Sockmonkey's Journals

what i wrote last night

I am afraid to be loved too much.

Because, in that, I will surely hurt him.

I am afraid to be loved not enough.

In that, I will hurt him, too.

What super power would you have, if you could?

The power to balance love.

Or to split love's shaft, right in two.

So, that it slapped both people the same.

At the same time, with the same force.

With the same colour.

And, to last the same length of time, for both.

Would you walk away from one, if you had another?

And, if your other, had yet another,
wouldn't you walk away for the love of his love?

I am afraid to be loved falsely.

I am afraid to be loved too really, as well.

I am afraid of these things,

As I am afraid of myself.

And, my not good enough lovingness lovings.

let them eat cake

I sat, tonight, listening to Wilco, and, to Nick Cave,
in the neighborhood bar, called,
"The District"...
drank, one too many glasses, of what some, would call, "bad" wine...

Saw a curly headed boy, playing darts...
and, thought, of one Cuban man, whom, I have never met,
yet, who, I love the words, that pour, pouting, shouting, reeling, reveling,
out of fingertips...
in French Nursery Bleu.

I danced with Tiffany... the girl clown...
Breasts... such a milk filled thing...
Danced, outside, into the pouring rain...
Hearing, "The Sisters Of Mercy"... still on the sidewalk...

I will remember the handlebarred mustache of the ever lonely man.

Committed to sin.
Committed to what he thought was right.
Committed Sin.

the floods, of monsoons, which I love, and live for... the rain.

I couldn't get into the small apartment, without wading.

My little slippers, are all mashed.

I will lay them, on the floor, beside the kitchen sink, to re~shape themselves...
Beside, the silk, of covering, of tiny parrots.

Much, like we do, to our souls, each time,
we are caught,
inside the downpour.

Spending commas, like they're free...

Currently listening :
Cure for Pain

The King Of Tyrus

do you remember, dear, that night, i wore the smashed cherry lipstick?

do you remember, the netty veil, that stepped, jauntily,
off the edge of my pillbox hat?

do you remember, sir, the little seam, that went, marching up,
the back of my long, slim leg, sewing me, into silk?

do you remember the scents i wore, for you, that night?
of tonquin, and, french vanilla beans?

do you remember the punk, and loud, leather and spike wearing music,
or the smoke?

do you remember, love, lifting me, by my waist, inside that little military jacket,
up, onto that sleazy barstool, and, kneeling, on one knee...
lifting up my ankle, and, placing my foot, there, upon your thigh?

do you remember, sex, looking up, into my eyes, and, mouthing words?

do you remember what you mouthed?

do you remember, abaddon, my eyebrow, singly, lifting,
or the focus, stripping, almost naked?

do you remember, the lead singer of the band, gruffling by,
pulling in his chin, and shaking his head, as if you didn't fit, there?

do you remember, prince of darkness, re~working, the buckle of my shoe?

do you remember, now, or then, dear, the drizzles of sugar,
that surely, would have covered your hands, had you left them there,
any longer...

do you remember our skin, melting?

Willing, I fell...

I fell, today, into, some words.
Artfully, dancing, together, with eachother.
Pardoned, by a pen.
An illustration, of a life, in a quiet, afternoon museum.
Shards of light, cutting shadows,
where, I, alone...
Still hearing birds, and, mission bells,
but, muted, by the shock of shapes of language.

At first, I thought it was a mistake.

An electronic glitch,
that opened up, a doorway,
into other countries,
other worlds,
and, minds.

A writer's journal...
perhaps, that should be private,

A stranger's gift...
Or, maybe... I've known him, already...

But, who, un~knowing, wrapped me in cinnimon toast, and, butter...
Completely, chained, in coffee, having sex, with cream...

Wishing, that the words, were not on a brightly lit screen,
where, I remain, upright, clothed, not in thick brown, satin,
or in glossy water, sliding with calamity's Christmas gift.

Wishing, that the words, that I was reading,
were in some wine~stained, tattered notebook,
or, carefully laid, into cigar box,
with the smell of leaded pencil.

Truly, now, mesmerized, and,
off to fix a broken bicycle wheel,
in physical, but, tied, if only,
by a French or Cuban coloured string,
to words, written.

A story... Turkish Delight...
My addiction...
My prison...
My passion...
What~which causes me to fall,
into ir~repairable love, and endless, mindless lust...
Always.

Words.

The bath just overflowed.

crush fetish

So, I'm the one,
who doesn't have another mate, yet,
after the last "tragic break~up".

I hadn't been looking for anything,
when I met him.
So, why look for anything, now?

