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Her real name was Charm. Most people who knew her real name wondered why she bothered with a stage name. But she preferred to be called Charisma. It had more character than most stripper names and no matter how many people made fun of her real name, she couldn't bear to change it or use it for her work. Her mother had given her the name and she wouldn't let it be sullied by her life choices.
Her face was okay looking, framed with long, straw-coloured hair and centered with dark brown eyes. Nobody cared about her eyes though. Her body seemed to keep people's gaze below her neck. Most men spoke only to her chest. She supposed it was fair since she spoke only to their wallets. She had filled out at 13 and had always had some kind of boyfriend taking care of her and buying her whatever she needed. She had only started stripping recently when the last guy she moved in with had gotten violent with her after a night of drinking. She figured, at 25, she needed to make some of her own money, at least to buy a house of her own. She'd dropped out of school at 16 so her career options were dismal. Her car was still paid for by Beau, a long-standing casual lover. He liked to call her Charmaine, but other than that he was alright.
He was supposed to pick her up tonight, but so far she had stood shivering outside in her tight yellow tube dress for about half an hour. She could go inside and wait but Donny would try to make her work a couple more dances. "Come on, sweetheart, you didn't even break a sweat. Just one more dance for the nice man, be a doll." And so on and so forth.
A gleaming red mercedes, a newer kind, pulled up in front of the club and stopped in front of her. She immediately walked over to the door and opened it, not bothering to try to peer through the tinted glass. She started to complain about his lateness as she slid into the cream-coloured leather seats, but she stopped short when she noticed the handsome man with xray blue eyes and dark hair gazing at her with an amused expression on his face.
"You're not Beau," was all she could say to break the silence.
"A harsh thing to say to a Frenchman," he smiled. "But I'm sure I can change your mind," he said as he merged back into the busy traffic of the main street.
She could have stopped him, or even jumped out of the car at that point. But there was a deep curiousity that kept her from stopping the progressing events. She buckled her seatbelt and stared at him, but he looked only at the road ahead with a confident grin.
His palms were chapped and aching as he continued with the relentless tempo of his shovel cracking open the earth and displacing it next to the growing chasm. He didn’t dare slow down for fear of the grim-eyed Moustachios doing more than staring through him.
They were creatively referred to as Moustachios because of their penchant for scraggly handlebar moustaches and the pistachio shells they littered everywhere, even at their crime scenes. The cops thought they were funny at first, but they soon had their hands full with the disappearances and bodies cycling through the city. All they had to go on was the pistachio shells, but it was hard to incriminate any single one of them. When the heat got on one of them, he skipped town and another identical Moustachio would take over his corner. Nobody knew anything, that’s what the cops heard all day. The truth was that nobody wanted to know anything and people strove to be as oblivious as possible. Store clerks would argue viciously that any theft of arms and ammunition was an accounting mishap and that their stores had always been fiery, bullet-riddled ruins.
But he wasn’t a mustachio. He was somebody who made the mistake of knowing, of breaking the status quo of mutual oblivion. He didn’t want their drugs, money, or women. He wanted to go back to a time where cartoon villains weren’t making people disappear and people didn’t purposefully ignore the disappearances of their closest friends and relatives out of fear, or greed, or both. He knew what had happened to his brother. And he knew what would happen if he rigged the pistachio delivery truck with the fireworks he had stolen from Don Carismo’s shed. And he also knew that people would be too scared to even look at the colourful explosives.
All he had done was wreck a van and delay their delivery of pistachios for a day.
And now he was digging his own grave. He wondered if Torrence had dug his own grave, too. He wondered if he had used the same shovel and had the same two Moustachios watch him unearth his eternal resting place. Was he close-by? He supposed it didn’t matter as he heaved himself out of the pit. His blond hair was matted with sweat and dirt and his face was burnt red from the sun. The expression on his face as he stood in front of the Moustachios was one of delirious grief.
He was ready.
For all the saints, who from their labors rest,
Who Thee by faith before the world confessed,
Thy Name, O Jesus, be forever blessed.
Thou wast their Rock, their Fortress and their Might;
Thou, Lord, their Captain in the well fought fight;
Thou, in the darkness drear, their one true Light.
