gentlesavage73

Looks like it has been over a year since I last posted. My how time flies!

Here is a silly website I came across at Uncyclopedia dot org: the content free encyclopedia. This is all about the Human vs. kitten wars:

http://uncyclopedia.org/wiki/Human_vs._Kitten_War

myth geography

you have to ache in places
that have yet to be named
before you can feel my breath
touch you with tenderness
  the ache   the center of gravity
serves a purpose
            without it
we would fall into the sun
with Daedalus on our backs grinning
___________________________________________

             
Eternity: for men


I forgot to take the sun in the other night.
It stayed out in the cold and darkness
pretending to be my
                           wife shivering
     like Billie Holiday peeling grapes.
Isn't it enough
I take out the garbage? mow the lawn?
feed the cats?           And this year
might be the year I get out of debt
if I can just learn to stand up straight
and take abstractions like a man.

Do you doubt me in my innocence, my hair,
like straw, mottled on my head, or my pajamas,
each one of them ripped on the crotch
because I forget to pull before I sit?

Life is a harsh mistress, but poetry will spit in your face.
And if I had it to do all over again
I'd learn to swim, become a lifeguard,
grow a beard and a tan, look wild in the eyes,
and caress the sand looking knowingly in her eyes
while listening intently.

Wislawa Szymborska Is Polish

In a melancholy mood, reading Wislawa Szymborska
and eating polish sausage I start to sprout clumps
of grief like oatmeal from my skin.
In the midst of such a personal tragedy, dull
from the heartache of words, I am suddenly seized
by the overwhelming urge to moo like a cow
and to copulate with crickets. Is this wrong?
Should I be condemned a sick man, a disturbed man,
a triumph of unusualness? And what if said cricket
doesn't believe in inter-species fornication?
Or worse yet, we are in the throes of passion
when erectile dysfunction makes a guest appearance
only I'm no sitcom just a little drunk
and I explain that to her, the cricket,
that it's never happened before, that maybe
if she went down on me for awhile....but the mood
has been broken, and the night, once young
from starvation, is being pulled from the Earth
like a mother who pulls a blanket
off her child when late for school.

Well, I made two book purchases yesterday. I bought Saturn's Children by Charles Stross (I love the cover) and a non-fiction title called The Black Swan which looks pretty interesting.

Comments always welcomed.
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Broken Shoelaces

They used broken shoelaces to sew her head
back together when she fell out of her cradle.
And all she could do
was stare at her fingers, her fatty
vomit-stained fingers.

They refused to give her a name.
They refused to give her love.

The baby broke through to the glass-bottomed world,
swore beneath her milky breath and closed her eyes
for she didn't like what she saw
among the shattered faces
with those forced smiles.

They buried her in the morning.
They thought it a nice gesture to cry,
but it was only the rain.

The baby enjoyed the taste of dirt in her mouth,
the way the sky darkened, the way those bothersome sounds
smoldered beneath the calmness of her new home.
Here lays a baby,
read the sign upon the grave
and they knew their job was finished.
----------------------------------------------------------------------

Hostile Hostel

In winter, in Milano, it is cold
and the women and the smell
burn you, believe me.

Italy, the corpse dangled
and her body was ripped open,
exposing the garden flowers she ate.

We were all cold, Mike, Federico, Jean.
And hungry. And her meat tasted good.
Her tit flavorful. The fat just oozed life.

If it was a supermodel we would have all starved.
Thank God for small favors. She was plump.
A peasant. And tasty. We shared wine. And nibbled on her thighs. Mike burped.
Federico smiled, picked his teeth.
I was a good cook after all.
-----------------------------------------------------------

Hang Ten

The moon swelled like a bloated stomach on the night I was hung. It felt odd
but strangely satisfying, my eyes falling
from my head staring back at me as I swung back and forth in the dust
and the dusk. Most of me
died that night. My eyes survived. Bloodshot eggs that remained vigilant
even as my body slumped beneath
the azure sky. By now they were hungry
and tired, only they had no mouths to eat
and no eyelids to wrap around them
like cozy blankets. They realized
one of them was a male, the other female.
But, alas, no lips for which to kiss,
no genitalia for which to....well you know.
What a life like this to lead!
They would never hear the pitter-patter
of little eyeball feet. They screamed in disgust,
but no one heard them. At that moment,
they watched as my body was cut down.
I hit the cold ground with a thud that echoed
through eternity. They could never live a life
alone without me, so they rolled back in my head
as they dragged me to my grave.
They wondered if this was considered
eyeball suicide and if they would get into eyeball
heaven, but it was too late for such
philosophical questions. We were buried
together as the wolves howled in the distance
and the rain washed away my existence.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Mistress

On the inside of her brain was the dream.
She was alive then. She could feel her arms. She could touch her toes.
--She missed most the fullness of her lungs
when filled with smoke, the cigarette
dangling from her chapped lips, the way the men
were drawn to this small act of erotica.
Then the dream ended her lips
faded, the blood removing itself from its source,
breasts once full now sunken memories.
The Earth is a dubious creature and she curved back now into its hollows, its secret places.
--Her smile now a charred tree-stump.
--Her thighs the swirling river a single leaf
floating in its stream.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Melancholy: Dream Child

Have I forgotten my place among the shadows
Where first you found me? You knew
How to smile then, a warm smile
That almost brought pause to my eternal shiver.

