trying to write things to put together a portfolio.... gathering things... some of this writing stuff isnt all so bad....
The human condition, defined conventionally in terms that one might associate with religious doctrine. Settling for moments which allude to possibility, found in the bottom of bottles of clear liquids and foul smelling perfumes. Cheap smelling perfumes. Accented by knives thrown down darkened alleys towards bared backs. The state of play. The state of mind. Rough. And reused. Used in a general-purpose-cleaner kind of way, streaks and runs down perfectly good paintings, seeping into the mirror and corroding away the reflection where your best attribute was. Now its gone. In that we tried way too hard in our youth to get by kind of gone. The way we watched our mothers pop bottles of legal drugs, prescription addictions, down their throats until they were dead enough to try to suffocate us. How the memories of our fathers idling beside a fence that crested a hill in the middle of nowhere, will always be the first memory we have when we breakdown to cry, when the guard is gone. It was there that he looked into your eyes and said I am sorry then looked back to the west as if someone was coming. Then they came. And the pills finally worked. And the west was finally won. And soon you were alone looking off, into something that sounded like a future. When the proverbial guiding hands washed over you and rested in places where hands should not rest. Then the moments of trying subside. And we watch, and we watch, and we watch. And we watch the one we were supposed to save walk out, and we watch in the cool of the moon, in the shadows of love and we watch. And all we can remember is when we looked into our fathers eyes and asked him would you still love me if you hadnt gone west? and all he can say, with regret in his voiceThats what She said.
The human condition, defined conventionally in terms that one might associate with religious doctrine. Settling for moments which allude to possibility, found in the bottom of bottles of clear liquids and foul smelling perfumes. Cheap smelling perfumes. Accented by knives thrown down darkened alleys towards bared backs. The state of play. The state of mind. Rough. And reused. Used in a general-purpose-cleaner kind of way, streaks and runs down perfectly good paintings, seeping into the mirror and corroding away the reflection where your best attribute was. Now its gone. In that we tried way too hard in our youth to get by kind of gone. The way we watched our mothers pop bottles of legal drugs, prescription addictions, down their throats until they were dead enough to try to suffocate us. How the memories of our fathers idling beside a fence that crested a hill in the middle of nowhere, will always be the first memory we have when we breakdown to cry, when the guard is gone. It was there that he looked into your eyes and said I am sorry then looked back to the west as if someone was coming. Then they came. And the pills finally worked. And the west was finally won. And soon you were alone looking off, into something that sounded like a future. When the proverbial guiding hands washed over you and rested in places where hands should not rest. Then the moments of trying subside. And we watch, and we watch, and we watch. And we watch the one we were supposed to save walk out, and we watch in the cool of the moon, in the shadows of love and we watch. And all we can remember is when we looked into our fathers eyes and asked him would you still love me if you hadnt gone west? and all he can say, with regret in his voiceThats what She said.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
but i'll have work/school on the side. haha.
slow huh? in a good way or bad way?