oh man

<3

I am in love with Zach Condon

waking up is never as nice

leave a note when you go
'cause I like to know, like to know
where you are.
please
stay with me tonight
stay with me tonight, me tonight
stay with me.

flying south for a future

this is a song i wrote for an interesting ep organized by tony of we heart arts. check it: http://www.myspace.com/weheartarts and http://www.last.fm/label/We+Heart+Arts
the concept of the ep is a relationship in five parts (from the gal's side of the story), each part done by a different gal. i was asked to do 'the future' track; i tried to take a bit out of each of the songs and sneak it in to sort of tie the ep in to a close, i don't know if it worked. we'll see i guess.


it's november once again and i'm inside
i miss yr batman pillows sometimes
there's more than leaves a changin' round here
the south is warmer this time of year

i think i'll fly south for the winter this year

i don't even miss the curve of yr jawline
i've got better ways to bide my time
than to remember what i was doing this time last year
i promise not to shed one more tear

cause i'm flying south for the winter this year

you might have once loved me truly but i
am getting along without you just fine
and come spring i'll have nothing to fear
cause everyone i love will be near

so i flew south for the winter this year

my future is very clear,
i'll be flying south for the winter every year

There's been too much 'I' around here lately.



I offer this. The song I discovered hereabouts: http://withthismightyswordicrownyouking.tumblr.com
The video I can do without; just open your ears.

imaginary tuesday

there's something to the way you move when the kids are playing their songs. you're rocking back and forth, tapping your fingers and your toes; i've never seen something so beautiful: off-beats -- fingers, down-beats -- toes. i'd like to dance with you, but i hate dancing. you make me like dancing sometimes and that's all i really need. no one else makes me want to dance and i think that makes us okay for each other. i've still got paint stuck under my nails from that day we painted our bodies and walked around the house singing. this paint will eventually get washed away. so will you. that's all right because we've all got to move on some time, but i think you'll be around for at least a little while. i like waking up next to you and never making the bed with you because making the bed is pointless and you understand that.

I need to stop over analyzing and creating ridiculous scenarios inside my head that will not get the chance to happen. I also need to stop feeling sorry for myself because it is of no use and these weird moods are breaking my heart and I'm sorry for the way I've been acting. I need to stop missing you because I don't even know you.

I I I I I I I

I'm not sure what to believe anymore. the thoughts inside my head are begging to come out and I'm starting to think that if I walked into the sea I'd make it to you somehow. I'm writing to you because you live too far away and maybe the bends and swirls in the letters of each word will say the things my words cannot. I'm singing songs that have been stuck in my head since wednesday night and maybe you're singing songs too. I'm one of those romantics and that's usually not a good thing because romanticizing things gets me nowhere. I'm not tired because somewhere else there is a revolution going on inside the workings of the clocks at the train station where whistles are blowing and people are yelling and being reunited, while I'm sitting here trying to tell my thoughts to be quiet and let me sleep.

the children of the apokalis

the women of that time
have secrets in their spines
and the fire from that night
is making us blind
tonight

bottles are breaking
voices are shaking
bottles are breaking
voices are shaking

the chemicals in the trees
have soaked into your feet
and the branches of these trees
are bending to be
your dreams

the women of that time
have secrets in their spines
and the fire from that night
is making us blind
tonight

bottles are breaking
bottles are breaking
voices are shaking
voices are shaking
our hearts are breaking
our hearts are breaking
tonight
tonight

tonight.

W.H. Auden - 'O Tell Me the Truth About Love

Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.

3 July 2009

girls with flowers for eyes dance and sing
they miss their mothers and can't stand their fathers,
who drink too much and smell like piss and sorrow,
whose fists seek them out in the night;
they pound and they pound and they pound.

the flowers are wilted, oozing red and yellow,
stained awful purple
that creeps up and lays claim
to the delicate
parts,
the most beautiful,
parts
of little girls without anyone but each other.

and so because they dare not mention their
flowers,
they sing and they dance around brilliant fires at night
vowing
i'll never let you go away,
vowing
i love you and no one else
because no one else knows what it's like
to have beautiful flowers
ooze red and yellow

2 July 2009

the words flying from your mouth are painting the sky with
endless imagery
blues oranges reds pinks
never purple
because you hate the way purple makes you feel

but then the rain comes
beating on your windows and doors
begging to be let in out of the chaos
and we open all your windows and doors
stamp our feet on the wet carpet
dancing in circles
realizing that summer rains cannot be beat
and should always be let in
when they knock so politely

29 June 2009

(f)lies pour from the holes in the head
of the one who sits upon a throne of bones
the power stolen from the past heroes
the kingdom built upon murder
well this foundation is crumbling and
the fishermen have come to show
how real men work and suffer

no one is glorified here
there is no queen of hearts,
no king of kings
only the sand and the sea

the throne matters not
the power, the (f)lies, the holes in
all of their heads
it's all a game they're playing
and it all ends here