For the Apostles’ glorious company,
Who bearing forth the Cross o’er land and sea,
Shook all the mighty world, we sing to Thee:
For the Evangelists, by whose blest word,
Like fourfold streams, the garden of the Lord,
Is fair and fruitful, be Thy Name adored.
For Martyrs, who with rapture kindled eye,
Saw the bright crown descending from the sky,
And seeing, grasped it, Thee we glorify.
O blest communion, fellowship divine!
We feebly struggle, they in glory shine;
All are one in Thee, for all are Thine.
O may Thy soldiers, faithful, true and bold,
Fight as the saints who nobly fought of old,
And win with them the victor’s crown of gold.
And when the strife is fierce, the warfare long,
Steals on the ear the distant triumph song,
And hearts are brave, again, and arms are strong.
The golden evening brightens in the west;
Soon, soon to faithful warriors comes their rest;
Sweet is the calm of paradise the blessed.
But lo! there breaks a yet more glorious day;
The saints triumphant rise in bright array;
The King of glory passes on His way.
From earth’s wide bounds, from ocean’s farthest coast,
Through gates of pearl streams in the countless host,
And singing to Father, Son and Holy Ghost:
Before dawn, she crept near the fireplace trying to control her jagged breathing. She struggled to calm her nerves as she watched her captor’s chest rise and fall peacefully, unaware of the inner turmoil she was facing now. The hearth had long since gone cold and the blue light of early morning only amplified the chill in the air.
She knew they were somewhere in the mountains, but that’s about all she knew. She had been unconscious most of the way to the suspiciously homey cabin where they currently resided. She had a feeling that they were squatting on someone’s timeshare, but she hadn’t had the chance to ask too many questions. It had been easy enough to get out of the rope tying her hands and feet. She supposed he had expected her to be out for much longer from whatever he had injected her with. Heroin addiction hadn’t done her much good in life, but it had given her a high resistance to tranquilizers. Now all she had to do was move past the bulbous, hairy man and out the door without making a single sound. The nightmare that had not yet begun would be over. She wasn’t naïve enough to think that this man had anywhere close to pure intentions and she knew she would rather go down fighting than probably raped to death in the Coloradan wilderness.
With grim determination, she carefully rose to her feet, begging her joints not to crack. The floor seemed to moan in protest with each step she took, but the bear-like man did not stir. She eased open the latch on the rustic door and inch by inch pried the door away from the frame, flinching as the hinges squealed. Without daring to look back, she maintained her quietude until she had made her way across the porch and onto the solid ground of her freedom. She began to run. There was no telling when he would wake up and she was not about to kidnapped a second time in the same weekend, at least not by the same guy.
Her life had never been the same since she had let herself nod off that first time in Billy’s basement. His mom had been a junkie, and worst of all, a junkie with money. She received enough alimony from Billy’s dad and with the house paid off, all she had to do was not overdose. A junkie’s dream and a son’s worst nightmare. With Billy and his mom, things had been good for a while. She had thought that was what heroin addiction was like. Not so bad, right? Free heroin and safe place to do it. Until Billy’s mom got a bad batch. Luckily and unluckily they hadn’t been there with her when she used it.
The alimony stopped coming in and his dad had no desire to support another two junkies, especially without the court’s mandate. She and Billy had tried to make it work, but he got caught working as a drug mule for some local gang members and he had no choice but to take the rap. She had visited every weekend at first, but eventually she knew that 30 years was too long to love someone through a piece of safety glass. Without Billy or his family’s support, there was nowhere for her to go except the streets. And with the streets came danger and each passing day wore down her claim to dignity. Even being abducted wasn’t the worst thing that happened to her that week.
She ran until she was out of breath and then walked for what felt like hours until she saw the main road, but she knew that a filthy-looking junkie wouldn’t attract the safest attention.
There was a boy, who, as many boys before him, believed he was destined for something more important than the petty needs of the people around him. This attitude stemmed from the youthful notion that there was a certain benchmark for happiness that everyone someday achieved. He would find out soon enough, like all the rest of the boys before him, that there is no point in any life where any man can be satisfied with his lot.
This is not supposed to be a nihilistic sort of idea. Instead, it is the acknowledgement of the sincerest root of motivation. If one had all the time in the world to live life and no end to muse over, would anything be of real importance? Death is an impersonal necessity.
