"Kisses to you King Bird.
Let the wings spread.
Right then left.
Let the rain fall.
Let the heart melt against time.
You'll always be mine.."
At Bob's coffee
I vowed to never twitter The Lover, King Bird.
With a shivering cigarette in hand I proudly performed for the crossword cackle,
The knitting circle,
The ladies of the dawn.
"I solemnly swear to cease all twitting of The Lover"!
I proclaimed.
Ay Ay was received all around.
Ay Ay young blondie. "You hath made a wise and discerning decision" the ladies praised.
But was I ready?
Ready to cut off the light, rip the raw, pinch the pipe, withdraw, cold turkey, dry the jerky?
Was I ready to let it be, set him free
Counting
1
2
....3
Yes.
I'm ready. I made the vow. I never swear unless it's certain. For good, for keeps, rain or shine, till death do die.
So goodbye my beloved twitter sick tic.
I will not follow in the house
I will not follow out and about
I will not follow no way no how
I will not refresh or test
The twitter always get the best or better with every one hundred and forty
letters.
One hundred and forty ways to stay afloat and in the loop, get the scoop of his next big move.
Now you can understand,
The vow was most necessary. Most urgent and dire.
There would be no way out of the twitter hell fire.
Thieving and retrieving daily doses of a personally translated love prognosis
Is not
A way
To spend a life.
But it's so fucking tempting.
My blackberry just lays there, warm and vibrating. It wants to be twitted. It wants to be tapped and triggered. twittered. twittered. twittered.
As soon as I wake up it licks my face with a sloppy tongue and sniffs my neck and then...
"twitter...
the lover..
twitter...
the lover..
twitter the lover!!!!!"
"What the fuck?
You're talking?
Really?
You want me to twitter?
You want me to twitter?
But I haven't even...I haven't even brushed my teeth. I haven't even opened my eyes yet. I'm still fucking dreaming and you want me to twitter?
Alright. I'll do it" I'd say. I'm a slut. I'm a trick.
A twitter trick slut.
And it never, I mean never made me feel closer. Twittering The Lover is fucking crazy pants. Twittering makes you think you know what the twitteree really means.
I don't fucking know what he meant when he said...Well, I can't say what he said.
But I don't fucking know.
I don't know anything.
Humans are really fucking crazy people.
We do the most hilarious dance when it comes to romance.
Oh man,
Oh god,
Oh god.....I've done the lowest of the low.
I've twittered when it was not known.
I charted and checked.
I defined and mislead
Myself.
Twitter is a thief.
It is the black painted devil in disguise. It taunts me and ruffs me up real good and John Locks the shit out of me.
Smoke monster.
Twitter is the fucking smoke monster.
JACOB!!!!
I want to leave the Island.
This is the how and why of it.
The vow and cry of it.
The last of the twitters. The last of the chain link. The end of the dirt road I'm told. Here is where I truly set myself free from the twitter tree. Here is where I send King Bird to fly his sweet life
as
he
sees
fit.
Twitter this!
Without stalking or rocking the clouds.
I will let him be and I will be proud
again.
Of myself and what was.
So, I vowed.
I vowed for all that still may be.
I vowed for goodness and world peace.
I vowed for self love and self respect.
I vowed for the children.
I vowed for Jeff Garland who was looking on as I vowed.
I vowed for the future.
For Ono.
And for the King Bird.
Ah The King Bird, The Lover,
So lovely,
....Fly away..twitter your precious sweet wings. I shall twitter my way. You twitter yours. If we ever tweet in the middle it will be forever.
And if we never do?
Coo coo cachoo or tweet tweet or fuck fuck or
Cluck cluck.
But I will not steal away what is not mine.
I will not twitter that which is thine.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Yup
The lights turned on.
It'd been dark for a while.
Hearts part ways.
Lingering
Loveless
Periods
Ensue.
I indulged in such pitying.
I retraced my steps.
I darted the corners of the yellow room where we once slept.
I considered flying back to him.
Prompt a reunion.
I thought of the past.
I stumbled over bitter nights of tears and torment.
I mumbled over sweet moments we shared.
In the restaurant,
In the white bed,
At the hotel and in the kitchen.
He cooked for me once in the red kitchen.
Steak.
Salt.
Pepper.
Rocket.
Lemon.
Olive Oil.
Baby carrots.
Butter.
It was honest.
