Idlewild
Some word bellows through this open season. The air is blighted crisp clear with mothers and fathers and intricate events, and among all this, you sit there
And I have a camera, terrified of these blue eyes and the reality shuttled forth from them whenever you look at me. Legs are hung like a spider, all awkward and feigning honesty. They, and the fake sun, in the fake dusk light, mean nothing to me when eyes match the blue of your hat and I am completely terrified, nervous over extraneous circumstances.
It builds like the small shudder of infatuation, and breaches out. Throttling through my limbs and I am again ashamed. I cannot live up to my name
Or your name for me.
I tightened this scarf around my neck and played like a kid, and propped my silly head upon my neck but I am not so liberated as I come across. The ridiculousness of my situation is quite evident. You come and sit on the steps and they aren’t forgiving steps, after following me down through a bit of the town as I looked up and cried beauty. The beauty is there yet hidden between the soft and sorry roots of history. I act like a big girl but still its still a play and I am a grand debutant, making my entrance and shoving some heavy curtain away, feeling ugly all the while, but smiling while the others cheer and blessing with small kisses their ignorance. It’s a ball and I am utterly shoved against the wall. It’s a ball and nothing can ever mean as much as we used to think.
Your eyes match your hat and we are blinking radiant like the last lights of the planets, which we never see, choosing to live in the city. I wanted to speak with every person we came across, in slow and soft and equally persistent language. I wanted to be alright.
Oh baby they say, go back to school, and we cry in remonstrance that, yes, we have, we have gone back there already. And then they ask, well what are you doing here? We don’t know. And then we feel sheepish and hide in our coats and wait till we’ve been alone enough to feign joy again.
Incandescent is the porch and the memory that seeps through my sorry dreams and my thoughts concerning the steps outside the lawyers’ office. Legs pinned to the wall, and face pulled back till there’s nothing but the eyes. My limbs are still. This is the place between horror and affection. I sink with the thought of not meaning anything to anything else and strain upwards towards the trees. I was hungry and the prophet fed me.
And I have a camera, terrified of these blue eyes and the reality shuttled forth from them whenever you look at me. Legs are hung like a spider, all awkward and feigning honesty. They, and the fake sun, in the fake dusk light, mean nothing to me when eyes match the blue of your hat and I am completely terrified, nervous over extraneous circumstances.
It builds like the small shudder of infatuation, and breaches out. Throttling through my limbs and I am again ashamed. I cannot live up to my name
Or your name for me.
I tightened this scarf around my neck and played like a kid, and propped my silly head upon my neck but I am not so liberated as I come across. The ridiculousness of my situation is quite evident. You come and sit on the steps and they aren’t forgiving steps, after following me down through a bit of the town as I looked up and cried beauty. The beauty is there yet hidden between the soft and sorry roots of history. I act like a big girl but still its still a play and I am a grand debutant, making my entrance and shoving some heavy curtain away, feeling ugly all the while, but smiling while the others cheer and blessing with small kisses their ignorance. It’s a ball and I am utterly shoved against the wall. It’s a ball and nothing can ever mean as much as we used to think.
Your eyes match your hat and we are blinking radiant like the last lights of the planets, which we never see, choosing to live in the city. I wanted to speak with every person we came across, in slow and soft and equally persistent language. I wanted to be alright.
Oh baby they say, go back to school, and we cry in remonstrance that, yes, we have, we have gone back there already. And then they ask, well what are you doing here? We don’t know. And then we feel sheepish and hide in our coats and wait till we’ve been alone enough to feign joy again.
Incandescent is the porch and the memory that seeps through my sorry dreams and my thoughts concerning the steps outside the lawyers’ office. Legs pinned to the wall, and face pulled back till there’s nothing but the eyes. My limbs are still. This is the place between horror and affection. I sink with the thought of not meaning anything to anything else and strain upwards towards the trees. I was hungry and the prophet fed me.
posted by emit's calendar at 8:11 PM
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