Can I put my feet out while it’s moving? (As if the pilot in the film Contact, with J. Foster)
You know how it is: sh*t moving all over, out of focus, holding the right-eye in desparation to be on-target, without making the eyes pop-out, or everything– at least– is blurred, and not as I wish.

I guess it’s just auto-pilot so much of the time, and I knew I was f*cking-up just now, but– rather than delay the entire text, I figured it would really cave-in, and this bastard would wake. It’s too f*ckin’ bright out. { … I remember Martha: not as sweet, but breaks out. Don’t know– some kind of trouble, I guess. F*ckin’ sleep, all f*ckin’ day too. f*ck }

Last month, it was monthly. This month, it’s going to be two-weeks (now, walkin-shoes worn thin, as some memory of Lofstead)

I hope you didn’t blow out that entire chandelier of lifts just now.

What’s hot: stop it!

Of Running Sheep

These aren’t electric

Uneven, steady,
crooked and kind, this.
Freud stoop’d in, blurry-eyed
in time, an infant
sever, ending Never
in beginning
we be damned
echo voices
come behind
the dampening and flutter
quarrels, logo
fell on icey
hell rise on
intangible
what i write
about it thirsty
great big chocolate
nail the vein
inner fluffer
ever present,
rings out reason:
thinnest line.

(Some of these are set to music, as was the aforementioned.)

smear
I feel bad about the fact that I can get some scibble-paper.
A little bit would be okay, and all i need a few lines–
but the fear of losing them / having the :bugged” in some way–
and then, on again to the next thing,
never having finished; not even to think of anything grand coming of Harold.
But that’s not it.
or Is it?

C’omon Sarah, I’ve got other things I need ‘be doing.
Don’t have all this time to jse in, how you say?:____Fe doa.

Goddamn distinguishing

between “default”, and that which is “supposed to be”.
Either, in theory is excpted to work, but of the tree
and then I preview it in my mind–
this whole “Landscape” orientation of images–
like a storyboard– and different characters interact, etc .

I’m going to charge you a “3″, if NoviceNotes doesn’t get it together soon–
you’re getting a “C”.
no, i understand– it’s all reative to the project

[damn having-to-back-track–
again–
lost track…
where was I ?
FUCK!]

It feels good though–
i mean– the only good thing about it,
is that it feels good– like sleeping.
It’s refreshing. and when it’s finally over,
and i’ve gained, and lost so many thoughts on stuff,
non-stuff- virtual nothingness, i —
though longing-for, and therefore, oft’imes
(panzy’s not coming!) “eh… don’t wory abotu him.
we’ll get to him later. “.

Damnit damn opening the eyes. it’s so much easier with them closesed.
opening the eyes is sure to bring on confusion,
and the throbbin, dull, but ominous pain of forcing itself in,
gaining control, as I proportionally, lose my own.
and that is so very disheartening- so frustrating– so maddening.
should I continue?
what point?
is there pleasure in it? is there purpose; a practical function? that sucks.

once in a while,
a really great idea comes to mind– but it’s always lost.
and what you, Head ?
through past script queries– accessibility…
oh– shit, and then, there’s the damn “Upstairs”
(eyes open now) noise [i.e. Upstairs-Noise]
for all automatic complete-letion of that-houghts / variables —
sometimes good– more often bad– and would me l–
temploate– very important– the proper template,
so much can be affect… ban the un-trustworthy, and make it into a baloon,
now it up, and mail it to the Sun.

no .
all too much time-consuming–
too much for time
(i would NEVER believe her. never. “never trust a junkie”, and she’s just the same…)
i’ll have to try it somewhere-else. the Valkyries
(Lord of the Val… shit… another interjection. damnit. trying to match words in my head.)
random (i think), and unrelated to this….

look– she’s dying. she needs some sleep!. she’s not right.
version 8. not right. needing sleep. — oh yeah, taking One dssssss–
interesting: I spoke to my wallet and, ba… too far gone.
save file, or lose it.
bye bye.