It was simple.
The best of the memories.
But after the sweet came the hysteria, and the sour.
The future weighed heavy.
"How will I love again?"
Typical question when love turns.
I cannot touch another" I'd say..
I cannot kiss another...I'd moan..
I cannot start again...I believed..
Why?
...because I held to the love. And did I ever.
Not a kiss for close to a year.
No hookup, no hiked skirt.
Lady in waiting.
Upholding
Ceremonious
My first true love.
The kind of love that makes you cry when making love.
Fuck it was good.
The kind of love that makes American Idol seem useful.
The last of my endeavoring search for a lifetime love.
Bawling as Casey covered "Jealous Guy" in the arms of The Little One.
Twittering.
Facebooking.
Watching.
Waiting.
FUCK!
Fuck ran through my mind for months. Fuck ran through my blood.
Get out.
Get the fuck out of me.
Release the dog. The demon. The devil. The ghost.
Candles lit.
Journals filled and filed.
Come or go.
Come or go.
Come or go!!!!
Mayhem.
So Why?
Why hold to love?
Love ended!
Because. Because. Because.
But because never changes the story.
He changed his mind.
Decidedly. Indifferently. Quickly.
"I'm exhausted" he explained.
"I need rest" he purred.
"Why?" I squealed.
"Why?" I held to with a hurricane of hope.
"Because" he sighed.
"Don't torture yourself" he preached.
Then why did I?
Mental lust.
Physical fantasy.
Memory psychosis.
His soulfulness.
My regret.
His tenderness.
My desire.
His fantasies.
My lesson.
Deep, honest, intimate, absolute and true
Love.
And...
Fear.
Blinding Fear.
Fucking useless, joyless, fear.
Because it wasn't "yup".
It was airplane. Skype and the like. High. Low.
Salvation. Levitation. Co creation. Designation.
I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.
I need you. I need you. I need you.
Go away. Go away. Go away.
No, come back.
True and false. Premature. Overdone. Mismatched. Perfect fit. Inevitable. Doomed.
Drug. Heroine. White Bread. Cocaine. Desperate. Stuffing. Sugar. Painted. Raging. Wanting. Lust. Suck. Heavy.
Performance Art.
On both sides.
On both ends.
Mutually....
But, too little too late.
Mules are stubborn, swiftly chilled. Twins are impossible, fantastically insane.
Mules decide and reside. Twins float and follow.
I thought to be his wife.
That's why.
That's the fucking why.
I thought I was done. I thought I was anointed, crowned, cooked, feathered, fitted, admitted. Yessed, blessed, respected, elected mother fuckin' Queen Jane.
Oh dear me.
Well then.
Let's try and do this again.
Wipe the why. Scratch the past.
Redo.
I have new
I have new love.
Let me rephrase.
I have knew knowledge. New pull. New mojo. New talent. New configure. New squeeze.
Slipped right in.
Blew like a breeze and most unexpectedly.
Mr. Brown.
There is something exquisite about the surprise.
Makes you catch your breath. Makes you warm inside. Makes you vibrate.
No quake. No shake.
Just a hummmmm.
I won't try to move on.
I won't figure on the how and then...
There he'll be.
The future.
The next evolution.
My desire re-emerged.
At the same lame hipster spot downtown.
Can't even pronounce the name it will be so god damn hip.
High heels and a fucking fantastic new do
I'll go out for a quick smoke.
The little one in toe and we'll be chatting.
Leaning against a rail.
Mr. Brown will arise from the bench and motion for his friend to do the same. "Would you like to sit?" We'll both say thank you.
He'll draw me in.
It won't be the kindness.
It won't be the facial hair.
A little the facial hair. Wink.
But really it will be the eyes. It's always the eyes.
Amazing this love stuff. It has absolutely nothing to do with anything but the eyes.
The eyes, the eyes, the eyes...
Soulful, deep, brown, endless.
His hair.
Thick chocolate, almost black.
A slight wave.
Standing strong.
Mr. Brown.
He won't look around at the crowd.
He'll look right at me.
Knowing.
Pull.
Mojo.
Yup.
That'll be it.
I've had yup before.
Only a handful of times. I can have it again.
It's not sexual. It's not a man woman thing. It's not Hollywood. It's not Legends of the Fucking Fall. There's no big bang.
It's Silent Night.
