The Son of the last of a long line of thinkers. (delascabezas) wrote,
The Son of the last of a long line of thinkers.

  • Mood:

bouncing round the room

i have been super busy for the past week, with all sorts of things.

i have a side-job tonight, so no loco for me. do have dinner plans before the job though. thanks for the hookup on the gig grimbil. i am going to see The Hidden Cameras/Dressy Bessy / Pony Da Look / Say Hi to Your Mom Friday night. Dinner plans beforehand would have to be after 6ish though - any takers?

what the hell are people up to this weekend? i am showing my apartment probably sunday afternoon. that reminds me, must get keys from mightywombat.

new frankandeddie for those playing at home. new harry potter friday.gotta remember to swing by b&n to pick that up on the way out of the show.

i wanna write something big, sweeping, meaningful, and topical. instead, you guys are getting a crappy poem.

The frozen sticks don't try to tease, they crack when stepped upon.
Booted feet are like twig chiropractors working overtime in the still night;
the snow that lies in frigid attendance drains the body,
while it warms the soul with the glow it adds to the hills
in the starlight.

Dark rocks stand in compromising positions as ice pretends to trickle
down granite monolith trunks. They fuck the sun in the daytime
and in return, she gives them warmth. They melt for her every day
only to be frozen the next night.

Hands begin to fail. They can't feel the air, much less each other.
Ears gave out some time ago, nose feels like it might break off;
soon the toes will follow like black caterpillars.
Miles from home, many miles, but home is not my destination;
a warm spot and good company would do me fine.
Screw company, a warm spot would suffice.

The trees laugh with hysterics only frozen ears can perceive,
their cacophony rings in the stageshine moonlight.
If my hands were not blue I would let them know my feelings,
but I am afraid they might break like they were made of plaster.
The Venus de Milo was a great kick boxer once, before she fought
the trees and the cold
like me.

Crunching snow looks kind of warm from here, maybe if I just lay down...
But what is this?
A fire and people bundled up down the next hill!
Heaven for sure, too cold to be hell.
I approach the flames, and ring of faces
like devils dancing round the cauldron
I would have dove in but
the people
caught me.

Fuck the company, a warm spot suffices.
I don't die alone.
Sorry wolves
no supper for you tonight.
Tags: apartment, poem, work

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