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falling apart in the rain

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click and bookmark [Dec. 13th, 2005|01:50 am]
falling apart in the rain
Okay for the time being, things are up.

click and bookmark --> http://www.livejournal.com/users/muffledvelvet/
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Still Pumping Blood Through the Body. [Dec. 9th, 2005|11:57 pm]
falling apart in the rain
Hey the blood is still pumping through the body and I wanted to let everyone know I'm not gone. I'm okay. I'm not dying. I heard a rumor from a friend about my death and no it's not like that I do exist and it's okay I know I've been abscent lately and that comes down to work being a bitch and a roommate who has the only computer connected to the net using it to play world of warcraft whenever he's not at work or shitting or sleeping. [Trust me he'd play at all three if he could.] So anyway alive and trudging.

Does everything go well?
I won't lie, but I don't want to speak poorly of people either, but life's a bitch sometimes and some people aren't making it easier.

I do plan on coming back in a big way, but not on this journal, on another. It's time to reexamine the life and put the pieces back together into the new phase that has learnt from the old one and develops beyond it. So I'll be working on that and a redesigned look, although I'm more than happy to take a design for this bad boy off anyone's hands if they want to give it a whirl. I was just going colors so I'll even take color schemes off you if you want. Same with the name it's up in the air as well, but you'll all be informed. I promise.

Be sweet to each other.
Grow strong Truman.

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a halloween ritual. [Oct. 31st, 2005|01:05 pm]
falling apart in the rain

The trucked creaked and groaned as it dragged him down the road. He scratched at the wisps of hair on his chin, graying and thinning. His fingers cracked and popped and the truck's muffler did the same. They were identical and that pissed him off. Rain could bounce off the hood and it remind him his hair will be gone soon. He hated that. Ten years and it would start falling out. He rubbed his eyes and stretched the crow's feet on his eyes back before releasing it back into place. Everything was a sign of his age.

Outside the sky was filled with rain and gray and looked like hair falling out of a skull. He tired of this association. If the sky split open and revealed the orange burst of apocalypse, he'd die with a smile on his face, because he would see color before he died. Vibrant and vivid. Unlike his life.

He looked over his shoulder into the bed of his seventies era truck. The black bag roughly the size of a large dog was starting to show signs of absorption and he needed to pull over to the side of the road to protect it. He couldn't let the child's corpse spoil before he got a chance to let the blood. Elizabeth Bathory didn't go out of her way to right the exact instructions for how to preserve youthfulness so that he could fuck it up. Oh his wife would be so upset with him if she knew.

The car scratched across the road as he pulled to the side of the dirt. Falling out of the driver's side, he half-ran half-walked to the passenger's seat and opened the door. He lifted the bag up on the side and it fell from his hands, the weight pulling the body out of his hands. He cursed in wisps and climbed into the truck bed. With a couple of awkward shuffles and ten minutes wasted, he had brought the body to leaning out of the bed and throwing up from the flu. Then the bag hit the ground with a thud and his teeth ground against each other. That would leave and unnecessary mark. It could ruin the ritual. Another ten minutes and the body was half-seated half-falling, but nonetheless inside the cab.

Quickly, he shuffled back into the cab and pulled back onto the road. There was a time line he had to follow he needed to get the barn so he could start letting the blood before he was old and the girl decayed. He had thirty minutes and not one of them could be spared. Breathe grew precious.

The clouds above him ripped open and dumped rain onto the windshield worse than going through a car wash and he would blame god if he believed in him. Cursing he pulled a cigarette out of his shirt pocket. The paper slightly moist and he fumbled for a lighter while straining to see through the windshield. The dirt was turning to mud and he struggled with the wheel to remain in control of the truck. The Chevy was the only thing that stayed with him through time.

He cracked the window open to flick some ash out the side and put the cigarette back between his lips and grabbed the wheel with both hands. The barn appeared on the horizon and he knew it wouldn't be long now.