It's next generation. It's metaphysical celebration. It's tender. It's knowing. It's fucking lovely.
Lovely.
What a word.
Lovely means everything to me.
It's yup with a dress.
When I met Jhoon, it was hmmm. Yup.
Good stuff.
When I met The Baraness
It was motion.
Calm.
Joined forces amidst the insane. Yup.
When I met The Little One, we stood in a parking lot, lit a cigarette.
There was nodding.
See, knowing. Nothing too grand or excitable. Nothing too hot. Nothing to shiver about. Nothing to swoon over. Just a nod of the head and a "yup".
Yup intersections last for fucking ever.
Quick fix white bread, "you said you loved me" end in a tired blink.
Yups are brilliant. They are artistic. Photographic. Reality. Reality with icing. Not a fucking catastrophic black hole oozing disease and rejection. Yup doesn't slice or tease. Yup says "yes please".
Yes please, I will have yup tonight with a side of yup and yup on ice and for dessert two scoops of yup.
Thank you very fucking much.
I will not have Kaboom! I will not swoon, I will not rattle, I will not change my look, suck it in, giggle when I don't agree, act like the woman you want me to be.
It will be calm,
It will be quiet,
It will be comfortable.
The familiar.
Easy. Easy. Easy.
Does anyone know easy anymore?
I do.
It's new.
No more begging, we got that out of the way recently. No more needing, we shot needing in the fucking face. And no more crying, seriously? fuck crying.
It will be easy.
It will be easy and fantastic.
No strain.
No pain.
He'll get me. I'll get him. Done. Easy.
No push. No explanation. No work. No trying. No nerves. No dying.
No Dylan.
No Desire.
No Come On Baby Light My Fire.
Easy.
And it's easy to know when you feel good.
It's easy to know when you "feel" liked. When someone is listening. When someone is into it. It's so fucking easy. It's undeniable.
Eyes widen.
Response natural.
Laughter rhythmic.
He won't be bored or bothered.
I won't be twitching.
I'll talk music.
He'll listen.
He'll talk pilot.
I will laugh.
Hands moving about in arrows. Diagramming. Shooting through the air. Drawing plot.
Fun. Not "I've got to call my mom, I'm getting married".
Just fun. Cool. Chill. Easy. Yup...
And I have learned from this quiet time of retrospection, that great things come from hardship. Wonderful, classic, sweet and special things are born from the broth of burden.
I have learned about what it is that I do want from the pain of what I don't.
Rather than hear "I Love You", I'd love to be heard.
I'd swap earth shattering for solid ground. Knowing he wants to stick around.
I'd rather be liked than loved.
I'd rather be enjoyed than needed.
And I most definitely want the dance of Good than "I can't live with out you".
Round two.
Round two I'll be better.
Round two I'll be nice. I'll be pretty. I'll be so sweet.
I will not criticize.
I will not idolize.
I will not rebuke.
I will not be cruel.
It will be yup and a sigh and oh me oh my. It will not scare me or dare me to be anything
But me.
And at heart I am kind and giving.
I do love and love well. Just ask my girl friends. Double wink.
I'm not saying Mr. Brown and I won't have the highs.
I'm not saying I won't cry when we make love.
What I'm saying is yup.
And that's it. Nothing else.
Just a nod and a wink and a
Yup.
It'd been dark for a while.
Hearts part ways.
Lingering
Loveless
Periods
Ensue.
I indulged in such pitying.
I retraced my steps.
I darted the corners of the yellow room where we once slept.
I considered flying back to him.
Prompt a reunion.
I thought of the past.
I stumbled over bitter nights of tears and torment.
I mumbled over sweet moments we shared.
In the restaurant,
In the white bed,
At the hotel and in the kitchen.
He cooked for me once in the red kitchen.
Steak.
Salt.
Pepper.
Rocket.
Lemon.
Olive Oil.
Baby carrots.
Butter.
It was honest.
It was simple.
The best of the memories.
But after the sweet came the hysteria, and the sour.
The future weighed heavy.
"How will I love again?"
Typical question when love turns.
I cannot touch another" I'd say..
I cannot kiss another...I'd moan..
I cannot start again...I believed..
Why?
...because I held to the love. And did I ever.
Not a kiss for close to a year.
No hookup, no hiked skirt.
Lady in waiting.
Upholding
Ceremonious
My first true love.
The kind of love that makes you cry when making love.
