Morning has arrived
With much anticipation
All is left behind
The sun is hiding
Behind my sister's roof-top
My thoughts stray to you
Rain falls soft outside
Yet I can still hear your voice
In fleeting splashes
Sleep lurks upon me
While morning birds sing their songs
Heralds of the dawn
Some days the hallways aren't
straight anymore, the breath
in my lungs hardly escapes,
my tongue writhes and shifts
aimlessly in my mouth
as my words fall limply onto
paper
Sometimes my clothes
are too tight, my head
it won't stop spinning, chattering
the coffee's too weak and
the rooms are always smaller
when you're older. if I'm
lucky I can pull
something out of it
but some days you can't be so lucky
words are just words and the ink
doesn't dry right, the paper
cuts your fingertips, and the
steering wheel is so damn hot
you can't hold it
you're late anyway
the locks on the front door
always stick especially when it'
A Zen teacher once
asked the question
"What the hell is it?"
This doesn't seem very Zen-like. After all,
what business does he have
asking us?
The question
remains:
What is it?
Why is it?
Where is it?
Who is it?
When is it?
How much is it?
What does it taste like?
smell like?
feel like?
look like?
Is it an orgasm?
A donut?
A sudden rush of knowledge?
Complete, total, and unrestrained
cosmic love for all things living
dead
great
small?
You is it
I is it
He, she, it, they, them, us, we,
that, it, these, yours, mine,
theirs
is
it
"What is it?"
It ain't no question.
So You Think You're an Artist by timcatface, literature
Literature
So You Think You're an Artist
So you think you're an artist
You wear flannel and reject
gasoline You go to shows to
kiss ass hoping they'll
return the favor
So you're different
So what?
For every "normal" person
there are at least two "abnormals"
and for every hundred of you
there's only one "genuine"
Why are you an aratist?
Why are you different?
Because you say so
Because you, my friend, are
counter-culture
The only thing counter
about your cult-ure is in the
store you bought it from
Stop wearing plaid simply
because nobody else does
Stop manufacturing an
image and branding yourself
"ART"
If you truly want
to be different
stop selling yourself
I'm building an angel in my head from doll eyes and plastic lips.
Her turpentine grin and the nectarine perfume keep me awake at night.
Sometimes when we're alone she lets me kiss her.
She knows all my favorite things.
She calls my boss a bitch and laughs about it.
She drinks like a sailor and sings like Ruth Etting.
On Saturdays, she always picks the trifecta.
Her fingertips are still rough, but she uses them well.
Occasionally, I have to reattach her hands (this she doesn't mind).
When I come in drunk late at night she tucks me in.
On Sunday mornings she counts the church bells one by one (this she does incessantly).
Sometimes I
I left the envelope on the table
Its unsealed flap patiently waiting like a raised
Hand in the classroom where she taught.
I open books, turn on televisions,
eat junk, and dream love.
Ill write back before Autumn
Now that Ive found time
My pen meets the paper but
The first leaves are already falling.
Sometimes the light pokes through the holes in the blinds and shines in my face. Thats when I think of you, blue eyed wonder that will always be a mystery to me. You lived in a world alien to me, where dusty old men rode in dusty old pickups across August heat. Do you remember being lost in Florence between row-shops and kiosksthe sun weighing heavy on my shoulders in the leather afternoon? I had forgotten our fight, worrying instead about pickpockets or worselurking between watercolor storefronts and the sidewalk saint selling suitcase rosaries.
I came back to my notebook. Not because Im technologically inept, but because theres something familiar about thin blue lines. Inviting, you could say. A notebook never tempts you away from your work with offers to find your sex buddy, or girls posed seductively in front of their monitors. A notebook simply offers you a temporary home against a blank white field. A notebook knows its job and never claims to be your great window to the world it leaves that up to you.
A notebook is not humble; it is not quaint any more than it is flamboyant or boastful. After all, whats there to brag about in blue li
Morning has arrived
With much anticipation
All is left behind
The sun is hiding
Behind my sister's roof-top
My thoughts stray to you
Rain falls soft outside
Yet I can still hear your voice
In fleeting splashes
Sleep lurks upon me
While morning birds sing their songs
Heralds of the dawn
Some days the hallways aren't
straight anymore, the breath
in my lungs hardly escapes,
my tongue writhes and shifts
aimlessly in my mouth
as my words fall limply onto
paper
Sometimes my clothes
are too tight, my head
it won't stop spinning, chattering
the coffee's too weak and
the rooms are always smaller
when you're older. if I'm
lucky I can pull
something out of it
but some days you can't be so lucky
words are just words and the ink
doesn't dry right, the paper
cuts your fingertips, and the
steering wheel is so damn hot
you can't hold it
you're late anyway
the locks on the front door
always stick especially when it'
A Zen teacher once
asked the question
"What the hell is it?"
