Letters from the Other Side of the Rain.
DISCLAIMER: All poetry found herein is, like all poetry, based on true fiction.Monday, May 15, 2006
Dear Humanity,
It will have blood, they say, blood will have blood.
The Lord knows that it will, or he would
If he existed,
The barber says.
He's quoting wiser men
He's hiding all his terrible knowledge
Behind his tight white smile.
The lady with blood black hair is smiling
Smiling and wandering in lands she barely knows
Stumbling confidently in desert places
She knows herself
She holds the world in thrall.
Her confidence will be her own mistake
As she grinds the meat and smiles.
The lady in the alley way is dreaming too
Her yellow hair all tangled in garbage
She smells the smoke but cannot trust her throat
To bring forth what her mind is screaming
She clutches a bundle of rags
And murmurs words of love.
The man untainted walks a line thin and invisible
He doesn't know the danger in the depths
He laughs and loves his lady
And he trusts his elder mentor
Even as the blood collects on the old man's sleeves.
The loveliest of our deathly nontet
The root of their obsessions and sweat filled dreams
Listens to bird song at the window
And ignores the yearning, tortured moans of her fathers.
She's stroking all the hatred
That she's holding to her breast.
The troll beneath the bridge, white wigged and robed in black
Cries for the lovely women of his temptations
And passes judgement for all, although he does not know himself.
He tries forgetting all between a woman's thighs
Forgetting all his shame
Ashamed of all his women, his paradoxical wound and antidote.
And in the lighter places waits his lackey
A man made up of fat and grease
Who knows that he believes in himself
Who knows that all men are the same.
He does the Devil's work
And bides his time.
Out in the streets a man is hawking wares
With every breath blessing his own depravity
He holds his servants to their task
And knows his moral code:
"What works is right and moral,
'Till you're caught out."
The last of all of them, the youngest of the nontet
Is the white faced boy, tender in his new skin
Curled like a paper shaving by his chosen mother
Ignoring the fangs and claws
Behind her lovely face.
He watches for the danger in the dark.
The last of them observes from outside
Other dimensions, where the lost are found.
He watches as the silver razors fly,
And sometimes whispers his name,
"Benjamin."
To clarify matters, the Benjamin in question here is neither my brother, nor the Ghost Host, nor my stalker from the Theatricum, nor the lobster, nor Jenny's exboyfriend, nor my grandfather. It is Benjamin Barker, Sweeney Todd's past identity, my present fixation and subject of novel writing. (Can I be bothered to tease out all the Freudian symbolism involved in writing a novel about someone with the same name as my brother, my ex, my grandfather, etc.? No, I cannot.)
Facing the sea at dawn, I found eternity
In the lonely sands. I knew there was a poem there
But it evaded me, and all my writing sounds like a less talented Ginsberg
Pretending to be William Blake.
I may have lost my mind.
I have bad writers block.
The characters are frozen on the page
The dialogue’s absurd
And the result is the ever-so-clever writer’s block poem.
Haha.
How original.
Poets are the original BS artists.
Well,
Put not your trust in princes.
Go away now, please.
I want to watch the dust melt off the door
When I blow on it
A dust storm in my own domestic desert.
MISSING: Kathlyn Catalina Eleanor Elizabeth Jenny Elymas Cashwell Lovett Bening Todd Kire
By Association in Search of Kat K. (1-800-PLEASE-SEND-MONEY)
In search of androgyne erstwhile known as Kat.
Of moderate height,
Large (ish) curves, flabby thighs,
Hair in embarrassing places
And very little shame.
Blue eyes of indeterminate beauty.
Lips: Scarlet.
Hair: Usually brown, but
Ocassionally bright puce.
Profession: None, or “starlet.”
Position: Standing or sitting
When not lying down.
Last seen wandering the streets of London
Dressed entirely in flourescent cobwebs (green)
Searching for a decent tailor’s.
(Nobody works on cobwebs any more,
Disgraceful, that’s what it is.
Young people these days,
I don’t know.)
We would like to find her as soon as possible,
In case she happens to anything.
Will be officially declared deceased
On Stephen Sondheim’s birthday, circa 2099, so
Keep an eye out.
(And send money. Por favor.)