Fuck it was good.
The kind of love that makes American Idol seem useful.
The last of my endeavoring search for a lifetime love.
Bawling as Casey covered "Jealous Guy" in the arms of The Little One.
Twittering.
Facebooking.
Watching.
Waiting.
FUCK!
Fuck ran through my mind for months. Fuck ran through my blood.
Get out.
Get the fuck out of me.
Release the dog. The demon. The devil. The ghost.
Candles lit.
Journals filled and filed.
Come or go.
Come or go.
Come or go!!!!
Mayhem.
So Why?
Why hold to love?
Love ended!
Because. Because. Because.
But because never changes the story.
He changed his mind.
Decidedly. Indifferently. Quickly.
"I'm exhausted" he explained.
"I need rest" he purred.
"Why?" I squealed.
"Why?" I held to with a hurricane of hope.
"Because" he sighed.
"Don't torture yourself" he preached.
Then why did I?
Mental lust.
Physical fantasy.
Memory psychosis.
His soulfulness.
My regret.
His tenderness.
My desire.
His fantasies.
My lesson.
Deep, honest, intimate, absolute and true
Love.
And...
Fear.
Blinding Fear.
Fucking useless, joyless, fear.
Because it wasn't "yup".
It was airplane. Skype and the like. High. Low.
Salvation. Levitation. Co creation. Designation.
I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.
I need you. I need you. I need you.
Go away. Go away. Go away.
No, come back.
True and false. Premature. Overdone. Mismatched. Perfect fit. Inevitable. Doomed.
Drug. Heroine. White Bread. Cocaine. Desperate. Stuffing. Sugar. Painted. Raging. Wanting. Lust. Suck. Heavy.
Performance Art.
On both sides.
On both ends.
Mutually....
But, too little too late.
Mules are stubborn, swiftly chilled. Twins are impossible, fantastically insane.
Mules decide and reside. Twins float and follow.
I thought to be his wife.
That's why.
That's the fucking why.
I thought I was done. I thought I was anointed, crowned, cooked, feathered, fitted, admitted. Yessed, blessed, respected, elected mother fuckin' Queen Jane.
Oh dear me.
Well then.
Let's try and do this again.
Wipe the why. Scratch the past.
Redo.
I have new
I have new love.
Let me rephrase.
I have knew knowledge. New pull. New mojo. New talent. New configure. New squeeze.
Slipped right in.
Blew like a breeze and most unexpectedly.
Mr. Brown.
There is something exquisite about the surprise.
Makes you catch your breath. Makes you warm inside. Makes you vibrate.
No quake. No shake.
Just a hummmmm.
I won't try to move on.
I won't figure on the how and then...
There he'll be.
The future.
The next evolution.
My desire re-emerged.
At the same lame hipster spot downtown.
Can't even pronounce the name it will be so god damn hip.
High heels and a fucking fantastic new do
I'll go out for a quick smoke.
The little one in toe and we'll be chatting.
Leaning against a rail.
Mr. Brown will arise from the bench and motion for his friend to do the same. "Would you like to sit?" We'll both say thank you.
He'll draw me in.
It won't be the kindness.
It won't be the facial hair.
A little the facial hair. Wink.
But really it will be the eyes. It's always the eyes.
Amazing this love stuff. It has absolutely nothing to do with anything but the eyes.
The eyes, the eyes, the eyes...
Soulful, deep, brown, endless.
His hair.
Thick chocolate, almost black.
A slight wave.
Standing strong.
Mr. Brown.
He won't look around at the crowd.
He'll look right at me.
Knowing.
Pull.
Mojo.
Yup.
That'll be it.
I've had yup before.
Only a handful of times. I can have it again.
It's not sexual. It's not a man woman thing. It's not Hollywood. It's not Legends of the Fucking Fall. There's no big bang.
It's Silent Night.
It's next generation. It's metaphysical celebration. It's tender. It's knowing. It's fucking lovely.
Lovely.
What a word.
Lovely means everything to me.
It's yup with a dress.
When I met Jhoon, it was hmmm. Yup.
Good stuff.
When I met The Baraness
It was motion.
Calm.
Joined forces amidst the insane. Yup.
When I met The Little One, we stood in a parking lot, lit a cigarette.
There was nodding.
See, knowing. Nothing too grand or excitable. Nothing too hot. Nothing to shiver about. Nothing to swoon over. Just a nod of the head and a "yup".
