2/14/2014

Losing it

Tonight's the night I'm losing grip Came close many times since you broke my cookie jar But tonight's the night baby You have to fight like a lion to get outa those holes And my strenght is all spent Walking on dead leaves The same that shadowed your pretty face Walking on dead roads That would have lead us up to pebbled paths That did take us to the woods to love Tonight's the night Babe, I'm losing grip The Gods know how hard I tried They can't be too hard on me if I slip Surely they can't be angry What do the Gods expect I can't forgive myself for wanting so bad to end it here

2/09/2014

My Day Off

We had coffee with croissants on a sidewalk table, sitting on basket chairs, and then drinks in the big halle before we took a corner at the Lebannese to feast. Then we strolled on the wet sand but the cold rain started coming at us. So the three of us went to B.'s place where we piled under great wool blankets and warmed up. We ate dark, dark chocolate, salted almonds, wild rolling mandarines and B. brewed some tea while Z. and I made the bed. The day breathed on. The sun ducked behind the fat hill. Wine brought quarrels and rivalry and then we weren't sisters anymore and I became a reluctant prize, which made us all unhappy. I was too weak to fix it and had no stomach for twists and churns. I would've flown a crappy space shuttle all the way to Klingon stars to be with you. But you were much further than that.

Hours later my steps were echoing on the damp worn stones and, turning here or there, looking for some warm spot to spend the night, I hooked up with two other drunken Sétoises, both too young. I was again trapped inside one of my own novels. Uncanny. The real pretty one had a skin condition and the short one had beer breath. They were high on the American myth. I was sinking. We checked in somewhere cheap and showered. The room lighting was all neons. Z. kept calling my mobile, trying to reel me hack in. Then she texted me, telling me B. was waiting for me in the old port. I had no idea where anything was by that point. Not that the two girls gave a damn. I woke up alone, nothing stolen, nothing gained, no numbers, no notes, nothing left but literature.

11/21/2013

Wrecking ball

Funny how as soon as I start writing I see myself on a road, walking. The two seem so strongly linked. So, there I am, walking.

My house has stairways like there's no tomorrow. I think it helps my body that it does. Somehow in Paris, with the elevator, I wasn't getting my legs worked. Too lazy to climb the 5 flights. Actually, I did get sad over there.

It could have been fun had I been a cheater. But shit. The one thing I can treasure from all my tribulations is a big fat sack of self respect. There were many sweet occasions. When lil pearl asked if I was being hit on, it made me laugh out loud. Yea, I was. But it ain't me, babe. It ain't me to go off like that. I never once killed a golden bird that wasn't about to eat my heart out. That ain't me.

So now, as it reaches the end, or some kind of end, the fear and the angst are starting to leave my chest at last. I look at the wreckage and I know I'm not going to die with it. Not that I don't feel like noosing my neck off or just pulling some trigger. That I do. It's the fatigue, mainly. And I'm going to do what it takes to avoid going under. I already am looking at some ropes. What the hell.

Who doesn't.
Don't lie.
I need to devolve like I need a brick across the brains.

Vengeance?
There is no more vengeance then there is healing. We just get used to stuff. That's all.  

11/13/2013

Love you still

Freeway. Ô freeway.
Can't stand still. I managed to get imprisoned by your side, in your old cell. Wanted me to jailbreak you, didn'tcha?
We're not free. You never had yours. I gave up mine.
Are we blind?
We're not happy.
Gotta run off. But can you?

Freeway.
I can escape from anywhere. Wanna go? Wanna, now? Baby?
They torture you, in here. You're suffering I can tell.
They gnaw at your body and rot your soul.
Already, you barely know I'm here.
When did you last lay your forehead on my shoulder?
There won't be a we if we stay. Here. Like this.

I love you still but we must break out.
See the sun as it shines and shines on.
And.
I love you still. 

9/05/2013

Syria
Lemme chime in

We all know what shit is. We've all seen it, smelled it, heard it. Some of us have tasted it, and a lot have touched it (parents and can-openers, raise 'em). So.

When a thing smells like shit, looks like shit, sounds like shit, tastes like shit, and absolutely feels like shit, in all likelyhood, it IS shit. It don't take John Lennon, Gandhi and Bobby Marley to figure that one out (fortunate, cuz they ain't here).

That's all folks.
Now off you go again, to war and beyond.