| Subject: My old stuff |
Author:
Holly
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Date Posted: 14:07:09 03/04/01 Sun
Happy New Century! (profanity warning)
Thursday, 30-Dec-99 11:22:27
171.220.127.29 writes:
Moving on.
Getting out.
Denial.
Anger.
Bargaining.
What the psychobabblists
Babble about.
Too tired to go back.
Too fried to go on.
Close my eyes,
soon, you'll be gone.
Poof.
That's all.
That's that.
That's it.
Finished.
Over.
Done.
I quit.
Piss off.
Get out.
f--- YOU YOU SHIT!
Oh, yeah.
And don't forget your shit.
No. Wait.
Don't go.
I'm sorry.
I am.
No. Please.
I'll try.
Don't leave me.
Damn.
Then, fine.
You're right.
You're always right.
I don't know why I bother to fight.
So go.
I'll yell.
I'll beg.
Deny.
But f--- you if I ever cry.
Holly
____________
pms poem
Monday, 31-Jan-00 11:10:09
152.204.30.55 writes:
Time is not on my side.
The first one ran.
The second one lied.
And I wake up here
all alone.
Chance to change things
fully blown.
Time a ticking,
ticking tick,
a sucking, feeding,
bloating prick
full with my dreams,
my secret shit.
It's mine to waste, now.
Isn't it?
Holly
____________
Lists
Tuesday, 29-Feb-00 21:43:09
152.163.207.68 writes:
Lists.
Lists.
Those goshdarned lists.
I'm always making fucking lists.
And if I ever finish one,
Check off all the chores I've done,
I'll have to make another one.
I'm always making fucking lists.
Laundry
Buy detergent
Clip cats' nails
Call Trish re haircut
Buy shampoo
Clean bathroom
Garbage out
Buy garbage bags
Talk to neighbor re dog poop - NO
clean up dog poop by garbage can
Call work.
Holly
____________
Scorched Earth (a vignette)
Friday, 10-Mar-00 13:38:17
171.215.242.204 writes:
You should have seen the look on that old bag's face as I stomped down the sidewalk. She did me a favor. I didn't
know, until her saggy old jaw hit the pavement, that I was saying it out loud. "Evil. Evil. Evil. Fuck you. Fuck you.
Fuck you."
Free-floating rage has been a problem of late. Very late. Until today, I'd snatch it from the air and bury it deep in my
brain. Like a pickaxe. Or turn my back on it. La la la la. I can't see you.
Fuck that. Too old for that shit. As of today, anyway.
Anyway.
Like I care what some shit-eating old bat thinks of me. Like I care what anyone in this tired old town thinks of me.
The crackheads and smackheads and poseur intelligentsia on your so-called scene. The townies wearing their sweats
to buy beer and smokes at the liquor store. That wrinkled guy in the red cap who throws his nip bottles over the
neighbor's back fence. Your arm candy former ego-fling who hates me, envies me of all people, because you left her
and asked me to take you back.
She's a stupid, stupid girl. Ah, but at least she's young enough to be dumb and pretty at the same time.
Dumb is ugly on a grown woman.
Not what you expected, is it? Wish I could say I was sorry, but I'm not. As of today, I'm not sorry about anything.
Before today, the worst thing I'd done was fail to return a few library books. Not because I wanted to steal them, but
because I was too tired to return them.
That's all over now. Today, I may be a lot of things, but tired isn't one of them. Angry, homicidal, suicidal,
foul-mouthed, enlightened, enraged, engaged, and alive, but never too tired again. I got plenty of fuel for this next part
of the trip. And I have ignition. Scorched earth, baby. That's what you're coming home to tonight.
If you've got the guts.
copyright 2000 Leslie Gildart
__________________________
Widow's Walk
Saturday, 11-Mar-00 23:07:07
152.168.144.27 writes:
Cool sleek trees
reach peacefully
through smokey haze
and bitter Lenten days.
Hope coiled neat,
fat brown buds
slick with sleet.
Lack of you
doesn't cost me sleep.
It's the mere mild shocks
from where I keep
your pillow. Close to me.
Exactly where you
chose to be.
I wake
and walk a widow's walk,
curl on the couch,
and wait to talk
about when you'll
be home to me.
Watch the sleet,
the trees,
tv....
Holly
____________
I think there's a country song in here (and I know there's a verse for Tf)
Tuesday, 28-Mar-00 00:06:24
152.204.96.43 writes:
If He called You "Baby"
You can hope he'll forget me.