Now, he's that guy,
who acts like I'm stalking him,
if I respond, in any way...
if the new girl is around.

For the most part,
I'm good.

But, you know,
there will come that time...

When I'll see him with her,
and, he'll "warn" her.
and, it will be awkward.

So, tonight...
all alone,
with the young, and, the beautiful performers,
who are my family, now, still, and, treat me like perfection, and, sugar.

They mention a mentor.
A now, famous, sort of, amazing man,
whom they admire, and, who is older, like me.

I say, that I once, had an un~bearable crush on him.
I don't say it all.
The length, or the depth, of it.
He's too much, in their eyes, for that.

The young, and, the beautiful,
who treat me like perfection, and, sugar...

LAUGH.

We know, one of them said.
And, he crushed, right back.
We heard many, wicked, and tasty things, about you.

Is it possible,
that I blushed?

Or, is it the heat,
from the wind?

And, with that,
I walk away, o.k.
with the psuedo stalker status, of the most present, here.

And, the left~over, un~tarnished crush,
of a man, well admired, by many.

My secret weapon, of heart.

And, solace of self.

When, I, next, see the man,
who was most recently, my lover,
with his new love...
I know, exactly, how he will shield her,
I know exactly, how his chin will jutt,
and, his eyes will pace.

But, I've been there.

And, I've been there, too.

There, is better.

There, becomes here,
becomes bigger...
becomes, now.

Yep.
I, too, will jutt my chin,
smile, secretly, and, perhaps,
even turn pink, in the edge of my cheek...

And, skip, looking to her, like a craaazy woman,
into tomorrow.

untitled

~You said, my name, means hope, and, I miss you~

I miss the color of your.
I miss the curve of sleeping.
I miss the travelling, way to fast.
I miss the waiting, way too long.
I miss that melting scar.

Currently listening :
Leonard Cohen: Iâ�™m Your Man
Release date: 2006-07-25

Self Indulgant Sorry

If I made you think that I think that I'm better than you...
I'm sorry.

If I made you think that I've made less mistakes...
Or, that I think my image more important than your birthday...

If I've made myself too cool, in any way...
Because of the people who I've sat beside, in a shitty bar,
or diner...
Because of some aura or talent, or put~together image...
Did I make you think, that, because I had found a treasure,
that I had nothing to do with making...
but was better,
because, un~found...
that I was older?

If I've seemed the popular one,
Or thought that beauty was something that I owned...

I'm sorry.

Did I make it seem as though your hurt was less?

I'm sorry.

Did I make it seem as though your hurt was nothing?

She should think that you're a rock star.
Your wife, lost, was worth whatever grows inside my chest.
They knocked your door down, and, took that watch...
I didn't come out, when you offered.

I'm too busy.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry, as I rode my bike,
past the mission,
with the moon, on a kite string, close behind.
I'm sorry, as I watched Gabriel beat those limbless torso drums,
and, I bowed around your struggling,
with boxes of sound, and, wire.
I'm sorry, as I pushed, crowded, past you,
and, acted like I didn't see you.
I'm sorry, as I read your note, and, spit a comptemptive laugh.

I'm sorry.

I felt alone, inside my hurts,
like no~one spoke my language.

We're all in this, together, friend.

And, if I think that I have hurt, in some way that you have not...

I'm sorry...

Tonight, I weep,
out of pity,
for my sorry...

Currently listening :
The Listener
By Howe Gelb
Release date: 2003-03-18

Oh, yeah, I know all about that "wall of hate", he said...

Someone told me, this, tonight...

There are some women, who are like fine cars, he said.
Or like that crazy instrument, that you didn't think you could afford to buy, at the time...
Or like some women...

You touch them,
and, they're fire.
But, you walk away,
thinking you'll forget, or find another.

Man, that thing could race...
It was a Gibson... It would be worth a few thousand, now...
I could have lived with her, forever...
GodDamn, she made a new forever, every day...

They're like Heroin.
You know that you won't stop wanting them.
And, you know that when you leave...
But, you leave, anyway.

You come back, later, and, they're gone.

Then, he laughed.

Where's that lucky hat, you used to wear?
I always liked that hat...

Is It Math Or Is It Writing? Or Is It Nuts? Who Knows?

Here I am.
One guarantee.

I'll more than likely fuck it up.

Pity? No.

Second guarantee.

I'll more than likely try to get back up.

Third guarantee.

Only three people will understand this.

Four.

Currently listening :
Daisies of the Galaxy
By Eels
Release date: 14 March, 2000

Poor photo of new painting.

It's not finished, yet, and balefully "happy", but I kind of like it...
In ways.