This doesn't seem very Zen-like. After all,
what business does he have
asking us?
The question
remains:
What is it?
Why is it?
Where is it?
Who is it?
When is it?
How much is it?
What does it taste like?
smell like?
feel like?
look like?
Is it an orgasm?
A donut?
A sudden rush of knowledge?
Complete, total, and unrestrained
cosmic love for all things living
dead
great
small?
You is it
I is it
He, she, it, they, them, us, we,
that, it, these, yours, mine,
theirs
is
it
"What is it?"
It ain't no question.
So You Think You're an Artist by timcatface, literature
Literature
So You Think You're an Artist
So you think you're an artist
You wear flannel and reject
gasoline You go to shows to
kiss ass hoping they'll
return the favor
So you're different
So what?
For every "normal" person
there are at least two "abnormals"
and for every hundred of you
there's only one "genuine"
Why are you an aratist?
Why are you different?
Because you say so
Because you, my friend, are
counter-culture
The only thing counter
about your cult-ure is in the
store you bought it from
Stop wearing plaid simply
because nobody else does
Stop manufacturing an
image and branding yourself
"ART"
If you truly want
to be different
stop selling yourself
I'm building an angel in my head from doll eyes and plastic lips.
Her turpentine grin and the nectarine perfume keep me awake at night.
Sometimes when we're alone she lets me kiss her.
She knows all my favorite things.
She calls my boss a bitch and laughs about it.
She drinks like a sailor and sings like Ruth Etting.
On Saturdays, she always picks the trifecta.
Her fingertips are still rough, but she uses them well.
Occasionally, I have to reattach her hands (this she doesn't mind).
When I come in drunk late at night she tucks me in.
On Sunday mornings she counts the church bells one by one (this she does incessantly).
Sometimes I
Sometimes the light pokes through the holes in the blinds and shines in my face. Thats when I think of you, blue eyed wonder that will always be a mystery to me. You lived in a world alien to me, where dusty old men rode in dusty old pickups across August heat. Do you remember being lost in Florence between row-shops and kiosksthe sun weighing heavy on my shoulders in the leather afternoon? I had forgotten our fight, worrying instead about pickpockets or worselurking between watercolor storefronts and the sidewalk saint selling suitcase rosaries.
I came back to my notebook. Not because Im technologically inept, but because theres something familiar about thin blue lines. Inviting, you could say. A notebook never tempts you away from your work with offers to find your sex buddy, or girls posed seductively in front of their monitors. A notebook simply offers you a temporary home against a blank white field. A notebook knows its job and never claims to be your great window to the world it leaves that up to you.
A notebook is not humble; it is not quaint any more than it is flamboyant or boastful. After all, whats there to brag about in blue li
I.
Do you remember getting lost in Florence
Between the row-shops and leather kiosks
The sun weighing on my shoulders
I had forgotten about our fight
Worrying instead about pickpockets or
Worse
From whence we came to how we expire
(How the ancients used to know)
The light shimmers and gleams to a bright ire
And the dog eared leaflets wait to be sown
I came out of Fictions womb naked
Raw and honest with the language of an era past
Surrounded at a corpse graveyard of bark shells dated
I am clothed only in adjectives yet naked am I not willing to dress fast
Born to death is my blinded paradox
Vintage gold or brightness are they clothed!
But dressed am I with the word truth over my breast like small pox
And the adverb creation over my womanhood which refuses to fold
So You Think You're an Artist by timcatface, literature
Literature
So You Think You're an Artist
So you think you're an artist
You wear flannel and reject
gasoline You go to shows to
kiss ass hoping they'll
return the favor
So you're different
So what?
For every "normal" person
there are at least two "abnormals"
and for every hundred of you
there's only one "genuine"
Why are you an aratist?
Why are you different?
Because you say so
Because you, my friend, are
counter-culture
The only thing counter
about your cult-ure is in the
store you bought it from
Stop wearing plaid simply
because nobody else does
Stop manufacturing an
image and branding yourself
"ART"
If you truly want
to be different
stop selling yourself
Current Residence: Russellville, Arkansas Favourite genre of music: see: above MP3 player of choice: Zune! Favourite cartoon character: Spike Siegel Personal Quote: I'm the stray cat that just won't die.
Haha so I got bored and looked through all my goldentail stuff (my current account is ~shoulderparrot) and realized that you'd requested an icon? What the ham--it's been about three years. I'll make one if you give me some kind of guideline. : D My mspaint and photoshop skills are still intact, don't worry