Please don't fuck anything up along the way.

He leaned forward and the rain's intensity increased. The speedometer's needle leaned right and the wheels spun through the mud flinging it behind the truck. So close now. He could get started. He wouldn't worry about being old. His mind would be on the ritual. He could enjoy those few hours. All the worries would fade. The wife, gone. The thinning hair, gone. The thoughts, gone. The cow in front of the truck, gone. Cow?

He didn't have enough time to react. The cow's carcass flew up into the windshield and cracked it in open, shattering glass into his face and onto the bag. The carcass unaware that it was dead, flapped its lower jaw and the truck swerved in the mud and rolled over. The old man grasped at his eyes and wouldn't let the sockets go even when his throat was cut by a shard of glass during the roll.

The truck laid upside down in the ditch and his tears fell off his forehead and onto the ceiling of the cab. He failed. His wife in the wheelchair at the barn would die, because he couldn't perform the ritual in time, not with this body. He released his belt and fell onto the bag.

Unzipping the bag, the blond hair of a seven year old girl appeared and although he couldn't see it anymore, he could touch it. He touched the face of the young girl and tried to remember her face while unzipping his pants. The flames of hell raising around his body and he knew the heat deserved. The passion forbidden and he lowered himself into the bag. He gasped, the last of his breath pushing through the windpipes and his blood matting in the dead girl's hair. She'd die, that bitch of a wife, always reminding him about his age. Making him perform the rituals, killing innocent children. She deserved it and he smiled.

The rain stopped and although the sun didn't shine the jack o'laterns would grin.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN! another halloween, another halloweenie story.

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two black eyes to match. [Oct. 27th, 2005|12:51 am]
falling apart in the rain
Count one two three four
and show my wrists
cut away the wristbands
and show off my unfortunate life
like a butterfly plague kissing lips.

counting one two three four
you hide behind one-sided political sensations
without clarifying thoughts
when people ask me
they get logic and difference.

count one two three four
stand up for yourself
don't let love turn black and blue
reach behind the strings
and pull the curtains shut

count one two three four
open the locks, walk through the door
counting one to four
the strength of the lion weaker than the lamb
counting one two three four
we are the first one, we are the last one, and we are all between
counting four three two one
when we sleep, we'll finally sigh in relief,

wilting dawn
before the ether
the ebb and flow will rise and fall
the tide crashing upon your mind
aether thunderstorm
a sudden lack of control
can you see the street before you?
don't get blind-sided
before the ether
aether thunderstorm
take the handle away from the blade
the children hold it pointing away
giving them the choice leads to the grave
but it's a mistake they must learn to not make
don't take it away
before the ether
aether thunderstorm
support for the smell of sulfur raining down on the lands
gunshots ring out during the romantic sunsets
countries torn like clothes and stitching in demand
linen the armor protecting their hearts
how could I know more without the support of my lords
but they never share the story without their anger
I would sit them in a circle and sing them a song
musical chairs for adults might wake them up to the cause
before the ether
aether thunderstorm
my finger is on the trigger
and sometimes, the sun rises without noise
and sometimes, the sun rises before the noise
my finger is on the trigger
and it'll wake up the silence before the birds

been listening to a lot of black eyes lately. especially when writing these so it follows their naturally quick pace. meant to be lyrics to go with it, but all were edited to act as poems after I wrote them out, because well, I don't have a band to scream my songs through.
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nostalgia transfixed [Oct. 25th, 2005|11:31 pm]
falling apart in the rain
[Current Music |gatsby's american dream - theatre]

| something borrowed |
you like to think you are the best part of me,
but I must confess every part of you has faded away
and I'm left gasping wedding phrases
into empty glasses filled with alcoholic tears
is this the way it goes everyday that you're apart of,
because I want out of this

you claim you love me, but you bring out my shame
and paint it on the walls for everyone to see
transfering the humility to film
projecting it onto the side of the house
against you and me, I hate the man you make me be.
an empty glass filling with alcoholic dreams.
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a self-inflicted victim in october [Oct. 22nd, 2005|10:26 pm]
falling apart in the rain
[Current Music |Bloc Party - Banquet (Phones Disco Edit)]

