I feel my wings have broken in your hands
I feel the words unspoken inside
When they pull you under
And I would give you anything you want
Well all I wanted
All my dreams have fallen down
Crawling around somebody save me
And two warm hands break right through me
Somebody save me
I don't care how you do it
Just stay
Stay
Come on
I've been waiting for you
I see the world has folded in your heart
I feel the waves crash down inside
And they pull me under
I would give you anything you want
Well all I wanted
And all my dreams have fallen down
Crawling around somebody save me
And two warm hands break right through me
Somebody save me
I don't care how you do it
Just stay
Stay
Come on
I've been waiting for you
And all my dreams are on the ground
Crawling around somebody save me
And two warm hands break right through me
Somebody save me
I don't care how you do it
Just save me
I've made this whole world shine for
Just stay
Stay
Come on
I'm still waiting for you
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Cray was the leader of our little gang. Cray was two years older than all of us and was already wearing glasses. And he was our friend. We hung out at the nearby playground after school and skated and pooled our money to buy chocolate ice cream floats from the diner. We held up twigs in our mouth and cupped a hand over it pretending we were smoking cigarettes. Once, a concerned mother marched up and shouted at us for being delinquents. Cray stood up and threw the branch in his hand away. He looked the angry woman in the eye and scrunched up his face.
‘FUCK!’ he said.
Spittle flew from his lips and a small gob landed on her dress with a tiny plop. It blossomed there like a flower. We held our breath. Cray stood there purple in the face, heaving like a bull. The woman opened her mouth, snapped it shut and walked away.
We didn’t know what ‘fuck’ meant. We asked Cray later on, and he told us that ‘fuck’ was a short form for ‘fucking’, who was a grown up who did something with his bellybutton and wee-wee, to make children. When you parents want a kid, they talk to this guy and he does the thing with his bellybutton and wee wee and makes a kid for them. But he urged us not to ask our parents about it because it was supposed to be a secret. ‘Fucking hell’ therefore, was when you spent eternity with this man.
Gross.
After that incident, Cray became the stuff of legend. No one had ever stood up to a grown up. He was a hero among the kids. In class, they whispered and pointed at us and told each other of the amazing bravery of Cray’s Gang. We let them talk, occasionally fuelling it when the furor seemed to be dying down, adding little details when it suited us. The woman punched Timmy in the head but he got right up and punched her back. She pulled an evil sword from behind her waist and it cried with the gabazillion souls it had consumed. She swung it and it howled and it would have taken Greg’s head off had he not ducked. We fought the mighty witch from noon to night with sticks and stones but we were fast tiring. But she was defeated when little Johnnie picked up the last rock and threw it and it hit her right in the eye. She screamed and turned into a bat but Cray shouted a spell and she flew away. Johnnie still has the rock. He carries it with him in case she comes back. Witch’s Bane, he calls it. If you’re nice and you ask politely maybe he’ll show it to you.
After that, none of the bullies dared to touch us. Some even declared us their friends. We smiled and said nothing (I guess little kids know discretion) and swaggered around like we owned the neighborhood. To a ten year old, this was amazing street cred.
The problem with Cray wasn’t his energy or his attention span. It was his intelligence. He always had these Super Duper ideas that he’d think of after watching something on the TV.
‘Hey, let’s build a hang glider!’
‘Fellas, I saw this guy put rockets on his bicycle. Wanna try it?’
‘If I put the hang glider on the rocket bike, do you think I can fly?’
Cray was magnanimous.
He had the grand ideas, but we were his Super Duper friends, and he’d let us be part of it. Cray’s Super Duper Team. He would paint beautiful dreams for us and we would nod our heads, high-five and say yes. After Timmy broke his arm and fractured his leg while trying to fly the rocket bike off his parent’s roof, we were a bit more apprehensive though. but there was nothing Cray couldn’t do. When he couldn’t cajole us into helping, he would sulk and make us feel sorry. And when that didn’t work, he would bribe us with money or candy bars. Money could be saved to buy ice cream floats. Candy bars were heaven, and that way, he had us. We built robots from soup cans, and spent hours scratching the heads off matchsticks and pounding them into fine powder with a stone. We used the match powder to make a huge firecracker that didn’t work when we lit the fuse, but worked when Johnnie walked over to check it, burning off both of his eyebrows.