Today I saw a girl
With pale face, with sad eyes, and no smile.
She threw back her hair and I wanted
To know her. She threw back her hair
And down fell the moon.
______________________________________

Melancholy: Thy Will Be Done
Only two tears fell from the heavens
on the night of the Fall:
one containing the reflection of the Buddha
in his death; the other
being the reflection of your face.

I stood drenched in your smile
as I prepared for the emptiness of Paradise
which disappeared when I could no longer
remember your name, remember my name.
I am called Exile
by the ghosts who picnic
with their young ones
on the sweet, melancholy snow
where I lay, asleep and buried.

Exile: Let flow your blood
in honor of the smile
that helped give birth to these words.

Exile: They no longer hear you laughing
from your grave. They believe you
insane.

She is dreaming again.
This time with false teeth and legs.
She is dreaming again.
This time standing under the sun
only she thinks that it is night.
And I am in these dreams
where I am trying to remember
her name. Only you cannot see me
for I am disguised as the dream.
Only you cannot hear me
for I am disguised as her breath.

Came home from Borders with several books today. Martin Millar's Lonely Werewolf Girl. China Mieville's The Scar, Alan Campbell's Scar Night, and Light by M. John Harrison. 

I met this sad, sanguine girl today. Her eyes
Were wide and warm and moist. She talked
About her dog, how he had lost his left front leg,
Defending her honor. “Do you have any pets, sir?”
She said. “Why yes, I have two. A parrot and a frog.”
And added, “But the parrot doesn’t love me and the frog,
Well what can I say, he’s a frog. Although he is a rare long-haired
Amphibian from the Indiglo forests. Native to the Watachi
Warrior tribe. A bothersome creature I’ve got to bathe twice a day
Twisting its hair into proper cornrows and fitting his bowler hat
Properly and at a tilt on his oval head. And worst of all,
The little shit owes me money.” I realized by the half-glazed
Look in her eyes that I was boring her and that she really wanted
To be left alone with her sadness and her honor
And the three remaining legs of her precious dog
And I wasn’t sure what to say or do next. It was her sadness
And I was in a hurry. It was then that her body bled
into the wall she leaned against. I always attract the crazies.

That use to be a great USA Up All Night movie when I was a pimply-faced high school kid staying up late while everyone else was doing normal kidstuff. Another title I remember is Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama. And, of course, growing up in New Jersey, how could I not be a fan of the Toxic Avenger. Ah, youth. I'm 34 now. Not much has changed.

Full title is: The Persecution and Assasination of Jean Paul Marat as Performed by the Inmates of the Asylum of Charenton Under the Direction of the Marquis de Sade. It was one of my favorite movies as a youngin'

So, if you didn't like Cloverfield would you still J.J. Abrams' Star Trek? I will.

Here's a link to the new teaser trailer.

http://www.paramount.com/startrek/

Had a good time the other night watching the great 80s movie version of Flash Gordon with my 5 year-old son. He enjoyed it and so did I after all these years. It still held up as good, clean, colourful, campy fun. I rented the new SFnal movie SUNSHINE to watch tonight. We'll see how that goes.

 Saw Shoot 'em Up last night with Clive owen and Paul Giamatti. For the first 45 minutes it was quite enjoyable. Definately over the top. But after the glee of seeing how far over the top the writers were willing to go I lost interest simply because nothing engaged me. No characters to root for or to sympathize with. I give this film two beers out of four.

This is the post where I list the books I recieved for Xmas & my bday which is the day after:

THE CURIOUS INCIDENT OF THE DOG IN THE NIGHT-TIME by Mark Haddon

LIFE IS ELSEWHERE by Milan Kundera

OFF TO THE SIDE: A MEMOIR by Jim Harrison

COLLECTED FICTIONS by Jorge Luis Borges

VIRICONIUM by M. John Harrison

THE GIFT: CREATIVITY AND THE ARTIST IN THE MODERN WORLD by Lewis Hyde

CITY OF SAINTS AND MADMEN by Jeff Vandermeer

As you can see, I've alot to read. These are not even including the books already owned and waiting in my to-be-read pile.

I'm as happy as a pig in shit today. What with getting new socks, underwear, and t-shirts. I'm wearing them right now and feel like a new man. I even feel a little taller. As Tiny Tim said, "God bless us everyone." Oh and, "Tiptoe through the tulips."

Well guys, this is my first post. Allow me to introduce myself. The name is Christopher. I'm 34 and live near Atlantic City where I work in the casino industry. Yee-ha. I'm a writer and a poet. I have many reading and writing preferences. I enjoy pretty much all genres but especially the fantastic, the weird, the surreal, post-modern, pre-modern, literate, speculative, and horrorific.

Hope to make some friends out there.