alexis (radio_void) wrote in le_write_stuff,
alexis
radio_void
le_write_stuff

TO BE RATED FOR POSSIBLE ACCEPTANCE

NAME: Alexis
AGE: 13, 14 as of October 15.
LOCATION/HOMETOWN: Sturbridge Massachusetts. It's about an hour from Boston.
CHOICE OF MUSIC; STYLES AND/OR BANDS YOU LIKE: Moneen, Alexisonfire, bjork, thursday, bright eyes, cursive, nick cave and the bad seeds, pj harvey, ryan adams, the cheater's club, the justice leauge, the faint, the hue of two, the lemonheads, velocity girl, yeah yeah yeahs
FAVORITE AUTHORS: chuck palahniuk, tolstoy, charles bukowski, allen ginsburg, ezra pound, micheal mcclure
WRITING INFLUENCES: probably allen ginsburg, charles bukowski, and micheal mcclure. only i don't write half as well. 
GENRE(S) YOU WRITE IN: poetry, i guess.
SPECIALTY AREA: poetry
TITLE OF PIECE: I remember the rules calling for poets to post a few pieces. The last one is my favourite of my writings.
White light. No
Blood sport in
It. Fingertip
Molecules. Summer’s
Electricity in your
Hands. Stare at the
Sun. keep staring. No
Chance of blindness
Or myopia. Two lanes
Over on the highway
Light and heat copulate
And burn. Conception of
Fire. There’s something
About summer fire
And molecular light that
Changes everything.
White heat. Green and
Blue light from cheap
Flashbulbs on cheaper
Cameras. Camera obscura.
Yellow heat. Something of the
Past. Something about the
20s. something about
white light that never
remains. Something about
molecular fury. Blood sport kisses.
Something about white
Heat that drives you to
Extents you wouldn’t go.
Something like alcohol, I’ve
Heard. There is a part of you
That is white light/heat.


We speak LAZILY
Of nothing in
Particular moths and
Butterflies fly out of
Your mouth. Jim
Morrison spoke of
Golden copulations
But it doesn’t matter
At the moment. Animals
DANCE to something
Unheard(of). I can’t hear
Over the buzzing. A LACK
OF SUBTITLES serves
as a division. Somehow you
think 1 + 1 =3. moths
filling your lungs. A
respiratory system made
of crepe paper wings and
dust. Covered in gold
flecks and moths.


One hundred words on the
Trite cliché that is you,
But uncliched words. Oh
Where do I start? The winter is
Too cold as you are (as I am) and
The summer is too hot. I’m just
Requesting that one of us stay.
You can’t see from here to there.
You can’t colour outside the lines
And you can’t find the symbolism in
Them. What does it mean? Oh we
Might never now. It’s too far away
There and neither of us can afford the
Postage. Where are you staying?
The motel six is too crowded for our type
I suppose but there’s nowhere to stay.
Stay for the summer, I don’t care. I’m
Sorry I made you lose your ticket out
Of here but you could have left any time
And I couldn’t. and I gladly would.
The summer is too warm for much
Thinking and we’ve become irrational in
Our quest to become… something else
And you’ve lost. I miss the sound of
Something or other and you’ve put down
Roots as quickly as I’ve removed mine.
Pulling your hair from roots. I’m sorry but I can’t
Stay anymore. The summer is too warm and
It’s not a time to be rational. The winter is too cold
And soon you’ll be leaving. Or maybe not but you
Can’t stay there forever. It’s too small here
Or maybe it’s too large but either way it’s just
Not perfect. A classic story of three bears and the
Monsters we’ve become. Could you stay like that forever?
I doubted it and I was wrong, and maybe you will. Something
About you reminds me of a ferris wheel, and I keep spinning around.
I can see the clouds and your house from here and I can touch
The sky from there. but there is nothing that is quite attainable from
There, so I’ll jump onto the tent of the merry go round and
Jump off.

I have an appointment

                            Elsewhere I

Told the cab

Driver, “fine” he said “but miss

                                    If you don’t

Mind me saying

            You should really get some

Rest. You look strung out.” And I

Did mind, because it’s the truth (veritas)

                                                     You

Look worse. It must be had to

                      Try to make some

One speak of subjects they wish they’d never

Have to breach, and you are less than subtle.  Like the

Cab driver, a metaphor                (cliché) waiting to

Happen. Set to a nineteen thirties jazz beat with the

Crackle of an old

                                                        Vitrola.

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           It must be hard work breaching these

Things         deemed unspeakable with the hook

Of the cane of the manager wrapped around your waist,

                                         Ready to pull you offstage.

 

And you were on the cusp of something.

                                  

                                               When you burnt out.

                I’d hate to remind you, but you’re proving to be

A canvas for the new, when you’re so apprehensive about

Casting away the old.

                       

                               I hailed a taxi in a most            unlikely place

Once. The cab driver was sad looking, but he didn’t want my pity. And as I

Got in he asked where I was going. And I spat out the name of a street

I had never visited. As I got out he said “what business have you got here?”

And I said honestly “I don’t know”

                I think I was speaking for you at the time.

                          

                                               I have always been preoccupied with coincidences

And connections with fault lines (primarily the ones I am standing on) anyway.

 

 

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