Combat Zone

dirtylittlepig @ 12:33pm: say goodbye, say hello
just when I feel I (it) have completely disappeared,
rises from within like a secret
I really can't keep
from anyone (you)

words like

dirty desire wrong
desire dirty wrongs
anger violence acceptance
submission succumb come
submission violence
anger violence
writhing sound

should've stuck with it
when you didn't want me
I should've stuck with the verdict
but I'm a cheater liar
secret, dirty

funkstar @ 4:48pm: the moment is like crystal. sharp and delicate.
i'm listening to a melody that no one else can hear and my heart catches, a hitch, a pause in its beating...am i standing out among all the other little lights? hear me, see me, feel me. want me.
music in my ears. yellow skies. where do i go from here?

poemy @ 12:31am: A Short Film -- Ted Hughes
A Short Film
Ted Hughes

From ‘101 Poems That Could Save Your Life’, D. Goodwin (ed), 2003.

It was not meant to hurt.
It had been made for happy remembering
By people who were still too young
To have learned about memory.

Now it is a dangerous weapon, a time-bomb.
Which is a kind of body-bomb, long-term, too.
Only film, a few frames of you skipping, a few seconds.
You aged about ten there, skipping and still skipping.

Not very clear grey, made out of mist and smudge.
This thing has a fine fuse, less a fuse
Than a wavelength attuned, an electronic detonator
To what lies in your grave inside us.

And how that explosion would hurt
Is not just an idea of horror but a flash of fine sweat
Over the skin-surface, a bracing of nerves
For something that has already happened.

poemy @ 12:27am: Adultery -- Carol Ann Duffy
Adultery

Carol Ann Duffy

From ‘101 Poems That Could Save Your Life’, D. Goodwin (ed), 2003.


Wear dark glasses in the rain.
Regard what was unhurt
as though through a bruise.
Guilt. A sick, green tint.

New gloves, money tucked in the palms,
the handshake crackles. Hands
can do many things. Phone.
Open the wine. Wash themselves. Now

you are naked under your clothes all day,
slim with deceit. Only the once
brings you alone to your knees,
miming, more, more, older and sadder,

creative. Suck a lie with a hole in it
on the way home from a lethal, thrilling night
up against a wall, faster. Language
unpeels a lost cry. You’re a bastard.

Do it do it do it. Sweet darkness
in the afternoon; a voice in your ear
telling you how you are wanted,
which way, now. A telltale clock

wiping the hours from its face, your face
on a white sheet, gasping, radiant, yes.
Pay for it in cash, fiction, cab-fares back
to the life which crumbles like a wedding-cake.

Paranoia for lunch; too much
to drink, as a hand on your thigh
tilts the restaurant. You know all about love,
don’t you. Turn on your beautiful eyes

for a stranger who’s dynamite in bed, again
and again; a slow replay in the kitchen
where the slicing of innocent onions
scalds you to tears. Then, selfish autobiographical sleep

in a marital bed, the tarnished spoon of your body
stirring betrayal, your heart over-ripe at the core.
You’re an expert, darling; your flowers
dumb and explicit on nobody’s birthday.

So write the script – illness and debt,
a ring thrown away in a garden
no moon can heal, your own words
commuting to bile in your mouth, terror –

and all for the same thing twice. And all
for the same thing twice. You did it.
What. Didn’t you. Fuck. Fuck. No. That was
the wrong verb. This is only an abstract noun.