Okay October has been a good month so far. Aside from Cherry Bleeds picking up a short story and switching out of a dead end shit hole job into a more fruitful one. But then again November should be good too. It'll be a birthday, a new house, and Zygote in My Coffee will be showering love on my head. And hopefully the girl will be able to show up for Thanksgiving like we've planned. anyway aside from that minor crap. here's some lovin' for all the support from all of you. especially will, my writing brother, because he's more like my older brother and it's something I probably should have had.

funeral for a self-inflicted victim
this time I didn't lie.
this time I didn't care.
this time I put the bullet between the eyes,
and sang songs to the fireflies that started to appear.
straight through the cranial wall.
a stigma to the imagination.
a creative port opened up and freshly poured out broken.
a tragedy of lives written by errors.
Slowly turning themselves around,
with difficult whispers and miscommunicated love.
This time I didn't lie.
This time I didn't care.
This time I put the bullet between the eyes,
and the birds flew into the sky with the crash.
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the drowning of a bird. [Oct. 12th, 2005|01:52 pm]
falling apart in the rain
The separation is starting to wear in on the body and mind. The more free time I have to myself the more damaging the thoughts grow. They appear on the horizon, a wild herd of horses snorting steam with fire in their eyes. The headache beats to the pulse of their stampeding hooves. A few pills to ail the aching and I've resolved that vodka and whiskey only mute the noise of their approach for a limited time and before long their presence will force its way through my nose into my hands. A burnt path of crimson drips into the mouth and on my fingertips. All the advice my mother would offer clouds my head and I can't remember if I should lean forward or backward. I know I should pinch the bridge to stop the flow of blood and to slow the approach of wild horses on my tongue. I pull the ice cube out of my drink and hold them to my nose hoping the cold will slow the blood flow.

Choking down the blood in my throat I ask.

Why'd you do that?

Her hair swings around her head as she swivels to face me. Face taught with an inner explosion of emotions she suppresses. Beyond her eyes of cadaver blue hides the loneliness of a child that wants to prover herself worthy of all that she never received in life; love. Each curve of every muscle in her body a monument to the devotion and love she has for her own body, or so she says.

Because you're making me blow a contract.
I'm not worth it you know.
I know.
Then why?
Because my father made me crush a bird's skull instead of mending the bird's wing. 'Put it out of the misery,' he said, 'it'll be happier that way.' You're a little bird and I don't agree with my father.
Don't. It's all selfish.

and that's how my weekend was, how was yours? I think I'm going to have to make up a soundtrack to my life, because well mixes are addictive and apparently my iTunes can handle a few more.
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publishing spirits. [Oct. 4th, 2005|12:22 pm]
falling apart in the rain
Okay I love Cherry Bleeds. Mostly, because they have some of the finest literature written online in their zine, but right now it's because they're showing me a bit of love. They've agreed to pick up my short, "How to Breathe Underwater." Thieves Jargon wants it as well, but we'll see if they'll still want it now. If so that's really cool, if not I sent them another short as a backup sentiment, so hopefully I'll get some love from them as well, but they always love me. Also Cyanide has seeming gone down, the site hasn't renewed it's name yet so the poem Winter may not link if you click on it. Not that any of you go back to reread anything I've written. So hopefully I can get two shorts picked up and finally get motivated to step back into writing at a fuller capacity versus just editing and poetry since that's all I seem to do lately. I would say more but I don't have a whole lot to share, so I guess that's it for the time being and I'll post more in the future.