Yup intersections last for fucking ever.
Quick fix white bread, "you said you loved me" end in a tired blink.
Yups are brilliant. They are artistic. Photographic. Reality. Reality with icing. Not a fucking catastrophic black hole oozing disease and rejection. Yup doesn't slice or tease. Yup says "yes please".
Yes please, I will have yup tonight with a side of yup and yup on ice and for dessert two scoops of yup.
Thank you very fucking much.
I will not have Kaboom! I will not swoon, I will not rattle, I will not change my look, suck it in, giggle when I don't agree, act like the woman you want me to be.
It will be calm,
It will be quiet,
It will be comfortable.
The familiar.
Easy. Easy. Easy.
Does anyone know easy anymore?
I do.
It's new.
No more begging, we got that out of the way recently. No more needing, we shot needing in the fucking face. And no more crying, seriously? fuck crying.
It will be easy.
It will be easy and fantastic.
No strain.
No pain.
He'll get me. I'll get him. Done. Easy.
No push. No explanation. No work. No trying. No nerves. No dying.
No Dylan.
No Desire.
No Come On Baby Light My Fire.
Easy.
And it's easy to know when you feel good.
It's easy to know when you "feel" liked. When someone is listening. When someone is into it. It's so fucking easy. It's undeniable.
Eyes widen.
Response natural.
Laughter rhythmic.
He won't be bored or bothered.
I won't be twitching.
I'll talk music.
He'll listen.
He'll talk pilot.
I will laugh.
Hands moving about in arrows. Diagramming. Shooting through the air. Drawing plot.
Fun. Not "I've got to call my mom, I'm getting married".
Just fun. Cool. Chill. Easy. Yup...
And I have learned from this quiet time of retrospection, that great things come from hardship. Wonderful, classic, sweet and special things are born from the broth of burden.
I have learned about what it is that I do want from the pain of what I don't.
Rather than hear "I Love You", I'd love to be heard.
I'd swap earth shattering for solid ground. Knowing he wants to stick around.
I'd rather be liked than loved.
I'd rather be enjoyed than needed.
And I most definitely want the dance of Good than "I can't live with out you".
Round two.
Round two I'll be better.
Round two I'll be nice. I'll be pretty. I'll be so sweet.
I will not criticize.
I will not idolize.
I will not rebuke.
I will not be cruel.
It will be yup and a sigh and oh me oh my. It will not scare me or dare me to be anything
But me.
And at heart I am kind and giving.
I do love and love well. Just ask my girl friends. Double wink.
I'm not saying Mr. Brown and I won't have the highs.
I'm not saying I won't cry when we make love.
What I'm saying is yup.
And that's it. Nothing else.
Just a nod and a wink and a
Yup.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Don't Beg
No more I say! No more begging.
No more alms for the poor. No more!
I will not ask and plead in need for any person, place or thing.
I will not require your desire to comply with mine.
I will not run ragged in a zig zag, house cat frenzy.
I will not check my messages. I will not be avail. I will not play the part. I will not pull your feeble cart.
I will not stuff you up for a penny in the hand. I will not ride as you fly or grovel as you stand.
I will not take your dare.
I will not push.
I will not bend to your desperation. I will show no hesitation. I will not smile for your delight.
I will not tell you "you're the man"
I will not call you daddy.
I will not spend Sunday singing pop songs!
I will not write words I cannot feel.
I will not fake. I will not heel.
Do not ask me for my time.
Do not try to pull me in.
It will not work.
I will sip slowly. I will linger. I will rest. I will lavish myself. I will be luxury.
I will eat.
I will eat.
I will eat.
I will make love. I will have my cake. I will live the good life. I will entertain. I will be luck. I will beautify, solidify. I will grow wide with riches.
I will become. I will float lightly. I will step in time.
I can do anything.
I can have anything.
I can believe what I want.
I can erase.
I can rewrite.
Begging brings more begging and the like. It brings mania, catastrophic, insanity and sour. It is useless self indulgence. It is the lowest of the low. The pleasure of the powerless, the liquor to the lamb. False worshipers beg. Fear ridden clasp their hands together. The angry and in need prop themselves upon the likes of hysterical prayer. No need. No need. No need. Just lie down.