Then one day, he said, ‘Hey, wanna build an electromagnet? I saw it on the Discovery channel.’
That didn’t sound too bad.
But Cray didn’t want to make a magnet to pick up metal filings or needles. He wanted to build an electromagnet to move cars. He wanted to turn on his magnet and WHAM, a plane would come tumbling out of the sky and clang resoundingly on his magnet. People would come out and say ‘Oh wow, how did he build that? Oh my god, and he’s only a kid!’
‘Nobody has ever built a magnet that powerful before. How did he do it? This boy is a genius!'
And Cray would just stand there and smile, and let them take photos with him. The Next Einstein, they would call him, and he would get the Nobel Prize and marry the pretty girl in class and have many dogs. No babies. Babies were icky.
Super Cray’s Super Duper Magnet. How awesome was that? Ka-pow!
We all trooped down to his house with dreams of selling our invention to the army and crushing tanks and fighter jets and whatnot and jumped on his bed and played with Bellman, his cat as he scrounged around for the necessary parts to his Super Duper Magnet. When he returned, he dragged along an old iron, a pair of kitchen scissors, a penknife and a nail he had found in his father’s toolbox. We sat down and he told us that we could magnetize the nail by stroking it with a magnet, but that would be too weak to bring down airplanes. He saw on the telly that the way to make a more powerful electromagnet was to wrap the nail in wire and connect both ends of the wire to a battery. Cray’s plan was grander though. We used the scissors to cut the cable and the plug off the iron and carefully stripped a large length of the wires bare. Greg was the neatest of us all and so he was chosen to be the one to wrap the wire around the nail. When he was done, Cray, grinning, took the weird mating of nail, wire and plug and plugged it in. The rest of us ran outside to watch out for the falling airplanes and cars.
Well, we didn’t get any Super Duper Car Moving but there was a Super Duper Explosion.
‘FUCK!’ he said.
Spittle flew from his lips and a small gob landed on her dress with a tiny plop. It blossomed there like a flower. We held our breath. Cray stood there purple in the face, heaving like a bull. The woman opened her mouth, snapped it shut and walked away.
We didn’t know what ‘fuck’ meant. We asked Cray later on, and he told us that ‘fuck’ was a short form for ‘fucking’, who was a grown up who did something with his bellybutton and wee-wee, to make children. When you parents want a kid, they talk to this guy and he does the thing with his bellybutton and wee wee and makes a kid for them. But he urged us not to ask our parents about it because it was supposed to be a secret. ‘Fucking hell’ therefore, was when you spent eternity with this man.
Gross.
After that incident, Cray became the stuff of legend. No one had ever stood up to a grown up. He was a hero among the kids. In class, they whispered and pointed at us and told each other of the amazing bravery of Cray’s Gang. We let them talk, occasionally fuelling it when the furor seemed to be dying down, adding little details when it suited us. The woman punched Timmy in the head but he got right up and punched her back. She pulled an evil sword from behind her waist and it cried with the gabazillion souls it had consumed. She swung it and it howled and it would have taken Greg’s head off had he not ducked. We fought the mighty witch from noon to night with sticks and stones but we were fast tiring. But she was defeated when little Johnnie picked up the last rock and threw it and it hit her right in the eye. She screamed and turned into a bat but Cray shouted a spell and she flew away. Johnnie still has the rock. He carries it with him in case she comes back. Witch’s Bane, he calls it. If you’re nice and you ask politely maybe he’ll show it to you.
