jealous

The Heart

by Stephen Crane.

I'm not jealous because it's beautiful, I'm jealous because it's true.

It's not so hard to write poetry, it's just hard to write true poetry: it's hard to take a dream and let all the color and smoke drip out of it, leave it as just a bald and honest thing. 

The Heart is the extreme side of honesty, because the "creature" in The Heart, the beast, isn't really a creature. It's a man. Usually we lie about that sort of thing.

Usually we don't write it down.

Cheers,

Syl

complaint(s)

I'm tired at 6 AM.

Cheers,

Syl

 

Postscript:  I'm tired of ringing ears and walking in straight lines. I'm tired of dark circles and pale skin. I'm tired of reminding myself: Inhale, Exhale. I'm tired of being shut up and shut down. I'm tired of insomnia and anemia and claustrophobia and alexythymia and hypochondria. I'm tired of the Middle East, no, I'm tired of America. I'm tired of the same old stars. I'm tired of the same old dreams. I'm tired of being so young and so old and so in between everything that my mother wants me to stay in at night. I'm tired of all my friends and everyone at school and what's on TV. I'm tired of nodding my head like yes yes yes and not saying a single word. I'm tired of flying and lying to myself about it. I'm tired of always going in circles. I'm tired of winter and Mondays and fourth period that never ends. I'm tired of everyone else, but mostly I'm just tired of myself.

  

The Truth About Oblivion

The Truth About Oblivion

by Syl

And like the apocalypse, the devastation isn't apparent.


It's quiet in the air like a carbon monoxide leak, like someone is mouthing words with no voice.


It's like wet wallpaper, crawling down the walls of a falling-down house.

And so this is loneliness.

And so this is captivation. 

And so this is what you get for being a little reckless when you were 16.


This is the middle, this is charm. This is a planet with no air.


So here's to hoping.


Here's to getting off this star, and going somewhere lightyears and lightyears away.


It's a bone-breaking silence. It's a war.

It's the exact opposite of the feeling that someone is watching you. It's the feeling that no one is.


This is oblivion.


This is me and my own universe without a single other soul. Me and the moon.

Cheers,

Syl

broken dreams

I walk alone.

I walk alone.

A sidewalk with no end in sight, squint up into a casual downpour of acid rain.

Hunger; starvation even.

A smattering of empty promises, heart beating like a bruise. The creeping feeling in your chest that you are slowly going blind.

I walk alone.

I walk alone.

Claustrophobia, but that's ironic because it's so empty here.

Greed pouring wild and wet down the boulevard, drowning the weak and consuming the strong. Gluttony: hungry for more. Here is unrequited love; here is predestined heartache; here is a knife in your back and tell me when it hurts. 

I walk alone.

I walk alone.

Riots in the streets: people without faces, forgotten names. Lungs tight, aching for oxygen.

Desperation, like the dying ping of a heart rate monitor in a static-filled hospital room. Unanswered questions drip out of sinking drainpipes, anxiety cloys in the cracks in the pavement, choked-back tears dry on shivery gray brick.

The simpering white sky was once startling and lovely, but a sad sort of madness crept into the clouds and into the sun and into the stars and it's haunting now, even violent.

I walk alone.

I walk alone.

Cheers,

Syl 

  

you are in my thoughts.

I'm thinking about you.


I'm thinking about the way you blink in the fluorescent lights. I'm thinking about the creases in your fingers. I'm thinking about the shape of your shoulders and the sound of your pulse.


I'm thinking about you, and trying not to.


But I am.


I'm thinking about you like insomniacs think about sleep; like I think about sleep. I'm thinking about you like the sea thinks of the stars. Like static electricity thinks about your strawberry-blond hair.


I'm thinking about you like Lucifer thinks about God. Like an atheist on his deathbed thinks about God. Like a bruised hooker on the side of the road thinks about God, and tries to think of something else.


I'm thinking about you like your bed thinks of the shape of you.

Like a blind man thinks of the girl he loves but he can't think of her right because he doesn't know what to think, what to see.


I'm thinking about you like you think about she thinks about he thinks about.. me. I'm thinking about circles and love triangles and shapes without any real beginning or any real ending.