As people get older, they realize that life is nothing more than the meaningless moments billowing together until a storm brews, peaks, and fades away. Ignoring the details means disappearing into the fog of metaphysical reality where fools delve in order to feel superior. What benefit is there to superiority when there is only one fatality?
There is no time like the future and no end like the past. The present is the culmination of a breath and a sigh. All the poets and all the priests kneel in front of the same muse but are ignored like all the rest. To sing is to scream gently as to sleep is to dream fiercely. There is no greater power than weakness invoking strength and no greater loss than strength inspiring weakness.
There was a boy and then there was a man and then there was a boy and then there was a man and maybe one of these days they'll figure it out before it's too late
Look at me! Look at me! I want you to take me there. I want all eyes on me. I want to be so unprepared by the amount of attention that I get, that my face actually turns tomatoe red (like it always does). I want people to stare. I want them to be like "I like her, she's cool". I just want certain people to notice. Espically that certain guy I've been crushing on since the beginning of the year. Is that so bad?
I wish I could just learn to get the fuck over things, because when am I not nauseated and on the brink of some sort of episode? When am I not making people miserable with my unhappiness?
swallow sadness long enough and it becomes poison
all you other people without hearts seem to be doing just fine so i thought i'd join you in the land of the dead-eyed
--chillin' on the dock of mnemosyne, would i miss it instead if i dove into lethe? ondine doesn't know.
that's kinda the point
"How terrible to live where a word can never be unspoken and a gesture can never be unmade.”
A TRiUMPhant new president, great Rock'n'Roll, war in the streets, celebrating constitutional citizenry and NO ONE posting journal entries here at Song Meanings?
My goodness - what happened?
Did they up all of your meds or something?
The oil lamp cast its noble glow,
while shadows darkened all around,
on leaders in the global know
whose darkness by its light was found.
Just then, the lantern's leaky wick
flared up. The whole benighted place
ignited like a Wiki-Leak
inflaming each tyrannic face.
The Media pitched their low-ball gloss
and tried to polish up the mess
by spinning such a global loss
as sure electoral success.
♥ ⛧ ☭ ⚧ ♥ ✿ ⚢⛧★ ⚥ ♥
I'm about 99% sure that my mother saw me with this girl I met about 2 weeks ago. I've talked to her since and she hasn't said anything so I think she must want to ignore it and pretend it didn't happen, either that, or she thinks what happened to me as a kid turned me lesbian and she feels too awkward/guilty/embarrassed to confront me about it. I'd be a little more worked up about this if I wasn't half in love and on a steady stream of dosage increases. It's actually a little bit funny, I'm sure seeing her youngest daughter giving head to a butch lesbian nearly gave her an arrhythmia. As it is there's been some eye contact issues.
No joke. I am elated.
I got published in New Yorker!
From the August 29 article
Donald Trump, Poetic Muse:
While some poets are tentatively positive (“Call me a chump / But I’m with Trump”), the vast majority register negative reactions to Trump and his candidacy. These include shock (“Today I woke up and smoked / A cigarette of something illegal / And I freaked out / Because / Donald Trump is running for president”); scatological disdain (“Trump dumped on his rump / Hair lumped in a clump”); determined opposition (“We must now thwart the hatred”); escapism (“If Trump wins / I’m moving to Iceland / While he wreaks havoc on the states / I’ll be in Reykjavik eating steak”); and cleverly rhymed condescension (“The mallard was rebuked by Mitt; / adversaries began to bray. / The ducklings murmured: guy’s unfit / to be elected anyway”).
The article continues, and quoted me again here:
Not all the poems about the Presidential candidates pick a side. One, called “Dual Airbags,” simply bemoans the choice at hand:
“It’s a bitter pill (more like pilloried) / So shall we now be Trumped or Hillary-ed?”
Both poem quotes were taken from my Hello Poetry site.
(Hey Song Meanings - wouldn't you like to get bigged up like Hello Poetry got? See if you can become as user-friendly as they are !)
W.H. Auden (1907-1973)
As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.
And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
‘Love has no ending.
‘I’ll love you, dear, I’ll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,
‘I’ll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.
‘The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.’
But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
‘O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.
‘In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.
‘In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.
‘Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver’s brilliant bow.
‘O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you’ve missed.
‘The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.
‘Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.
‘O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.
‘O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.’
It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.