Don't do a thing. Don't move an inch. Don't write a word. Don't fixate, don't plan. Don't analyze. Don't figure.
Do nothing. Let 'em all run the rat race while we swing and watch the colors shift. Let 'em all burn and dizzy themselves with objectification. Let 'em all copy and compete with the begging false elite. Let them do as they will and as they surely will do, You and I will be eating pie on the coast of Malibu.
We will be in the sand and we will loiter. They will be sandwiched between Small cars and Escalades. We will rub oil and sleep. They will snarl and resent. We will be golden. They will be pale. We will be satisfied. They will fantasize. We will attract. They will repulse...most definitely.
Don't beg.
And when you don't....relief.
Feels so good doesn't it. Not that difficult. Not too complex. Not beyond possibility or imagination.
One tiny transition. One change in your life long disposition. One moment against the rest.
Trade the beg for the breath.
Don't ever beg.
Never.
No.
Don't.
No more alms for the poor. No more!
I will not ask and plead in need for any person, place or thing.
I will not require your desire to comply with mine.
I will not run ragged in a zig zag, house cat frenzy.
I will not check my messages. I will not be avail. I will not play the part. I will not pull your feeble cart.
I will not stuff you up for a penny in the hand. I will not ride as you fly or grovel as you stand.
I will not take your dare.
I will not push.
I will not bend to your desperation. I will show no hesitation. I will not smile for your delight.
I will not tell you "you're the man"
I will not call you daddy.
I will not spend Sunday singing pop songs!
I will not write words I cannot feel.
I will not fake. I will not heel.
Do not ask me for my time.
Do not try to pull me in.
It will not work.
I will sip slowly. I will linger. I will rest. I will lavish myself. I will be luxury.
I will eat.
I will eat.
I will eat.
I will make love. I will have my cake. I will live the good life. I will entertain. I will be luck. I will beautify, solidify. I will grow wide with riches.
I will become. I will float lightly. I will step in time.
I can do anything.
I can have anything.
I can believe what I want.
I can erase.
I can rewrite.
Begging brings more begging and the like. It brings mania, catastrophic, insanity and sour. It is useless self indulgence. It is the lowest of the low. The pleasure of the powerless, the liquor to the lamb. False worshipers beg. Fear ridden clasp their hands together. The angry and in need prop themselves upon the likes of hysterical prayer. No need. No need. No need. Just lie down.
Don't do a thing. Don't move an inch. Don't write a word. Don't fixate, don't plan. Don't analyze. Don't figure.
Do nothing. Let 'em all run the rat race while we swing and watch the colors shift. Let 'em all burn and dizzy themselves with objectification. Let 'em all copy and compete with the begging false elite. Let them do as they will and as they surely will do, You and I will be eating pie on the coast of Malibu.
We will be in the sand and we will loiter. They will be sandwiched between Small cars and Escalades. We will rub oil and sleep. They will snarl and resent. We will be golden. They will be pale. We will be satisfied. They will fantasize. We will attract. They will repulse...most definitely.
Don't beg.
And when you don't....relief.
Feels so good doesn't it. Not that difficult. Not too complex. Not beyond possibility or imagination.
One tiny transition. One change in your life long disposition. One moment against the rest.
Trade the beg for the breath.
Don't ever beg.
Never.
No.
Don't.
Monday, April 5, 2010
The Dress
I wore the very prettiest little dress today. It's the kind of dress that saves lives. It's a superwoman dress. A Santa frock. A gift giving no shit taking, I'm gonna change your world with one look kind of dress. She's a little piece of heaven this thing...and she knows it.
I wore this dress because it's time. Time to go out. Time to give it back, let it roam, take on the sluts and the prudes, the bums and the mustache wearing, guitar playing mirror men. No more jeans and sheets. Not for me anymore. No more in house, lock down, yawn and frown. I'm done healing and revealing. I'm ready for a fight. I'm ready to wet my back and watch the hair curl again. I've played "Simple Twist of Fate" too many times. I can't look at another frying pan. I don't need more sleep. Keep your adavan. I don't want the warm tea and the soothing sounds of mother nature's ocean. I want the heels. I want the really high heels. The trip on a sprinkler, twist your ankle, break your neck, kind of heels.
