| Plagal Cadence |
[Jun. 6th, 2005|09:52 pm] |
I.
Tainted by halogen vapors
and overhung humidity,
night burnt cobalt blue-
its inner edges blanched
with Southern spleen, well-spent
among Rampart Street's
nightlife courtesans.
Inez's copper bracelet braids
a wrist as subtle as mile and coffee.
Cardinals and pop stars study
the way her hair Mary-Pickfords
about her back in curled ink.
She's a sugar-jaded artisan,
a dull confection like rock candy
or gritty maple pralines.
The smell of Inez is like a tub
emptied of citrus-hinted water.
Clove nipples press
against a tee-shirt like lost dots
to letter i's. Two steps away
she grabs a late supper of wood sorrel
and smiles at warm Argentine beef,
chasing down each swallow with
tangerine kool-aid over ice.
Inez hunches under a
"Louise Brooks Ate Here" sign
and hides the wind in her purse
like sad cats waiting to hit the river.
II.
Her stomach intonations compose
guttural interludes and score
her lazy-October Sunday hangovers
like a Bach Toccata or modern rock opera
on the radio. The mellow snag of orange zest
fumbles against her nose and the syncopated
chop-chop of knife-dicing-half notes
plainsongs its way upstairs; reverberating
off the sheets, the arabesque skim falls apart
as she awakens out of tune.
III.
Bathed in the salt of inconsistency
and the scent of her citrusy-lies,
tender doubt, long time surfacing,
twists itself raw
in the ebb of smog-shielded mid-day.
He lays in the bedroom tied
to the smell of her on the sheets.
Backsliding into reality-
the act itself shredded behind his eyes.
Nothing drowns the Furies' voices
grinding in his head,
tempting him to wail
in tune to her elevated feet
clipping the city concrete
as she makes her way
west, it seems. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 1st, 2005|10:56 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | The Decemberists - "Sporting Life" | ] |
I am so tragic. I need a haircut. |
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| He’d Rather Be Wine Drunk |
[May. 26th, 2005|08:01 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | John Coltrane - A Love Supreme | ] |
"Well, this side of Paradise, there's very little comfort..." - Rupert Brooke
He had been married a little over a year when he realized that his wife had shunned the “love, honor and obey” vows she had so merrily taken during an overzealous Catholic ceremony cloaked in Southern Virginia sunshine. He swallowed a glass of red wine in one gulp and looked over the note that she had left taped to his computer screen: “I’ve been unfaithful to you in ways you can’t even imagine.” Mental rape, pure and simple. A final nail in the coffin of whatever was left of his sense of worth… and the she-devil knew that; it made her all the more powerful because she knew that he would forever wonder just how one could be unfaithful to one’s husband in ways he could not ever imagine. All sorts of Penthouse Forum-type of images flashed through his head with his wife the focal point and faceless men groping her in ways that he – yes, indeedy- could imagine. The infidelity was a shock, but not too much – at an after-hours party, he had caught her slipping her phone number into the palm of a sweaty cohort no more than a month before- yet, he was still distressed. Why? Because she had the upper hand in the final demise of their- he bitterly sniggered- relationship. He had wanted to end it, but here she had beaten him to the punch and sucker punched him with one hell of a Dear John letter. How could he compete with that one sentence? He couldn’t and he knew that wifey had won the battle that won the war. He poured himself another glass of wine and pondered his existence: a 28 years old, soon-to-be-divorced freelance writer who obviously couldn’t please a woman if his wife had been so disgruntled that she had to find creative hedonistic means to be unfaithful. The second glass of wine disappeared before he realized it, kind of like his wife if he wanted to get metaphorical about it. He decided that the third glass was a charm and, boy, did it start to do the trick. The Tijuana-bible tableaux that he had been imagining suddenly lost their detail- their colors faded. So did the tremors. He took the note and crumbled it into the wastebasket. After logging onto his computer, he managed to think of his own one-liner. |
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| Endless Series of Hobgoblins |
[Mar. 11th, 2004|07:24 pm] |
Mon petit bonhomme:
I just finished my second bottle of wine in this apartment and I am ready to admit that I behaved improperly, disappointing you, my high school guidance counselor and a few other random nameless people. I am half-mad with shame, but I won't hide the extent of my sin -- I went beyond the pale, though I emphasize that my intentions were honorable. No one can wallow in more dejected self-loathing than I - All I can do is pray to my God, and beg for forgiveness.
Actually, I’ve hardly had enough time to be deviant, much less concentrate on trivialities like blogging. I’ve been so self-involved… In other words: LJ wasn’t exactly number one on my priority list. But, boredom has made me come back home, wagging my tail behind me. Are any of you still out there?
Admit that you think about me sometimes, way more than you’d like….
-BL |
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| "Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter my sober house" - Shakespeare |
[Oct. 7th, 2003|08:55 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | foppy | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Cocteau Twins | ] |
Foppery
Definition: \Fop"per*y\, n.; pl. {Fopperies}. [From {Fop}.]
1. The behavior, dress, or other indication of a fop;coxcombry; affectation of show; showy folly.
2. Folly; foolery.
I intend to look like this for Halloween:
A lofty cane, a sword with silver hilt,
A ring, two watches, and a snuff box gilt.
-Recipe "To Make a Modern Fop" |
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| "I am an orphan, an orphan boy..." |
[Oct. 5th, 2003|10:03 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | bored | ] |
| [ | music |
| | The Cure - "All I Have To Do is Kill Her" | ] |
Fun with Googlism:
billy liar is a tale of pure escapism
billy liar is on another plane altogether
billy liar is pure ambrosia
billy liar is a nice place to spend an hour and a half
billy liar is about many things
billy liar is a big surprise
billy liar is a breezy joyride
billy liar is a dazzling and uproarious classic
billy liar is a marvelous instrument
billy liar is still a transcendent experience
billy liar is this me?
billy liar is no hero
billy liar is london cockney rhyming slang for a tyre |
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| Strap-on Burrito and White Man's Guilt |
[Oct. 2nd, 2003|10:06 pm] |
As if Cruz Bustamante's closet wasn't already full enough, one more skeleton has be "outed" - his performance artist sister.
In his sister's 1992 work "Indigurrito" she strapped a burrito to her quivering loins and called for white men to come up on stage, take a bite out of the burrito and "absolve themselves of 500 years of the white man's guilt." |
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Photographer: Guy Bourdin