After that, none of the bullies dared to touch us. Some even declared us their friends. We smiled and said nothing (I guess little kids know discretion) and swaggered around like we owned the neighborhood. To a ten year old, this was amazing street cred.
The problem with Cray wasn’t his energy or his attention span. It was his intelligence. He always had these Super Duper ideas that he’d think of after watching something on the TV.
‘Hey, let’s build a hang glider!’
‘Fellas, I saw this guy put rockets on his bicycle. Wanna try it?’
‘If I put the hang glider on the rocket bike, do you think I can fly?’
Cray was magnanimous.
He had the grand ideas, but we were his Super Duper friends, and he’d let us be part of it. Cray’s Super Duper Team. He would paint beautiful dreams for us and we would nod our heads, high-five and say yes. After Timmy broke his arm and fractured his leg while trying to fly the rocket bike off his parent’s roof, we were a bit more apprehensive though. but there was nothing Cray couldn’t do. When he couldn’t cajole us into helping, he would sulk and make us feel sorry. And when that didn’t work, he would bribe us with money or candy bars. Money could be saved to buy ice cream floats. Candy bars were heaven, and that way, he had us. We built robots from soup cans, and spent hours scratching the heads off matchsticks and pounding them into fine powder with a stone. We used the match powder to make a huge firecracker that didn’t work when we lit the fuse, but worked when Johnnie walked over to check it, burning off both of his eyebrows.
Then one day, he said, ‘Hey, wanna build an electromagnet? I saw it on the Discovery channel.’
That didn’t sound too bad.
But Cray didn’t want to make a magnet to pick up metal filings or needles. He wanted to build an electromagnet to move cars. He wanted to turn on his magnet and WHAM, a plane would come tumbling out of the sky and clang resoundingly on his magnet. People would come out and say ‘Oh wow, how did he build that? Oh my god, and he’s only a kid!’
‘Nobody has ever built a magnet that powerful before. How did he do it? This boy is a genius!'
And Cray would just stand there and smile, and let them take photos with him. The Next Einstein, they would call him, and he would get the Nobel Prize and marry the pretty girl in class and have many dogs. No babies. Babies were icky.
Super Cray’s Super Duper Magnet. How awesome was that? Ka-pow!
We all trooped down to his house with dreams of selling our invention to the army and crushing tanks and fighter jets and whatnot and jumped on his bed and played with Bellman, his cat as he scrounged around for the necessary parts to his Super Duper Magnet. When he returned, he dragged along an old iron, a pair of kitchen scissors, a penknife and a nail he had found in his father’s toolbox. We sat down and he told us that we could magnetize the nail by stroking it with a magnet, but that would be too weak to bring down airplanes. He saw on the telly that the way to make a more powerful electromagnet was to wrap the nail in wire and connect both ends of the wire to a battery. Cray’s plan was grander though. We used the scissors to cut the cable and the plug off the iron and carefully stripped a large length of the wires bare. Greg was the neatest of us all and so he was chosen to be the one to wrap the wire around the nail. When he was done, Cray, grinning, took the weird mating of nail, wire and plug and plugged it in. The rest of us ran outside to watch out for the falling airplanes and cars.
Well, we didn’t get any Super Duper Car Moving but there was a Super Duper Explosion.
Monday, July 20, 2009
i like girls' bedrooms. they're intoxicating. always sweet-smelling and soft and clean. and they're always so.
bright.
even when they are empty they always seem filled. they're like extensions. they're not there, just so she has a place to sleep in when she's not out, a table to sit at, a window to look out of.
bright.
even when they are empty they always seem filled. they're like extensions. they're not there, just so she has a place to sleep in when she's not out, a table to sit at, a window to look out of.