I'm wearing the dress for love. For white bread. For the spring dream and peanut butter ice cream. Little tots and big tot. Old love is not gone. It is not dead in the water. But, past is past and I'm not pissed. Quite contrarily, I'm smitten. White bread gone bad makes the very best memory for fairer fare. Old love never leaves anyhow. It always floats around. Should it make a return, I shall be in my dress and I'll say "there you are. bout time you came back. looks like you're a lil' late though...no mind, we'll start a new love, love" The dress is for old sayings and sighs, old lessons learned and very old hearts broken. The dress is for new love, new life, graceful exits and enchanted hellos.
Good morning sunshine, I'm pretty in chintz. Hello red.
Goodbye gray American Apparel downer, though you've always been hot, I'm no hipster. Screw the skinny jean and I'm so mean, look at me looking like I'm not looking at you scene. Who needs the weeds of woe. You're not all that Joe. Pull back your top hat and let loose for winks. I'm back in the tumble. I lost myself for a thirty year rumble and June is singing come the 21st. I'm throwing a tea party and no cool allowed. Uncool Bien Venue! Bring your drink of desire and I'll conspire to roll out the new dress and all that plaid.
Let's not be perfect. Let's slip up. Let's breathe. Let it hang. Let it flower a little. There's nothing wrong with edge. Nothing wrong at all. I love the lines but I'm two sided and a little bit divided. Sometimes quakes crack your egg open and that's when you have to spread. Blur the bold and get a little pretty.
I am pretty today. Oh so pretty. I looked like a fucking barbie. In the prettiest little dress in town, I roamed the Trader Joe's isles. You could smell the joy from the parking lot. No one missed me. Not a basket untouched. Brilliant. Blossoming. Beautiful. The avocados looked wonderful. So did I. I was Something to look at. Something to muse towards. I was a yellow brick road incarnate. I am lady in the sky.
The dress was darling. She did just fine. Better than fine. She changed the whole of me.
I wore this dress because it's time. Time to go out. Time to give it back, let it roam, take on the sluts and the prudes, the bums and the mustache wearing, guitar playing mirror men. No more jeans and sheets. Not for me anymore. No more in house, lock down, yawn and frown. I'm done healing and revealing. I'm ready for a fight. I'm ready to wet my back and watch the hair curl again. I've played "Simple Twist of Fate" too many times. I can't look at another frying pan. I don't need more sleep. Keep your adavan. I don't want the warm tea and the soothing sounds of mother nature's ocean. I want the heels. I want the really high heels. The trip on a sprinkler, twist your ankle, break your neck, kind of heels.
I'm wearing the dress for love. For white bread. For the spring dream and peanut butter ice cream. Little tots and big tot. Old love is not gone. It is not dead in the water. But, past is past and I'm not pissed. Quite contrarily, I'm smitten. White bread gone bad makes the very best memory for fairer fare. Old love never leaves anyhow. It always floats around. Should it make a return, I shall be in my dress and I'll say "there you are. bout time you came back. looks like you're a lil' late though...no mind, we'll start a new love, love" The dress is for old sayings and sighs, old lessons learned and very old hearts broken. The dress is for new love, new life, graceful exits and enchanted hellos.
Good morning sunshine, I'm pretty in chintz. Hello red.
Goodbye gray American Apparel downer, though you've always been hot, I'm no hipster. Screw the skinny jean and I'm so mean, look at me looking like I'm not looking at you scene. Who needs the weeds of woe. You're not all that Joe. Pull back your top hat and let loose for winks. I'm back in the tumble. I lost myself for a thirty year rumble and June is singing come the 21st. I'm throwing a tea party and no cool allowed. Uncool Bien Venue! Bring your drink of desire and I'll conspire to roll out the new dress and all that plaid.
Let's not be perfect. Let's slip up. Let's breathe. Let it hang. Let it flower a little. There's nothing wrong with edge. Nothing wrong at all. I love the lines but I'm two sided and a little bit divided. Sometimes quakes crack your egg open and that's when you have to spread. Blur the bold and get a little pretty.
I am pretty today. Oh so pretty. I looked like a fucking barbie. In the prettiest little dress in town, I roamed the Trader Joe's isles. You could smell the joy from the parking lot. No one missed me. Not a basket untouched. Brilliant. Blossoming. Beautiful. The avocados looked wonderful. So did I. I was Something to look at. Something to muse towards. I was a yellow brick road incarnate. I am lady in the sky.
The dress was darling. She did just fine. Better than fine. She changed the whole of me.
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