When daring the wide world, and in the brightest days,
and casting off the servitude of parents' clingy ways.
When making your voice heard, or just watching a cloud,
It's vital to remember that motorcars are loud.

The loudest noises come and hurt your big-kid ears
Even when your plans today did not include your fears.
Tipping the earth by vision's light when it comes roaring round,
A motorbike or truck or something shaking up the ground.

It's felt in the shoulders, head, and toes, and knees, and brain,
And that wish the mists of Avalon would dampen them again.
Bubbling up inside of you, it crumples paper hearts,
And bounces in your belly long after it ends and starts.

But unexpectedly, those interrupted plans
Are like reality again, you're playing in the sand.
A mother's son, a father's girl, trying to be proud,
You just have to remember that motor cars are loud.

If I Were A Camel

If I were a camel, do you know just what I'd do?
I'd pad across the desert with my master at my mane,
Packing loads of water and other precious things,
Leaving footprints unfollowed for the transience of them. 

If I were a camel, I'd shit right where I stand.
Waste, not so much discarded as left for other hands, 
Made useful by necessity lest hunger come to them. 
If I were a camel, I'd know just where I stand. 

I would live without fear but for the master's boot,
Which kicks with knowing rhythm, and in that, fear is moot. 
My fear would be without ground, as sand is through a hoof, 
And slips away with strong winds to blind the starry roof. 

If I were a camel, I'd know what I had done, 
A life of taking precious things to places which become
Familiar to my unshod legs. Peace for mind and soul, 
Until death finds me old and worn and takes this dreary one. 

I would lay down one last time and close my sleepy eyes, 
And dream of sinking in the sand, a pyramid of bone.
If I were a camel, I'd watch you from on high, 
And walk the line between design and natural sandstone.

'Tis placid midnight, stars are keeping
Their meek and silent course in heaven;
Save pale recluse, for knowledge seeking,
All mortal things to sleep are given.

But see! a wandering Night-moth enters, 
Allured by taper gleaming bright;
Awhile keeps hovering round, then ventures
On Goethe's mystic page to light.
With awe she views the candle blazing;
A universe of fire it seems
To moth-savante with rapture gazing, 
Or Fount whence Live and Motion streams.

What passions in her small heart whirling, 
Hopes boundless, adoration, dread;
At length her tiny pinions twirling,
She darts, and--puff!--the moth is dead.

--Thomas Carlyle, The Tragedy of the Night Moth

Laying, lounging, unusually calm.
A conversation unsaid,
As if nothing is left to talk about.
An ivy-flower pressing against the glass.
The impressionistic blossom-haze twisting itself in an excruciatingly slow dance.

Last night's reverie hangs on my eyelids, 
Blurred faces and distant laughter.
Seductive and dark, she gives voice to reason with a strong tongue.
A snake-tongued side-talker, failing to convince the congregation of the global enemy in women,
Always leaving the damned seat down.

This is Father's Day.
A day designed to mock the impotent and sour the failed,
Or to celebrate the unharmful.
Pride, dignity, and honour:
Loose, flabby things which have long since died.
Chivalry, another casualty of the uprising.

It's sunny outside, though.
Let's go out tonight.

Shelves and shelves of unread books, 
Posturing in the light of expectation.
Forever wetting my tongue on a worn golden rim. 
Dying against a feminine grindstone. 
A mockery of life, 
A failed student, 
A failed lover.
A blank page with too many authors. 
A distant mother on the edge of existence.
That is who I am.

Fucking rock.
You look at me with bloodied face
Smug in that the blood isn't yours.
I find myself winding back for another kick.


Or, alternately..


Your rock face, bloodied.
Smug in that the blood's not yours.
I kick you again.

shoot the bullet
shoot the core
i can't say it anymore
this spread has got me so confused
i just can't read the danmaku

O LOOK EMO CURTAIN FIRE