Anyone with further information advised to contact Elaine Stritch
Who won’t know what the hell you’re talking about.
Love,
Kat
It will have blood, they say, blood will have blood.
The Lord knows that it will, or he would
If he existed,
The barber says.
He's quoting wiser men
He's hiding all his terrible knowledge
Behind his tight white smile.
The lady with blood black hair is smiling
Smiling and wandering in lands she barely knows
Stumbling confidently in desert places
She knows herself
She holds the world in thrall.
Her confidence will be her own mistake
As she grinds the meat and smiles.
The lady in the alley way is dreaming too
Her yellow hair all tangled in garbage
She smells the smoke but cannot trust her throat
To bring forth what her mind is screaming
She clutches a bundle of rags
And murmurs words of love.
The man untainted walks a line thin and invisible
He doesn't know the danger in the depths
He laughs and loves his lady
And he trusts his elder mentor
Even as the blood collects on the old man's sleeves.
The loveliest of our deathly nontet
The root of their obsessions and sweat filled dreams
Listens to bird song at the window
And ignores the yearning, tortured moans of her fathers.
She's stroking all the hatred
That she's holding to her breast.
The troll beneath the bridge, white wigged and robed in black
Cries for the lovely women of his temptations
And passes judgement for all, although he does not know himself.
He tries forgetting all between a woman's thighs
Forgetting all his shame
Ashamed of all his women, his paradoxical wound and antidote.
And in the lighter places waits his lackey
A man made up of fat and grease
Who knows that he believes in himself
Who knows that all men are the same.
He does the Devil's work
And bides his time.
Out in the streets a man is hawking wares
With every breath blessing his own depravity
He holds his servants to their task
And knows his moral code:
"What works is right and moral,
'Till you're caught out."
The last of all of them, the youngest of the nontet
Is the white faced boy, tender in his new skin
Curled like a paper shaving by his chosen mother
Ignoring the fangs and claws
Behind her lovely face.
He watches for the danger in the dark.
The last of them observes from outside
Other dimensions, where the lost are found.
He watches as the silver razors fly,
And sometimes whispers his name,
"Benjamin."
To clarify matters, the Benjamin in question here is neither my brother, nor the Ghost Host, nor my stalker from the Theatricum, nor the lobster, nor Jenny's exboyfriend, nor my grandfather. It is Benjamin Barker, Sweeney Todd's past identity, my present fixation and subject of novel writing. (Can I be bothered to tease out all the Freudian symbolism involved in writing a novel about someone with the same name as my brother, my ex, my grandfather, etc.? No, I cannot.)
Facing the sea at dawn, I found eternity
In the lonely sands. I knew there was a poem there
But it evaded me, and all my writing sounds like a less talented Ginsberg
Pretending to be William Blake.
I may have lost my mind.
I have bad writers block.
The characters are frozen on the page
The dialogue’s absurd
And the result is the ever-so-clever writer’s block poem.
Haha.
How original.
Poets are the original BS artists.
Well,
Put not your trust in princes.
Go away now, please.
I want to watch the dust melt off the door
When I blow on it
A dust storm in my own domestic desert.
MISSING: Kathlyn Catalina Eleanor Elizabeth Jenny Elymas Cashwell Lovett Bening Todd Kire
By Association in Search of Kat K. (1-800-PLEASE-SEND-MONEY)
In search of androgyne erstwhile known as Kat.
Of moderate height,
Large (ish) curves, flabby thighs,
Hair in embarrassing places
And very little shame.
Blue eyes of indeterminate beauty.
Lips: Scarlet.
Hair: Usually brown, but
Ocassionally bright puce.
Profession: None, or “starlet.”
Position: Standing or sitting
When not lying down.
Last seen wandering the streets of London
Dressed entirely in flourescent cobwebs (green)
Searching for a decent tailor’s.
(Nobody works on cobwebs any more,
Disgraceful, that’s what it is.
Young people these days,
I don’t know.)
We would like to find her as soon as possible,
In case she happens to anything.
Will be officially declared deceased
On Stephen Sondheim’s birthday, circa 2099, so
Keep an eye out.
(And send money. Por favor.)
Anyone with further information advised to contact Elaine Stritch
Who won’t know what the hell you’re talking about.
Love,
Kat
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