to searching. May love bind us in times of sorrow and loneliness. May our joy be shared selflessly and sincerely. May we live in love. So this is real blogging. No turning back. The bathroom is mine, for churning pixel puzzles that turn into her face.

commercialized sandals

paintmeblue88 — Mon, 13 Apr 2009 15:55:46 +0000

happy endings men search out in massage parlors and rock stars comfort me with mean i can’t wash out, hollowed out by crashing waves of surreality and lose my mother’s love. when Dylan asks me how i feel i know his infectuous, drug infested memory lacks nothing but math for his multi million finances and the words to his first folk single. he plugs in, asks me to trade up sandals and says i’m a drag while i pull good times rolled, drag myself. Ginsberg growls at fellow fags to suck hard enough to labotamize, or blow strong enough to yield blown minds with room for new memories, born to breed with Dylan’s and Stein’s and Angelou’s. Billy Name lines the Factory with foil to shine back his convoluted image, to prism the brilliant minds creating and destroying in the hallowed space, playing pagan gods. i feed this art, growing into a strong adult that preaches reality in a slow, steady drawl from a black pulpit, with no fear of a revolting congregation of fanged sheep. i fear my own worth in this calling, as tiny luxuries cradle me, sitcoms and hip hop about diamond teeth coddle me to sleep and closed eyelids gaze on a readily available sunrise my parents paid fifty grand for. i wake up, Dylan’s emptiness fills me and i see Billy’s foiled face in the mirror while Warhol and Reed whisper future doctrines in the background of my apartment and i ask if i can really see myself in the twinkle of a needle. i wonder if i can play in the reality bubble with the big boys for longer than a trip while government officials remove my fingernails and the crutched heretics of religion burn me with cigarettes they refuse to smoke, demanding information on a happy world. i hope to endure the torture of real pain and spit out the same news that shuould slide by on every crawl, “Everything is getting worse.”

cast away

paintmeblue88 — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 03:31:21 +0000

deserted

thinking myself

into paralysis

i wait for you

all of me

dissolving

effortlessly

into what it means

to know you true

you are the island

where i reside

i rest my head

in the valley

where your heart beats

you are the shore

i washed up on

dying

but you provided

when i was desperate

you are the wave

that first pulled me

flipped me

and reeled me in

the one

that first dilluted me

you are the rain

i wait for

i trap

to preserve

for later nourishment

that i ration

to myself

when you aren’t around

you are the sun

on my skin

and the night air

in my lungs

the little pleasures

that keep me hopeful

your mouth

is a fiery fountain

beautiful

and sweet

quenching

intellectual thirst

you come first

to mind

morning

evening

night

you…

haikus instead of love letters

paintmeblue88 — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 07:34:11 +0000

i want you always

i will. i know that its true

you are forever

off the tip of tongue

in the corners of this mind

you’re internalized

you’re lovely, my love

worth my love–tell me, am i?

can we be lovely?

the north sky

paintmeblue88 — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 00:19:51 +0000

its so…

infuriating

to be alone

in this

where no one

can see

the blue

in this sky

without the help

of my blue eyes

and the crinkle

crackle

of the chestnut

brown branches

entwining

the night sky

but the cage

i reside

still

in this place

caged

from the freedom

of the clinging

between

earth

and sky

ouch

i have been stung

by my own

nervous system

system

of nerves

in this place

this planet

of me

but with

abnormal revolutions

be with me

dependent

binary stars

lets gravitate

towards nothing

together

i have lost sight

of my path

without you

the north sky

looks southerly

in the light

these nights

purple

no left over

orange

from whats real

just

see my truth

in needing you

breathe me

like its

what’s saving you

please

i am highly aware that i miss you more

paintmeblue88 — Sun, 21 Dec 2008 19:51:40 +0000

than i thought. i mean, before. i missed you then and i miss you now, but now i am keen on your absence. glowing spots where you should be that i am striving after, enough that my brain hurts, and when it can not try any longer to find you in the space where i should hunt out your perfume with my nose (you would touch my nose), something deeper inside me would hurt still, harder, and louder shivering. because missing you is a specific affliction that i only call “missing” because it is word most synonymous in my vocabulary to convey this affliction, which is a somewhat embarrassing confession, since the word “missing” is becoming exponentially farther from this specific affliction as every second, it grows within me. it is an internal loneliness that i cant quite identify. perhaps, missing you is like missing the other side of the conversation in my head.