You can help him to cope.
You can think you're forever.
Guess there's no harm in hope.
You're a doll. You're a kewpie.
You're a notch in a tree.
And if he calls you "Baby,"
he's been thinking of me.
I'm the one who released him,
cuz he needed to roam,
and you know in your heart
someday he's coming home.
He might seem pretty loose,
but he'll never be free,
cuz when he calls you "Baby,"
he's still thinking of me.
chorus
If he called you "Baby," he was thinking of me,
because, Babe, his Baby's something you'll never be.
He can call you his sunshine, his earth, moon, and sea.
But if he called you "Baby," he was thinking of me.
warning - grudge verse
You presented an opening,
a gash in our time.
You slipped through the slit,
tried to snatch what is mine.
The hole in his heart, Dear,
you'll never sklitch through.
Cuz when he calls you "Baby,"
he ain't thinking of you.
chorus
When he wakes in the morning,
and the sun's on your face,
I'm the pain in his heart
that he'll try to erase
with the smell of your body
and the feel of your hair.
When he says, "Morning, Baby,"
you'll know I'm still there.
chorus - out
Holly
____________
04132000
Thursday, 13-Apr-00 14:51:09
152.163.213.48 writes:
04132000
9 a.m.
Wake up.
Sing Happy Birthday to Me into my own voicemail.
Add verse about being f---ing 38.
Can only think of "weight"
to rhyme with 38.
Think rhyme sucks.
Start journaling.
10 a.m.
Finish journaling and this week's chapter
of The Artist's Way.
Not so good today.
The exercises are facile, new age bullshit.
And I don't care if I stay blocked forever,
I am NOT taking my inner child
on a playdate.
XH1 awakes, tells me I'm beautiful,
for an old bag.
Bag some of this, Baby.
UPS comes with jerky from Mom,
a Tae Bo tape from Amazon.com.
Suggested by a friend
for free-floating rage
much healthier, she says,
than taking a plastic snowshovel
to a car I need.
I guess, but the only damage
was done to the shovel,
and that cost less than the tape.
And I am 38. Then again,
I might care less if my ass
felt more like 19.
11 a.m.
Open the tape.
Head out back for coffee and cigarettes.
Should quit both
or at least one or the other.
Consider doing an Artist Way task.
Put book on table.
Look at the tape.
Decide, yes, I will do this.
Back inside.
Open jerky.
Eat jerky and stare at tape.
It doesn't say how long it is.
I hate open-ended commitments.
Finish jerky.
Noon
Put tape in VCR.
Leer at instructor dude's body.
Try to follow instructions.
Mix up right and left sides.
Rewind tape.
Start over.
Leer at instructor dude's body.
Manage to remember which left is left,
which right is right.
Start to breathe.
Start to sweat.
Start to understand combinations.
Start to have fun.
How long is this tape going to take?
12:33 p.m.
Stop tape.
Turn to MTV.
Practice combinations.
Construct imaginary opponent (Sigourney Weaver).
Practice combinations on Sigourney Weaver.
Pretend I'm a young muscle girl from the video.
Pretend I can see instruction dude's butt.
Forget combinations.
Flail wildly about the room until imaginary opponent (Sigourney Weaver) kicks my ass
and sits on me.
Try to catch breath.
Head out back.
Drink Diet Coke.
Smoke two cigarettes.
----
Holly (inspired by Isabel and others)
___________
Garden Gate
Friday, 21-Apr-00 12:56:19
152.204.23.164 writes:
I wait and wait and wait and wait
Outside the ragged garden gate
As roses bud and bloom and die,
And bees and hummingbirds buzz by.
I peek through battered wooden fence
Betrayed of every confidence
and wait and wait and wait for you.
There's not much else for me to do.
Not like I have plans to own
Or mind that I am here alone
As passersby try not to stare
And scurry off to go somewhere.
I have no urgent needs to meet.
I kind of like this quiet street.
There's nowhere that I have to be.
I just wish you'd remembered me.
__________
Derailed
Wednesday, 15-Mar-00 10:49:49
152.204.95.232 writes:
I clatter down the crooked tracks
of rage and pain and shame attacks.
My brain keeps slipping through the cracks
between the ties that click and clack
under the wheels of doubt and dream,
and this old engine's out of steam.
Holly
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