Monday, July 13, 2009
i am a toilet roll
you never could write better than i do, but
then again, not many people could,
(and it never was an issue, at least not for me anyway).
until i asked, what happened, curious like a cat, and you told me.
and for all my words, i didn't know what
to say.
i couldn't tell you that it was going to be ok,
because it really wasn't, and it was fucking cliche.
or that i understand,
that i know what he meant.
i couldn't tell you if there's anything i can do for you,
i would do, because that wouldn't be true.
or that he would have wanted to be strong,
not grieving the way you are, for as long
as you decide it.
i didn't want to tell you what i didn't know,
because, for god's sake, i know you have enough of those.
i didn't know him
(and i wouldn't be so arrogant to think that i did),
and never will, and so i said something stupid and wished you well
while your eyes and everything else told me more
than any words would tell me how you feel.
i made up my mind then, and so when it is all over
(but who am i trying to kid, it will never be over)
when we talk and laugh and smoke and eat and whatever that we do,
when you sit beside me like you did last night
at least for those hours with me, you wouldn't remember.
while i hope you heal, the way things like this never seem to do
and see the way you smile like a fish, the way you used to.
i wish i could say i would have wrote this for him,
but that would be a lie.
i wrote this for you, and you know it as well as i.
then again, not many people could,
(and it never was an issue, at least not for me anyway).
until i asked, what happened, curious like a cat, and you told me.
and for all my words, i didn't know what
to say.
i couldn't tell you that it was going to be ok,
because it really wasn't, and it was fucking cliche.
or that i understand,
that i know what he meant.
i couldn't tell you if there's anything i can do for you,
i would do, because that wouldn't be true.
or that he would have wanted to be strong,
not grieving the way you are, for as long
as you decide it.
i didn't want to tell you what i didn't know,
because, for god's sake, i know you have enough of those.
i didn't know him
(and i wouldn't be so arrogant to think that i did),
and never will, and so i said something stupid and wished you well
while your eyes and everything else told me more
than any words would tell me how you feel.
i made up my mind then, and so when it is all over
(but who am i trying to kid, it will never be over)
when we talk and laugh and smoke and eat and whatever that we do,
when you sit beside me like you did last night
at least for those hours with me, you wouldn't remember.
while i hope you heal, the way things like this never seem to do
and see the way you smile like a fish, the way you used to.
i wish i could say i would have wrote this for him,
but that would be a lie.
i wrote this for you, and you know it as well as i.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Three years back, when we first started out, I never thought this was what it would be like.
We went to plays, we clubbed, he brought me to playgrounds to ride the swings and the see-saws. We sat in the dark and looked each other in the eyes. We were like kids; twenty three year old kids. We printed out fake name cards one year, and went down to the beer festival pretending to be pub and restaurant owners just so we could get a few free beers from the suppliers trying desperately to get their beers on tap somewhere. They were desperate for a reason. Their beers sucked. We drank and we ate, and we drank some more. After the festival, we drove up to a quiet place he knew near the river front. We crawled to the back of the car and talked and laughed and made stupid jokes. I was warm from the free beer and I could tell my cheeks were flushed. My words were butterflies in my head, giggling dead moths when they came out of mouth. I felt like I was in love with the world, everything in it. I waved at the other couples in their own cars, on the park benches, and they would take one look at me and duck away like frightened rabbits.
‘Funny bunny,’ I shouted at them, laughing. ‘Hunny bunny funny.’
‘I love you, J,’ he said, and kissed me on the nose. His face was pink. His breath smelled of stale ale and pork. He looked at me and declared.
‘I want to marry you.’
‘Mm.’ I giggled and kissed him back.
‘I want to marry you too.’
We were cuddling in the back of his car, a little Suzuki Swift, and I was wearing a short skirt that exposed a lot of my legs. I saw him gazing at them.
‘Where shall we get married?’ I asked him, watching him, loving him.
‘I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.’
‘How about Paris?’
‘Cheesy.’
‘Pusan? I’ve always wanted to go to Pusan.’
He thought for a moment.
‘Hmm.’ He paused. ‘Let me think for a second.’
He was still staring at my legs. But at the same time he wasn’t. He was frowning that cute little frown of his that made his face, normally boyish to the point of being baby-like, age ten years. He was serious. About the marriage. About me. I wanted him.