there once was a girl who died from a cold

paintmeblue88 — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 23:54:53 +0000

Introduction

Sometimes I get sick. I get sick because I am unhealthy. I am unhealthy for many reasons, however listing them is pointless. The most important thing to remember is that it is of my own accord and nature that I am sick. Bad fortune hasn’t found me, I don’t dawdle among carriers of contagious viral disease, nor am I genetically inadequate. I am simply sick, body and mind.

Thought

Is the ocean blue because it reflects the sky, or is the sky blue because it reflects the ocean? Has my body turned a particular periwinkle because my mind’s been humming the blues under a cartoon cloud? Or do the blues hit body and mind at the same time, perhaps in the form of rain drops? If the blues play percussion on my head, which one gets the first riff? Mind or Body? Body equals head. Head equals mind. But I’ve made it clear the transitive property has no jurisdiction here.

Which came first, the chicken or the egg? Did my hard boiled brain hatch this infected, chicken-bone body? Mad chicken disease-that’s what I got. Was it the plucking of now brown feathers from contaminated flesh, flesh destined for greaterness (wings, or maybe white meat nuggets), that cracked my mind’s once white shell and let in the disease? Let in the disease? Or let it out? Maybe not into, but from the crack seeps this viral yolk.

Conclusion

I do not fear my own pending ending. An inevitable downward spiral is not only expected, but invited. My greatest and only concern is my own contagion. I am a lost cause, but the others can still be saved.

maniac

paintmeblue88 — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 05:04:28 +0000

day then night

stretches beyond the scope of vision

past 180 degrees

into oblivion.

swallowing me whole,

bone and all

and loving the taste

of my blood soaked shawl

cigarette between limp lips

smoke dripping from its tip

the thought makes me sick

still i lick

nicotene passes time

there is no rest in this place

not with this freshly red skin

and this tobacco taste

nobody gets to come in

its been a long time

since time was short

since whats mine has been mine

and i am alone

possibly dangerous criminal seeks intelligent corrupt lawyer

paintmeblue88 — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 04:05:47 +0000

I am a silent spring where words float up in foreign tongues, so I can make up the meaning as I go. You sit under the spray where droplets of crystal clarity reign all over you. But you are only wet and cold. It’s my fault. My telling blue is never black and white; I’ve always been partial to shades of gray. Apparently, I’m not as transparent as I thought.

So wipe off your feet before you step on my mind, please. We wouldn’t want a contaminated crime scene. (Come on Jordan, mind your P’s and Q’s.) Please, forgive my manners. Let me start again. This is a request. My request of you, in pleading desperation, to investigate.

However, there is one small catch-a tiny favor, if you will. If at all possible, find me innocent. It is my belief that during your exploration, you will discover quite a bit of good and evil. You may find beautiful feathers, a peacock’s tail and the temper to match. The warmth of fire from a distance is so pleasant, am I right? And on average, I’d bet the number 1 item on the majority of Americans “List of Favorite Things” is the most bacteria, disease ridden paper product in the world.

Your perspective could change everything. In reality, they need each other, and both flow in and out of me, the silent spring. My simple request is that your calculations are weighted with mercy, measured with an already tipped scale.

Please, find the defendant not guilty.

vision

paintmeblue88 — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 03:12:34 +0000

Twitch.

Here. There.

The only control, and slight as that in the tips of fingers.

Twitch. Thigh. Twitch. Elbow.

Like lightning, with thunder beneath me, grinding me.

And NO vision.

Knuckles, bare knuckles with alien’s digits.

Skinny wrists, with blurred bracelets.

Electricity shooting through portruding veins.

And the bounce filling me. The beat.

Twitch.

Radar waves from the core out.

Atomic particles, green and purple flowing away in a blasting sphere.

Twitch. Neck.

Open your eyes.