Post by Katanya on Jun 9, 2009 23:57:27 GMT -5
Welcome to The Kat Shack! In the midst of beginning a new story for you guys, I've been doing some random writing, experimenting with a new style I've never tried before. I thought some of them turned out pretty good and so here they are for your viewing pleasure. They don't follow any story/plot and each are there own entity entirely. Please leave comments on what you think!
Suddenly, my ribs popped and cracked and tore, the way her blue jeans would when we were pressed for time and all of the air was forced from my lungs. Every last organ evacuated this torso and, before long, my beating heart had consumed the both of us. Oh, and I swear this bed has teeth. I saw rows of incisors hiding beneath the sheets. This cotton's got plans to swallow me. I'm dying in style like a kid with a media-friendly disease. Oh, and I swear this bed's at sea. We're held down by the fucking humidity. We're masters of salt-water breathing. We keep our heads above water, but exhale like we're drowning. She's a nine-volt battery. She's got my pulse racing. She spits acid into my veins and it doesn't matter if we're pushing forward or falling back, as long as we keep moving. Hey darling, I found that soft spot in the crook of your neck and made plans to stay the winter; safe, warm, happy. While everyone bundles themselves in sweatshirts, we'll sing songs about the way the world looked in May and stay as hushed as insurance fraud. Push forward, fall back, and the creak in basement steps gives it all away.
*****
An expensive blue blazer is pulled tight over her shoulders, and she’s so god-damned pretty. Not ‘model’ pretty – more like ‘get-the-job-done’ pretty. She’s enough for right now. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted these past five minutes. I’m caught in the way her vowels sound. I’m caught in every aspect of her because the way she’s talking; the way she’s pointing; the way our eyes meet; I swear she’s in love with me, or anyone else watching TV for weather updates at five in the morning. Atlantic City is partly cloudy today with a chance of rain. I’m not conscious enough to care, and it’s not ‘heroin-addict’ pathetic -- it’s more like ‘pull-yourself-together’ pathetic and it’s not the lowest anyone has ever been, but it sure as shit isn’t one for the highlight reels.
*****
Cardiac arrest. Ruptured aorta. Collapsed ventricle. Its all just a broken heart on paper and the man from down the block; the one with the garden full of tulips; the garden full of pinks and yellows and whites and purples; that man just had his paper heart cut to pieces. And it was the prettiest death anyone could ever see! He lay face down in the sea of blossoms and vivid greens. (Call the authorities!) Lights from atop of the arriving chariot of emergency caught the tears in the eyes of neighborhood like the glow of an abandoned TV. (The ambulance driver kept a straight face.) The ambulance driver who smokes a pack of cowboy killers a day and scoffs at cancer; the ambulance driver whose sunken cheek bones and wrinkled skin resemble that of ghost who lived and died by the bottle; that ambulance driver kept his straight, God-forsaken face and drove off to heaven three traffic lights north of here. Andwiththatthefuneralcameandwent. A granddaughter of the man we mourned on the street is standing in her grandfather's dining room pulling at the fringes of her dress. She sips at a glass of juice and leaves red streaks for all to see. Fashion tips and lipstick have turned her face into a set of fragile lines that her relatives are afraid to kiss. A mosaic. An artistic vision. The way her eyes are outlined is just, its just perfect. She pulls daylight in through the window with her steps. Slowly, little by little, like idle stream current. Little by little! by little! by little! Until all at once.. the reds and oranges burst into the room and reflect back into themselves off of everything metal and everything glass and everything beautiful. Light on light and the room collapses into the grips of a firefight. Neither side has anything to lose or gain. No one really wins when no one can die. (The immortal properties of this immortal light) and we're jealous. And she's jealous as thoughts of that pastor who read the eulogy’s slight southern draw occupy the time between when she would be crying if she could remember how to get anything past the lines around her eyes. The hope of the family. Make us proud. So pretty. She’s so very pretty. In the street, children are flying kites and the way the cross paths in the fickle breeze is like watching tigers fight over nothing in particular. Just to fight, just to feel alive. Hope for mankind. The careless honest children do their best to dodge traffic. We do our best to hold on to hope, but what if our best isn't good enough, what then? Next summer, the block won't see a tulip. We won’t see a single damned tulip and one by one the neighborhood will shed their hollow tears, begging to be filled by that immortal fucking light.
*****
The neon lights are tossing stones at your window. The big city is calling and, baby, who are you to resist charm like that. The footprints in the snow are in dance steps. The lights from office buildings are chandeliers when your eyes are still wet. The man on the radio sends the next one out to you. Does he mix your drinks while you're fighting off sleep, whispering you love me? Don't these train rides remind you of anything? Are you too caught up in the way his eyes tell you you're pretty just when you need something to believe? Blackout. Midnight. Choked up. Apologize. Cigarette. Lipstick. Dry eyes. Show time. Could you reread your lines? Take if from the part where you start to cry because I know just what to say this time. That we're just pawns in tight constricting jeans. That its not your fault. That you weren't thinking. And everything's okay if you've been drinking, darling. When the beat picks up could you just tip your glass to me. You're all dolled up for these nights of your life and I can't seem to divert my eyes cause she looks so god damn nice in that ensemble at twilight. If everything isn't coming up roses I'll rip the blossoms from the soil with bleeding fists from the frozen ground and make sure everyone sees while you smile at me. Oh, we're so Hollywood baby. The envy of the silver screen. The enemy of any playwright with dreams. We are what everyone wishes they could be. So meet me on Front Street when you sober enough to see straight and we can fill in the blanks as you lead me through side streets and alleys. She smiles the loudest sound I've ever heard as the heavens begin to rain broken glass. Helicopters cut reflected light off their blades and create the perfect dance hall lighting. We sidestep to the tune of chandeliers falling everywhere and the man on the radio is crying out his eyes as he wails his 'iloveyous' and 'goodbyes.' I love you, goodbye.