Pure lies spun
the Dark One.
The purer did lay.
Laid, for fun, feigned that femme
‘fore future yon ye flowering, flushed
As this flies,
lingering load, blue
‘fore that blew, had blown so many
yet none so well,
N’er could I, even lusting,
yearned as I before her precious mouth:
femme lips
mowed lust.

Luscious lips most believed;
most deceived

lusting for love, and so it did die.

Sadly, not ‘ware,
When that died for naught,
‘Deed yon, worn true, to be not through
yet lives, not lost; flung.

For that flight, none did she bleed,
but for an encore,
pitiful esteem,
By applause, sustaining.

Stage bound, sustained
Bound to stage
Maintains famed petty pace
pretty pets
so caged, painting face.

Would that, I yea, but for all of Hades
Confounded thought– that whence evil
Serpentine did flow, before her blood
Not mine only, but two wounded.
Wicked, this way and that
She comes,
And came wet, so whetted this palette too much,
And, wet, seems I did not scar, callus:

Fortune by circumstance
turn unfortunate craft:
Balanced, congruent, take ’bout
one-eighty degrees
not natural intimation
so designed, so to break.

First sighted
twenty and too, fabricate,
dramatic bitches,
so-called family
one of three Wicked Witches

Foresight too poor
for sirens, fat-feasted
Whip smart; taste pure
neither numbered, one more
in Thespian House.

Aimless for lease:
read ‘tween the lines
How is it, as washed, cut and dried
once innocent mind, naive
matriculated to Master
brewed not to believe.

Destined encounter,
counter elements, not we,
changeling cunt.

Death’s fortune: truth.
Far beyond cast, and crew
Reality broadcast, and laughable too
,
How learned, became malice
one wonders of you

Dare I this day feel,
yet some hunger, by wicked passion whetted:
to slide, i’d slip
And slip
As many as before, i beckon
recklessly as you,
this reckless unto thee.

The Male animal slobbers
sink teeth not to sore,
made n’er lullaby
as sweet as She roar.
She animal drips
bawling sweet melody:
“how ’bout this?” once more!

Confessed, each
unto each of less percent
valued number
recall, man; recall woman
my woman, her man

Kept dual purpose, Faculty
immediately less
Lady lay, dissonant
Truth from that channel

Slither, shed skin,
Amongst pets still sicken,
Find then, yet well hidden
his marionette group
trained well not to vomit.

Presiding Spanner
Power wielding shock
N’er could dote thee again,
come knocking many
As jerked ‘way by too much
precipitation,
but breathless by wonder
toward your destination.

What else?
I wax sardonic.
Giggle at what expense;
Intersect harmonic
pleasant poppies, past-tense
undone
and borne to ancient tea:
wrap it up, as Nothing’s Shocking.

Refined Ophelia
serendipity
painless love
so sweetly grows
nothing as bitter;
the user knows
Ophelia eats.

Exit stage west
circle repeats
great will in suffering
end implore
maintenance disease
futility ingested
outside that door
doctor please
euthanize this
ever still
evermore.

Lower there, in the valley–
where all this, a fantasy
So much, soft and lovely,
but loathing the thought;
and loathed too, said she,
never believer.

Fool, so fine,
fine thing, so alive,
sensibility of sight, a fine piece of ass
yet n’er since a night.

Suffering insensible,
suffering is sense, and sense I
must suffer,
for I taste thee at night–
true, only this
if time renders right.

Tear out those which make ye
so clingy to sin,
or Broadway beneath
bitch.

Into the mirror, harken:
we fuck.
Fantastically, filthy, merged, single willed
we weightless,
your session,
my cloud blew
cocaine, lies too
as ugly, sin turned you
Oblivious, one powder-puff
One powder blurred.

From you, femme, reach Fin now:
In that Death,
Cleansed; Freedom

©2009 S,J

{Draft, req editing}

I’M ON THE SHELF:
‘Cause it SEEMS to help
If I can Keep a little bit o’ DISEASE
– Shannon Hoone