[continued from previous message]   
      
   >> up against the wall,   
   >> as a kind of fashion statement,   
   >> showing tales of rejections and the required rework,   
   >> until no longer recognizable.   
   >>   
   >> ---------------------------- August 12th, 2002   
   >>   
   >> Stars   
   >> -----   
   >>   
   >> The garden is full of death at this time of year,   
   >> bordered with spindly yellowed stains of softening wilt,   
   >> surrounded by unfinished projects,   
   >> packages nearly opened up,   
   >> and the contents barely visible under a torn corner.   
   >>   
   >> It is as if everything dies at one glimpse   
   >> of a flower hanging its forlorn head down shagged and swaying,   
   >> among a crowd of strangers,   
   >> and then it is all over again,   
   >> in knowing nothing more   
   >> than some of us might make it until spring comes,   
   >> when the snows melt from beneath one or another solitary   
   >> Hibernation under the hard cold white of winter stars.   
   >>   
   >> ----------------   
   >>   
   >> Someone   
   >> -------   
   >>   
   >> Everywhere I go there is someone to work with,   
   >> on something,   
   >> or other,   
   >> and everywhere I go there is no one to know   
   >> beyond someone to work with.   
   >>   
   >> There is never anyone to be known,   
   >> as anything that's wanted as something nearer   
   >> than someone to work with.   
   >>   
   >> I know,   
   >> we are growing as thin as the stories repeated in advertising circulars,   
   >> and thin as my thinning hair,   
   >> thin as dreams,   
   >> becoming not much more than our variant commercial messages,   
   >> where it is all about making something,   
   >> and everywhere we go,   
   >> making it with someone   
   >> someone to work with,   
   >> someone different,   
   >> always someone to work with,   
   >> but I find it is lonelier everywhere I go   
   >> no matter how many people are there   
   >> as someone different to work with.   
   >>   
   >> It is lonelier and lonelier,   
   >> left to reminiscing about a long time ago   
   >> of romantic dreaming that got us only that far,   
   >> and no further,   
   >> than a tiny,   
   >> hardly noticed,   
   >> public cloudburst,   
   >> where one of us was only an appearance   
   >> Interjected into someone else's writing,   
   >> writing off,   
   >> writing in,   
   >> or writing onto,   
   >> that other chapter,   
   >> only to find the story really ended before that.   
   >>   
   >> We never got to write any other lines   
   >> and it makes me so sad   
   >> that all I ever got anywhere I went,   
   >> in that impersonal world of quietly dreaming   
   >> those personal dreams,   
   >> was somewhere where there was someone,   
   >> always someone,   
   >> someone different,   
   >> to work with.   
   >>   
   >> --------------   
   >>   
   >> Broken Glass   
   >> ------------   
   >>   
   >> The mental engines overheated,   
   >> pulled steamed to the side of the road,   
   >> uphill summer flares a blowout,   
   >> leaving scorched tempers,   
   >> various hot spots,   
   >> mucilaginous skin glued to underwear,   
   >> the saturated pools of molten breasts   
   >> poured into her t-shirt.   
   >>   
   >> The coming of evening a stale beer smell sky,   
   >> its pale golden brown a horizontal wipe,   
   >> and the spilt froth being watched obsessively,   
   >> for fresh indications of resurrections,   
   >> through the curved glass of the broken bottle.   
   >>   
   >> ---------------------   
   >>   
   >> Past The Lips   
   >> -------------   
   >>   
   >> It's all sucked out until the suction is tugging   
   >> on the marrow cracking ribs of emotion   
   >> feeling dry as tinder is parched dry,   
   >> having already been broken and licked at   
   >> with little tongues of fevered flames.   
   >>   
   >> You know,   
   >> the serpent pushes past the lips,   
   >> opening and closing with another hiss,   
   >> biting down at the core of a word that struggles   
   >> to try to get past the raw afterbirth of crushed apple.   
   >>   
   >> Accidents happen,   
   >> and it was no exception,   
   >> to the same patterns sewn together   
   >> into a quilt of stories.   
   >>   
   >> ----------- August 13th, 2002   
   >>   
   >> Attrition   
   >> ---------   
   >>   
   >> The dark circles form targets around the eyes.   
   >> A punch drunk night hitting hard   
   >> on all the exposed vulnerable spots,   
   >> the shadows boxing at the bared surfaces   
   >> of a sleepless unconsciousness.   
   >> There are no real answers to any usual questions,   
   >> and the only facts remain a kind of attrition,   
   >> as to what was loved.   
   >>   
   >> ---------------------   
   >>   
   >> Blinding   
   >> --------   
   >>   
   >> The explosion was a slow motion burst into long months of shrapnel,   
   >> Similarities,   
   >> her likenesses,   
   >> broken off,   
   >> Disconnected,   
   >> from the familiar image,   
   >> their differing flung,   
   >> into the retinas,   
   >> blinding as certainly as a red hot iron   
   >> plunged into the remaining white emptiness   
   >> of wishing to see.   
   >>   
   >> ------------------   
   >   
   > Stone cold classics...   
      
   Agreed.   
      
   --- SoupGate-DOS v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)