How to Breathe Underwater @ Cherry Bleeds.
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the streets of whisper. [Oct. 2nd, 2005|02:16 pm]
falling apart in the rain
I wanna know what you guys thing would make a good title for it. maybe I'll use it as the actual title. have been talking to a few people that do self-publishing about getting me to join their circle for their next book and I'm truly honored by it. so maybe this will join that collection. dunno, will have to see. There are a couple friends suggesting I seek normal publication as well. so it'll have to find itself.

Under the wings of the night sky,
we would lay in the truck bed,
staring beyond the feathers
to the holes from the stars I swallowed.
As the stardust burnt my throat,
you spoke with hands behind your head,
unaware of the change splitting my chest.
The words foamed in my mouth,
body seizing and twitching,
and I wanted nothing, except you by my side.

At seven, I couldn't tell you - the feeling
crawled in my head spinning webs.
Ten years later and the webs held my mouth shut,
you'd walk across the street from me,
but holding my hand with your presence.
I wanted to point out the colors I saw in leaves,
but they would fade into dust and I would choke
on the fire burning in my chest:
a chemical reaction between emotions and stars.
and I wanted nothing, but to tell you how.

The snow isn't forgiving of life,
wiping it away from the surface, tragedy
building in the separate chambers.
Birds no longer fly and the stars can't be seen
in the night sky with the grey overcast.
A black rose. A white rose. A little stardust.
On my knees I put my hands on your grave,
these tears are for the mistakes.

I will put my strength into finding seven
and teaching him how to reveal the heart
from which you dwell. Then I'll hide myself
in the lonesome south.
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A temptation to write. [Oct. 1st, 2005|08:16 pm]
falling apart in the rain
[Current Music |Paranoid Social Club - Two Girls]

Started working at the new job. Well it's training, but still it's pretty cool. Not nearly as much work with more pay, so who can complain? I'm just glad to get out of the dramafest that was the last job. And with it most of my medical bills from when I fucked up my hand are close to being paid off. Should be able to get them finished this month. Then I can move out. So many steps.

Mental Note: Computer needs video card, ram, and speaker upgrade. A new keyboard and tower wouldn't hurt either.

And now a moment to enjoy the written word. Enjoy.

Rapunzel Doppelganger Drama
Three years of mistakes pack into bags by the front door,
with the quarrel of tangled spirits and false convictions.
From the tops of towers they wait for the other,
but four years later no contact, just letters.

It's not about the rising and falling of the sun or moon,
or how many stars are devoted to the eyes.
A sentiment captured in four chambers,
and held together by strings and marionette operators.

Conflicting for hours upon days of grief,
the complications provide little insight and only prolong the argument.
When the skin peels and reveals,
the reasons rejuvenate.

Back into the social world that everyone never gives a damn about. Schooling is on the mind again and I'm leaning towards going back to art school. I have a friend that says she'll apply if I do, so I'm kinda more motivated because I'll have someone taking the chance with me. It'll breathe life back into a passion that shouldn't ever die in me. I prefer creating so much more than doing any other mundane job. Let me write or let me draw or let me direct. Seriously. I might just kill someone otherwise. Basically I carry a pen on me at all times. my arms wear ink like permanence and my jeans remember notes before mutating into canvases. thank goodness for the cool air. makes it more comfortable to wear my jeans so it's okay to have large amounts of writing on them. eventually it'll become a trend and I'll stop it just because I hate being near trends, but then again I'm probably part of more than I know. Oh well I really didn't have a whole lot to say, just words I've written because I need to get back into the habit of writing more frequently again.

Afterlife Rendevzous
your eyes are not open
and I sit propped on the pillow
praying you aren't taken from me in your slumber.
i'd rather be colorblind
tormented with the gift of sight without seeing.
life becoming a walking black and white movie
with no one to describe the colors of their world to me.

building a forgotten memory
of lovers floating down a river
staring up at a cloudless night
but feeling emptiness beside me

tomorrow I'm finding my way through
pouring more into the vessel in my chest
let the heart overflow
spill over and form a river of souls
merging further down at the mouth

i'm further down the river, colorblind.
describe it to me.
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