‘Can you kiss me while you think?’ I asked, and leaned against him, pressing my chest against his arm.
‘That may interfere with the thought processes,’ He said softly. ‘Let’s see.’
And he leaned over and kissed me, one hand tilting my chin up to meet his. I love it when guys do that. Touching my face as we kiss. It seems some how, more. Intimate. His tongue flicked against mine and he reached up with his other hand. I took it and guided it to my breast. My heart was pumping away and I felt like I was sixteen again, like the time I went speeding down the highway at three in the morning in my mom’s car, with no other vehicles in sight. Three lanes wide and no one to stop you.
I wanted him so bad.
‘Mark?’
‘Yes.’
‘Make love to me? Do you want to?’
‘Yes,’ he said, a shadow in the dark. ‘I would like that.’
‘Now. Right here.’
‘Yes.’ I could see his eyes, wide in the dark, looking at me. They glinted in the street light.
“Oh, J,” he said, and when we met, I imagined a thousand cupids applauding somewhere after shooting our asses full of arrows.
We went to plays, we clubbed, he brought me to playgrounds to ride the swings and the see-saws. We sat in the dark and looked each other in the eyes. We were like kids; twenty three year old kids. We printed out fake name cards one year, and went down to the beer festival pretending to be pub and restaurant owners just so we could get a few free beers from the suppliers trying desperately to get their beers on tap somewhere. They were desperate for a reason. Their beers sucked. We drank and we ate, and we drank some more. After the festival, we drove up to a quiet place he knew near the river front. We crawled to the back of the car and talked and laughed and made stupid jokes. I was warm from the free beer and I could tell my cheeks were flushed. My words were butterflies in my head, giggling dead moths when they came out of mouth. I felt like I was in love with the world, everything in it. I waved at the other couples in their own cars, on the park benches, and they would take one look at me and duck away like frightened rabbits.
‘Funny bunny,’ I shouted at them, laughing. ‘Hunny bunny funny.’
‘I love you, J,’ he said, and kissed me on the nose. His face was pink. His breath smelled of stale ale and pork. He looked at me and declared.
‘I want to marry you.’
‘Mm.’ I giggled and kissed him back.
‘I want to marry you too.’
We were cuddling in the back of his car, a little Suzuki Swift, and I was wearing a short skirt that exposed a lot of my legs. I saw him gazing at them.
‘Where shall we get married?’ I asked him, watching him, loving him.
‘I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.’
‘How about Paris?’
‘Cheesy.’
‘Pusan? I’ve always wanted to go to Pusan.’
He thought for a moment.
‘Hmm.’ He paused. ‘Let me think for a second.’
He was still staring at my legs. But at the same time he wasn’t. He was frowning that cute little frown of his that made his face, normally boyish to the point of being baby-like, age ten years. He was serious. About the marriage. About me. I wanted him.
‘Can you kiss me while you think?’ I asked, and leaned against him, pressing my chest against his arm.
‘That may interfere with the thought processes,’ He said softly. ‘Let’s see.’
And he leaned over and kissed me, one hand tilting my chin up to meet his. I love it when guys do that. Touching my face as we kiss. It seems some how, more. Intimate. His tongue flicked against mine and he reached up with his other hand. I took it and guided it to my breast. My heart was pumping away and I felt like I was sixteen again, like the time I went speeding down the highway at three in the morning in my mom’s car, with no other vehicles in sight. Three lanes wide and no one to stop you.
I wanted him so bad.
‘Mark?’
‘Yes.’
‘Make love to me? Do you want to?’
‘Yes,’ he said, a shadow in the dark. ‘I would like that.’
‘Now. Right here.’
‘Yes.’ I could see his eyes, wide in the dark, looking at me. They glinted in the street light.
“Oh, J,” he said, and when we met, I imagined a thousand cupids applauding somewhere after shooting our asses full of arrows.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)