Everything Bounces

All that is shall be
in the world
what is shall be
in the world
all that is shall be
what it is
shall be
all work and no play makes me a dull girl but we knew that already, didn't we? didn't we didn't we once think of flying flying so high into the sky into trite rhymes and jangling rythms badly spelled like spells gone awry to our dismay we looked into the abyss and it glared at us and told us to go away away my heart's on fire but they caught the arson last night without bothering to put it out who can say where the road goes? the muffin man, the muffin can! it seems so much less fun when you add punctuation or so they say; I wouldn't know. there was a time when love was free and true when the people sang of red and black and the stars were born from the gutter, the gutter of The Wretched (taste my capital letters, foo) not the miserable, they were never the miserable, but i simply sang damned, damned, damned i am, because the highway man has left me and you. still. don't. get. it. maybe you never will and maybe i never did, but what does it really matter in the end? Necrophiliac necromancers betray their best friends for nookie and ultimate power; film at eleven. compulsive gamblers try to kill themselves after their girlfriends get whacked, news at six. a girl and a boy discover the other halves of their selves in each other, while the odd man out finds comfort in the bottom of a bottle. ninth grade will come back to plague us all; here we are living in america at the end of the millennium- but the millennium has come and gone, 010100 like an area code gone wrong, like a zip code known to many but understood by few. it's probably in new york, new yourk, your new yourk not mine. ninth grade stole my heart and my originality and tenth grade stole my soul; i haven't yet learned to live with the lack and maybe the dark wind howls because your mother was a hamster? hey? did you ever think of that? this is far too lucid for my tastes, said lucy, far too lucid for lucy and lucy might be luckier than the rest of us if she's too lucid for being loopy. i dreamt i was a moron, in days gone buy me a shrubbery because it's all i'm good for nothing, nothing at all, nothing at all the white horses are still in bed with me and her and her and her and her- and now i've lost count, but it was a small bed and there were a lot of us and it was, for just a few moments, utter heaven on a stick. i'm still in love with a pathological liar and a fictional figment of someone else's imagination. they aren't the same person, either. i'm in love with a dream and a Dream and a girl and a boy and a life that wasn't mine and never will be; maybe we will and maybe we won't and maybe one day i'll remember how many licks it really does take to get to the center of that fucking tootsie pop- i always hated tootsie rolls, the only candy made stale straight from the factory- tilde, tilde, tilde- but who actually licks a lolipop anyway? don't we all just put them in our mouths and suuhhhhck? like a vampire, a sugar vampire with cotton candy veins and blue raspberry blood, soaking into the carpets. dark red won't hide the spills; you need black for that but they'll still catch the shine of moonlight on your eyes. i did this once before, when death hit the wall and we were all meatballs but they didn't get it then either, neither, nor. the grammar gets you every time- and isn't he still oh, so molestable? when the girl we might have been ran off with the girl we used to be leaving us all alone with our confused sexuality and scorn for ourself- 'you hate the world just as much as you hate yourself' how perceptive how perspicacious how perforated...or not. there used to be more of me that wasn't me but i've lost that ability- you're not much good to me alive, are you turkish? turkish? sold your soul for some turkish delight, stale and prepackaged but well frozen none the less and i imagine we'll be fed to the pigs. you can call me susan if it makes you happy but i do not think it means what you think it means and maybe there's enough of me that isn't me to hold me together when the storm blows through.

in the end we're just lines of paint, swirling down the drain, the drain, the pain in the brain, in the heart in the main, we cannot stop when we've not yet started but we'll give it a go anyway any day ruth go gather your grain, leave us to our pain, your husband finds you wanting and he'll not give you enough to assuage your hunger, hunger, the world that doesn't rhyme, and not the word, neither. the lord said thou shalt wear tassels, but i'd rather be one, a fringe on somone's coat, bright blue and full of holy love, a fringe of love of fingers of cloth a fringe of airy silence nothing beat a fringe upon the worlds, the words, a freudian slip, so silky smooth against our skin and so slight to conceal the mishaps of our skirt. oops. my slip is showing, growing, groping? knowing what we know now, why should we bother to wear them at all? just strip down to the bare essentials and live free, die, love, be well, be well, stay well, oh keeper of my hart...be you hart or be you hunter, be you child of the rood inverted bassackwards and upside down without a clue, what to do? when your memories return in a blast of shining truth and light love and peace why is gillian anderson an avocado, anyway? maybe canada and california are secretly the same place, but that still doesn't explain winnipeg, guinea pig, so far north the ground freezes before your heart, and for us, that's a sight indeed. a slight indeed, a slip of a boy of a thing, and we're back to that again, because really, what else could possibly be on our mind? i hated him and maybe i still do, for stealing away my callous indifference and giving it back to me unbroken. i've still got it- keep it in a box and wear it 'round my heart on a hot day in july. CAPITAL LETTERS SHALL BE THE DEATH OF ME.

perhaps i'm already dead, but i rather think not; it all bounces in the end. on a molecular level, we're all really ecstatically happy, and busy as baby bumblebees squished into stinging, vomit inducing slush. ah, girlscout campe. still don't get it? well enough, they never do, never did, never will unless i explain in small. very. small. words. and here we are, with an excess; an excess. of punctuation, you see. . . it's all in the visual clues, but we havn't got any, nor spell cheque neither.

there are no ideas here, in the basement of the barrel of my mind, which is a shame, a crying shame, for once there was a phoenix dwelt down here, in the midden heap, keeping warm. once there was a phoenix, all phonetic beauty and fire, but now she's gone.

she's saved, she says, and she'll write about the truth, fifty thousand words of truth as she sees it, which is to say, nothing it all. Say nothing at all, and you'll find us better listeners than if you'd said nothing but truth.

We don't want truth; its taste is too harsh for our palates. So instead I'll give you flights of fancy, on gilded wings and grinning cards; the joker reappears thrice blessed in this story.

It's a beautiful day to crack the big sky, on the dark side of the day. Live was I ere I saw evil, Live Evil! Life is a palindrome, after all. Arev, she speaks! And listen if you wish, for she'll not hold it against you either way.

Perhaps we grasp coherency as we grasp straws, and leave them behind when the scapegoat is chosen. Maybe we like it better that way-

But it really is a beautiful day.