Awry, Amiss, Amok

 

I've been reading over old correspondences. It's nice to remember times when I put the effort in:

...I am well aware that Frank And Open Conversation is never ever a good plan as far as inducing the swoons, but it was a last ditch attempt. Leg broken, arm completely torn off, one eye hanging out, it was me crawling over barbed wire with a cigar between my teeth yelling (between gasps of intense pain) "I bought you flowers and the best ice cream money can buy, I've been grooming myself religiously for the past month on the off chance you were to jump me, I told you you are beautiful, I slept in your bed and didn't try anything on, I visited you at work and took an interest in your interests to the point of joining you in lectures and helping on assignments, I even wrote you a song! And look! I can Talk About My Feelings!" And of course I spat the last four words out with pints of blood, because by that point it was obvious to all concerned that its not me, its her; time and place son; it could have been so right but its gone so wrong. The lights fade on the tragic scene and the audience lets out a collective sigh; in the rear corner someone is wiping their eyes as a lone bugle plays beyond the mist.

18 comments:

Daniel B. McClelland said...

You know we love you.

Anonymous said...

Stranger swooning

Bel said...

strange swooning

richface said...

A few apostrophes here and there in the appropriate places probably would have served you well.

Sambo said...

And less of being a pussy.

Daniel B. McClelland said...

I was re-reading old blog posts. This is one of them. It's October now bro.

Jett Superior said...

I concur with Daniel.

And November is climbing up on October's ass as we speak.

Daniel B. McClelland said...

I concur with Mother Superior.

Jett Superior said...

I concur with <3 =dmcc.

And fuck it, I may well just compose a post right here in the commentses.

Daniel B. McClelland said...

Do it. I dare you.

Jett Superior said...

Now Daaaaan, you know I canna resist a good dare. On lunch now; more on this later.

Sorry Rich, it's on.

Jett Superior said...

Foolgrinning

In the era of BYCA
I dreamt a long dream,
Sleep stuttering along and lulling me
Like the rocking of a train;
Watching the high hills and dark places
With equal absorption, ticking them off
For catalogueing somewhere inside:
Back there in my brain
(And once in awhile,
Beneath my breastbone).
In the time after, I noticed the
Salamanders sunning on rocks
The gentle, insistent breeze on limbs
The notion of the suns' rays
Struggling valiantly, bright-firing
The cloud profiles and rendering them
Pure, unmarred silver
"Oh, there it is," I breathed into myself.
And my God, it was all along,
Had I but surrendered my gaze.

Jett Superior said...

Punctuation is arsed.

('Putting the Punk back into punctuation.')

Daniel B. McClelland said...

I love breastbones. One of my favourite bones. The following poem is about bony guys.

Oh dude,
I like your three-quarter shorts
and I think your hearty laugh is really swell

Subdued,
you spike saki quarter shots,
and it's Pinkerton that you listen to as you eat whale

Boy,
I like you so much,
I just find I want to compliment your smile.

Oy,
What brand's your toothbrush?
Your grin must blind all dentists within the surrounding mile.

Your wisdom teeth are liars.
Your funny bone's 'inspired.'

Jett Superior said...

Daniel, beers. With me. Your continent or mine?

Daniel B. McClelland said...

Beers? Poets drink absinthe and coffee don't they? Anyhow, surely Alabam's has taught you how to make a mean moonshine.

I could handle your continent in 2009. Richard too.

Jett Superior said...

We should continue this conversation via fiberoptics.

Or e-mail, given the basic kiwi fellow's (based on my two experiences) aversion to telephonic devices, despite the pleasentish outcome(s).

DO YOU CHECK YOUR E-MAIL, DANNNN? Either account. No, really.

Jett Superior said...

(damn, typos piss me right off)