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Underground > Creation >

random semi-poetic venting

Frances Farmer

18:58 / 12.10.01

waking up in the morning self-gutted with the stink of last night's cigarettes stinging your nostrils, your fingers, figuring it's time to forget you feel and catch the rail in to town.

liquor tossing through stomach-lining-sieve is the responsible alarm-clock.

of all pretensions; to live by dying and die by living.

entropy does not concur, it was drizzling this morning when i dressed for fog and the sun burns through: intentions pure and considerate become arrogant, selfish- and they burn.

and i burn; but it's not the sun, it's the stomach-lining-liquor-sieve reminding me that without it, the resultant burn could very well be fatal in compare.

and after enough drinks tears shed by candlelight begin making tracks down the face, tracks you will not see in the mirror, tracks you will not forget.

tracks the wise do not wish to forget.

i am not wise. i am in pain; and it's an acceptable situation which i have opted for in exchange for the fallout generated by love-that-is-not-love. love which expresses itself via it's antithesis.

i know you love me because you hate me.

it never feels cold in the first 48 hours. it nevers feels cold at all, through the pores, because they store just like solar panels.

i did not tell you the words the antagonist longs to say: that again we will meet in the middle of the road and all will have been swept away by the rain the night before to provide us with a plethora of possibilities which we only now, only temporarily close the door upon.

i left you no rope.

both selfishly and selflessly, the rope i have kept.

it was of low quality and liable to fray.

liquor-stomach-sieve, please awaken me.

Frances Farmer

17:01 / 18.10.01

you keep fucking trying to phone me and it's causing rupture. thank god for caller-id. thank god for last night's second bottle of wine.

thank you for not hating me.

fuck you for trying to own me.

the rail back from town is as always it is -- the gentlemen are all pissing themselves trying to turn their necks far enough to get a brand-new-view.

the women aren't making eye-contact. they would if they thought it would result in friendly conversation instead of phone numbers.

the children kept on short leashes, just like the luggage.

every time i tear up on the train, i stare philosophically out the window and pinch my face as if it'll hold it in. i don't bother to wipe my face clean. avertion of the eyes. shuffling of the feet.

every - god - damned - time.

and they say alcoholism is physical.

fumble through these papers, here, and i've got a pen -- i've got to burn the ballpoint to prevent it from drying prematurely.

there's this palpably desperate quality to the way i find my paper and pen that seems to ripple outwards. eyes up.

eyes down.

when i get home, that little red light is blinking like a plant that needs to be watered; i can feel my heart withering -- just a little bit, just at the edges. no sunlight. too much water. failed-to-read-the-manual.

i know what's gonna happen if i push the buttons and coax the name out of the screen; i know it's going to fucking incapacitate me.

i wish i could just turn it off.

the heart - within - a - heart has china syndrome, and it's sinking to my gut.
the heart within my gut.

if i'm lucky, it'll soon be the heart - within - my bowels.

i won't get that lucky.

and i even know why you're phoning me. you want to see me. pretext is, subtext is; it's all fucking bullshit. your pretext is ridiculous. (so is mine)

it's going to kill me when i tell you yes. it's going to kill me when i watch you leave. again.

i just want to let you go. i just want you to let me go. we'll meet again. we'll smile again.

just not the way we used to.

no happy romantic nothing - ever - happened futures. not for us.

pretext is: it's been a rough life.
subtext is: you hate me because you love me.

feeling's mutual.

autopilot disengaged

17:32 / 18.10.01

i’m looking out of the train window + i’m thinking.

i’m looking out of the train + i’m thinking of you.

+ me. + my past. + a field of red flowers have just wiiiiiiped across my P.O.V like an allergic rash.

i think i’m synchronized with you.

i think we’re working.

Frances Farmer

18:18 / 18.10.01

everytime

my fingers caress / accidentally just above the knee,

it feels pitiful in compare to (the) strength of your hand -- there -- just below the thigh.

the river between you and me is flowing briskly -- too quick to see what all it carries.

i'd love to jump.

i'm smiling like a thief.

[ 18-10-2001: Message edited by: Frances ]

autopilot disengaged

20:38 / 18.10.01

there's no you. there's no me.
just a situation and a couple of witnesses.
just the space between breaths and a

bad hangover.

these memories are streets.
lines that we ghost thru.
like the blueprint for a future state.

that one moment when i

needed you.

but i told you.

it was never going to be perfect.

20:58 / 18.10.01

one and one

make two

so how about it, baby?

me

and you

Frances Farmer

09:28 / 19.10.01

to which the reply
is a cold but sunny day
where needs are on hold

and what is that you said
that love is both poison and
elixir

of smiles that curve like four-leaf-clover freeway,

and your ragged
i've always smoked pall malls breath,
under the rise and fall of your chest

i think i'm going to pass out

your hepburn lips are moving so slowly
the thoughts that are leaking

... pure joy.

autopilot disengaged

09:28 / 19.10.01

...but i was tired and i had to sleep.

so i stopped playing yr game.

***FOR ONE NITE ONLY***

i stopped playing yr game.

Frances Farmer

16:26 / 19.10.01

god it's

beautiful when you cry i'm catching

tears on my lips

and they taste like heaven.

Frances Farmer

20:51 / 20.10.01

like a violently ill ping-pong machine, this outward flow of honesty is.

Frances Farmer

01:34 / 21.10.01

* pla-dun-dun! *

swear to god.

the trees are moving, they are.

all of their own accord.

and their limbs they are stretching as if to be speaking - their - bodies - are - all - dancing 'round.

the cracks in the sidewalk are writhing about attempting to abort tension. in so doing not helping the making of more that that they wish to lower down.

the moon, she is splitting, and in doing so smiling: like water the light sprays forth.

and while the sun is just staring the power outflowing is blinding but for a layer of smoke, a layer so spinning and dancing and weaving upon which the doused lamps choke.

won't you dance, like so many seeds of pollen floating on wind? will you not dance and learn that the air between caresses better then most lovers will?

can you live?

autopilot disengaged

20:15 / 23.10.01

hey.

think i missed you.

which is to say -

well, anyway...

just wanted to see -

if you missed me...

Frances Farmer

20:38 / 23.10.01

in the morning i kiss the pillow on which you slept; just before i read the note you've left -- and in the evening i wonder when you'll call, even if i'm unready, unready to hear your voice.

Frances Farmer

19:28 / 06.11.01

[lyrics]

it seems you've been waiting for a very long time -- for somebody to walk up out of the passersby, somebody to hold you like they haven't only just met you -- somebody to do everything without receiving a single cue.

and they're off picking flowers and they're off gathering stones and they're primming at their hair and writing pagelong poems and they're given to your beauty and they're not strong enough to see that some things take time and nothing comes for free.

so i've been drinking-singing-spitting-crying for more than a week and all i've learned from pointless mourning is how to plug the leaks. i've been sitting on the bridge with a brown paper bag watching all the pidgeons as they almost shit on my hand -- and all of the time i don't know who i'm thinking of; i guess it's self-obsession or a derivative thereof.

i still like to think about you -- i'm not even sure why. i'm sitting on my couch and all my friends are getting high. i'm cradling my bottle, like it'll one day hold me back, 'cause at times like this one needs to think that somewhere there's some slack.

i still wake up believing the impression on my bed is yours, and i swear i hear you whispering "you've got to plot your own course". i've thrown away your pictures and your gifts and your writing; but it doesn't do me any good 'cause it's all recorded in my mind.

i still fall asleep believing that i must be dying and swearing it's ok cause you're lying there to catch me but it's not and you aren't and i've got to face the facts -- i deliberately and intentionally gave myself the axe.