fuzzy lovely intestines,
trace the side-
walk with your warmest intentions,
bellyache through your dorm room talking to literature students
literally with the tongue you paper mached with borrowed, re rotted poetry,
keep it chilled in your mini refrigerator next to
stolen airplane liquor;
manifest your own tragedy leave others to be what they
be, mine a lincoln log house next to lake erie,
mine a shotgun shell made into flowered pottery,
mine a baby asleep dreaming of migrating back into the womb.
you got off the train, i got my ankle strained carrying
suitcases full of the town you last slept in,
arms awake lulling despite coffee veins,
cream and sugar teeth mesh the white skin of your
khaki neck, a patio that i never left where we once wept beneath
cursing stars and
sympathetic moons on floorboards that creaked and crept as we
tree walked through our teenage years;
you were only seventeen so i bought you cigarettes,
you were only seventeen so i brought you home by midnight.
present day its 3 am,
asleep between the windows and the walls debating college credits,
drinking wine out of coffee mugs,
brushing our teeth with birch tree limbs,
here where my cat is clawing at your tangles,
here where my television is calling you, olivia,
a cordial invitation to a special gathering,
here where pleasant interruptions come valiantly.
awake now that my cats asleep,
teach me a year of french in just a few hours,
i tell you about sigur ros and dreams i have about the revolutionary war,
manifest your own tragedy and let others be what they'll be,
i see and seam the weave of your cotton figure,
carefully touch the silhouette of who we were a few years
manifest your own,
you/re own,
don't dream so loudly,
don't sleep so soundly,
Last edited by rushmore at Nov 21, 2009,
Quote by rushmore
i dont know if this is worthy of an oh my god, but thank you as always.

If it isn't, it's pretty damn close.

Parts in the middle-ish seem to have that runniness to them once again. It almost flows from one idea to the next too easily. It's fluid to the point of almost losing its identity. Kinda made me have to focus(at times) on keeping my head straight to follow what you were saying.

That's minor, though. I like this a whole bunch, as usual.

Today I feel electric grey
I hope tomorrow, neon black
i understand what you're saying about the middle part, i was thinking of re working it a tad but i read it aloud and liked the way it flowed too much, i can see where the ideas may mesh together too much but i like that, i think. idk. thanks.
yeah I reckon it reads fine, beat-like almost, if a little more was invested in the rhythm. But that's not essential, or a negative.

I didn't like "migrating", thinks that a little cliched/weak word choice. I'd also love to see how you could open it if you dropped the first few lines and thought about a different angle into the piece. I think "fuzzy" does not fit the piece at all, and "bellyache", though maybe revolving in similar linguistic circles as the rest, for me is ugly when used as a verb.

I also think the ending was a bit wishy-washy. Maybe it was just the repetition at the end. I'd have been tempeted to use a more constructed rhythm to keep the climax of the piece at "younger"; I think there is a far more powerful ending point than what you have - but that's just my opinion.

Keep it up Matt (? is that right? Why don't I remember?).
this is really exceptional. i genuinely love the flow, and am quite impressed.

keep up the great work.
I'm just another musician waiting to be famous.

follow my twitter here
Please! listen to my music here
it's, um.

it's a list of all the things you see with that twenty-twenty hindsight, when its over and now it can be more romantic, hopeful. but the music never sings in the moment, the violins don't come in when they should, and maybe if they did, the epiphany would suffer. the characters are never aware of them, are they? So it becomes our duty, our responsibility, our need to share, to hope it matters, and to be reassured that it does, by not by anyone else - because no one else will ever know what it took to get those credits, or what that cup of tea meant, what darkness that party ended in - so we write it, with hope and reverence, to point it out, to remember. And to this world it does relate.
I really liked this.

I also think the ending could feel less frayed.

"Success is as dangerous as failure. Hope is as hollow as fear." - from Tao Te Ching