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makeyourmovehere.
I've seen more spine in jellyfish
i've seen more guts in 11-year-old kids
06 October 2008 @ 10:44 pm
30 August 2007 @ 03:01 pm
06 July 2007 @ 10:51 am
after reading Big Sur....or any Kerouac for that matter, you get this urge to write in Kerouacian prose. So what if I made that word up? Basically, upon my travelling to Tennessee, I finished the book, big sur, and while being technically "on the road" myself, I wrote a sort of prose on my observations and feelings of traveling down to the southern states. (I had a 30 hour drive on a bus. hehhhhhhh)
erego, hate me;
...there's sight of the most perfect array
of primaries and secondaries--
first in the blue beautiful bumbling fumbling mountains
and then in the rolling round hills of such a deep green.
red barn rooftops, red forlorn shacks and flats--
for miles and miles and miles and miles--
you see the lonely homes---and the lonely bones--
lining the dusty dirt roads.
and everything i see is strung together-- by clothesline rope.
with fresh cotton sheets of white-
flapping in the wind like angels wings.
those same sheets will soon be spread on a warm feather bed--
welcoming a tired body (or two).
they ask me why i want to leave the city so bad;
i ask them why they dont. but who are they?
i could die right here; i could absolutely sink
into the soil and be completely content--
watching this God-given sunset.
striking all eyelids with beautiful hues--
much like the cotton candy clouds.
laying in that tallgrass, wheat in my mouth like
i'm one of twain's legends, i know nothing but beauty--
and my only anticipation is: "WHEN WILL THE STARS COME OUT"
because these are the clearest of clear skies--
in the open south or far from home and cities and worrying--
and schedules and such things which are meaningless anyway.
i pluck a small daisy and sing it a song about dying
(because now i've killed it by picking)
(we kill the most beautiful things we could have.)
and i think that no one really knows what life is
and its living that actually kills you.
but dying out here on a sunlit porch or--
in a strawberry field-
is a happier death than the dirty, gloomy, gaunt streets--
and allies and buildings which i am glad to escape.
be through--be gone-- be done with that so-called society.
live to your hearts happiness and flaunt it well--
because back there, the city still roars
erego, hate me;
...there's sight of the most perfect array
of primaries and secondaries--
first in the blue beautiful bumbling fumbling mountains
and then in the rolling round hills of such a deep green.
red barn rooftops, red forlorn shacks and flats--
for miles and miles and miles and miles--
you see the lonely homes---and the lonely bones--
lining the dusty dirt roads.
and everything i see is strung together-- by clothesline rope.
with fresh cotton sheets of white-
flapping in the wind like angels wings.
those same sheets will soon be spread on a warm feather bed--
welcoming a tired body (or two).
they ask me why i want to leave the city so bad;
i ask them why they dont. but who are they?
i could die right here; i could absolutely sink
into the soil and be completely content--
watching this God-given sunset.
striking all eyelids with beautiful hues--
much like the cotton candy clouds.
laying in that tallgrass, wheat in my mouth like
i'm one of twain's legends, i know nothing but beauty--
and my only anticipation is: "WHEN WILL THE STARS COME OUT"
because these are the clearest of clear skies--
in the open south or far from home and cities and worrying--
and schedules and such things which are meaningless anyway.
i pluck a small daisy and sing it a song about dying
(because now i've killed it by picking)
(we kill the most beautiful things we could have.)
and i think that no one really knows what life is
and its living that actually kills you.
but dying out here on a sunlit porch or--
in a strawberry field-
is a happier death than the dirty, gloomy, gaunt streets--
and allies and buildings which i am glad to escape.
be through--be gone-- be done with that so-called society.
live to your hearts happiness and flaunt it well--
because back there, the city still roars