Suddenly, my ribs popped and cracked and tore, the way her blue jeans would when we were pressed for time and all of the air was forced from my lungs. Every last organ evacuated this torso and, before long, my beating heart had consumed the both of us. Oh, and I swear this bed has teeth. I saw rows of incisors hiding beneath the sheets. This cotton's got plans to swallow me. I'm dying in style like a kid with a media-friendly disease. Oh, and I swear this bed's at sea. We're held down by the fucking humidity. We're masters of salt-water breathing. We keep our heads above water, but exhale like we're drowning. She's a nine-volt battery. She's got my pulse racing. She spits acid into my veins and it doesn't matter if we're pushing forward or falling back, as long as we keep moving. Hey darling, I found that soft spot in the crook of your neck and made plans to stay the winter; safe, warm, happy. While everyone bundles themselves in sweatshirts, we'll sing songs about the way the world looked in May and stay as hushed as insurance fraud. Push forward, fall back, and the creak in basement steps gives it all away.
*****
An expensive blue blazer is pulled tight over her shoulders, and she’s so god-damned pretty. Not ‘model’ pretty – more like ‘get-the-job-done’ pretty. She’s enough for right now. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted these past five minutes. I’m caught in the way her vowels sound. I’m caught in every aspect of her because the way she’s talking; the way she’s pointing; the way our eyes meet; I swear she’s in love with me, or anyone else watching TV for weather updates at five in the morning. Atlantic City is partly cloudy today with a chance of rain. I’m not conscious enough to care, and it’s not ‘heroin-addict’ pathetic -- it’s more like ‘pull-yourself-together’ pathetic and it’s not the lowest anyone has ever been, but it sure as shit isn’t one for the highlight reels.
*****
Cardiac arrest. Ruptured aorta. Collapsed ventricle. Its all just a broken heart on paper and the man from down the block; the one with the garden full of tulips; the garden full of pinks and yellows and whites and purples; that man just had his paper heart cut to pieces. And it was the prettiest death anyone could ever see! He lay face down in the sea of blossoms and vivid greens. (Call the authorities!) Lights from atop of the arriving chariot of emergency caught the tears in the eyes of neighborhood like the glow of an abandoned TV. (The ambulance driver kept a straight face.) The ambulance driver who smokes a pack of cowboy killers a day and scoffs at cancer; the ambulance driver whose sunken cheek bones and wrinkled skin resemble that of ghost who lived and died by the bottle; that ambulance driver kept his straight, God-forsaken face and drove off to heaven three traffic lights north of here. Andwiththatthefuneralcameandwent. A granddaughter of the man we mourned on the street is standing in her grandfather's dining room pulling at the fringes of her dress. She sips at a glass of juice and leaves red streaks for all to see. Fashion tips and lipstick have turned her face into a set of fragile lines that her relatives are afraid to kiss. A mosaic. An artistic vision. The way her eyes are outlined is just, its just perfect. She pulls daylight in through the window with her steps. Slowly, little by little, like idle stream current. Little by little! by little! by little! Until all at once.. the reds and oranges burst into the room and reflect back into themselves off of everything metal and everything glass and everything beautiful. Light on light and the room collapses into the grips of a firefight. Neither side has anything to lose or gain. No one really wins when no one can die. (The immortal properties of this immortal light) and we're jealous. And she's jealous as thoughts of that pastor who read the eulogy’s slight southern draw occupy the time between when she would be crying if she could remember how to get anything past the lines around her eyes. The hope of the family. Make us proud. So pretty. She’s so very pretty. In the street, children are flying kites and the way the cross paths in the fickle breeze is like watching tigers fight over nothing in particular. Just to fight, just to feel alive. Hope for mankind. The careless honest children do their best to dodge traffic. We do our best to hold on to hope, but what if our best isn't good enough, what then? Next summer, the block won't see a tulip. We won’t see a single damned tulip and one by one the neighborhood will shed their hollow tears, begging to be filled by that immortal fucking light.
*****
The neon lights are tossing stones at your window. The big city is calling and, baby, who are you to resist charm like that. The footprints in the snow are in dance steps. The lights from office buildings are chandeliers when your eyes are still wet. The man on the radio sends the next one out to you. Does he mix your drinks while you're fighting off sleep, whispering you love me? Don't these train rides remind you of anything? Are you too caught up in the way his eyes tell you you're pretty just when you need something to believe? Blackout. Midnight. Choked up. Apologize. Cigarette. Lipstick. Dry eyes. Show time. Could you reread your lines? Take if from the part where you start to cry because I know just what to say this time. That we're just pawns in tight constricting jeans. That its not your fault. That you weren't thinking. And everything's okay if you've been drinking, darling. When the beat picks up could you just tip your glass to me. You're all dolled up for these nights of your life and I can't seem to divert my eyes cause she looks so god damn nice in that ensemble at twilight. If everything isn't coming up roses I'll rip the blossoms from the soil with bleeding fists from the frozen ground and make sure everyone sees while you smile at me. Oh, we're so Hollywood baby. The envy of the silver screen. The enemy of any playwright with dreams. We are what everyone wishes they could be. So meet me on Front Street when you sober enough to see straight and we can fill in the blanks as you lead me through side streets and alleys. She smiles the loudest sound I've ever heard as the heavens begin to rain broken glass. Helicopters cut reflected light off their blades and create the perfect dance hall lighting. We sidestep to the tune of chandeliers falling everywhere and the man on the radio is crying out his eyes as he wails his 'iloveyous' and 'goodbyes.' I love you, goodbye.
Two and Three were my faves, but I enjoyed reading them all. Gah, why do you not have a novel out yet?! >_<