I'm thinking about you like plaid thinks about crawling across your shoulders in the form of a long-sleeved shirt. Like the white pawn thinks about his queen. Like a lonely young man thinks of a lonely young woman. Like your fingers itch toward another power-chord.

I'm thinking about you like everyone thinks of their mom when they fall down and break their wrist. I'm thinking about you like Rasputin thought about Anastasia (but not anymore, because he's dead.)


I'm thinking about you like flightless birds think about flying. Like human beings think about flying. Like a bird in the sky thinks about setting his feet on the ground, resting his wings.


I'm thinking about you like the sun thinks of my soft skin, of making it burn and making it peel. Like a cricket thinks about the very moment that you fall silent. Like a tattletale thinks about the very moment that you screw up.


I'm thinking about you like a narcissist thinks about himself. Like the furniture in your dark house at night thinks about leaping out at you, bruising your shins. 

Like my heart thinks of your heart.

Are you thinking about me?


Are you thinking about me like I think about you? Are you thinking about me when you should be thinking about her? Are you thinking about me like you think about breathing (you don't) or are you thinking about me like a song stuck in your head (unstoppable, unwanted)? 

Are you thinking about me when you glance back and I'm there and I turn away, pretending that I wasn't thinking about you first?


Because I was thinking about you. I'm still thinking about you. And I will be thinking about you. Past present future. 


You are in my thoughts.

Cheers,

Syl

indirect orders

You have been given direct orders to rock out.

Rock out like the moon moves for you. Rock out like you were born with butterflies in your stomach. Rock out like you died a martyr.

Rock out like Hell doesn't want you.

Rock out like you're seeing the sun for the first time. 

Rock out because this is all we've got and oh yes it's short and oh yes it's sad but rock out because it's ours and we don't deserve it. Rock out like a flightless bird with your head in the clouds. Rock out like you swallowed a sheet of staff paper and now you sing so prettily.

Rock out like you're freezing to death, so rock out to keep yourself alive.

Rock out like you're hitting all the same notes as Dinah Washington and you're reaching higher and she's falling behind because no one can sing jazz like you can.

Rock out like you've got no spine. 

Rock out like you're burning alive.

Rock out like no one ever told you that you can't. Rock out like you're invincible (you are, you are). Rock out like your mouth has been unstitched after 17 long years. Rock out like it's the dead of July and snow begins to fall.

Rock out like the Empire State Building wasn't high enough for you, so you just decided to fly up to the clouds.

Rock out like you've held your breath for too long.  Rock out like it's 1986 and you're pretty in pink.

Rock out like you're not shy and sullen and semi-agnostic and socially awkward and so so so starry-eyed, because look at you: you've turned alliteration into an art form.

Rock out like you look pretty in the dusty dressing room mirror at the mall (never going to happen). Rock out like you're finally old enough.

Rock out like you're burning on the sun.

Rock out like you finally, finally woke up with freckles. Rock out like his lips were softer, and a little less sarcastic, than you had imagined.

Rock out like Pluto is a planet again.

Rock out like you're under cardiac arrest but your heartbeat is still so loud in your ears. 

Rock out like you got your learner's permit (because it's not like we know what getting our license feels like). Rock out like this young world is getting younger. Rock out like you take out your contacts and you can see everything.

Rock out like I'm not wasting your time.

Rock out like you're stopping traffic; like you've got 'em falling at your feet.

Cheers, 

Syl

enter syl

It's not the words that are the hard part.

That's what people think.

But it's not the words. We've known how to speak politely for years.  It's getting those words -- the letters, the sounds of the syllables (soft and violent)  -- to sing. That's the hard part. Anyone can talk. Few can write.

The English language feeds on fear. Because a blank page is like the bottomless sky, all full of sharp little stars, and you can see each one but how do you reach into that big universe and pull out the perfect string of stars?  

Maybe if you use enough text-speak, maybe if you laugh enough, blink enough, nod enough avoid the question enough listen to your mother enough thinkforyourselfenoughsighenoughshareyourfeelingsenough . . .

Saying the right thing is almost as hard as lining up the stars to look like the Mona Lisa.

How do you swallow a mouthful of stars?

What I want: ten more wishes.

Cheers,

Syl