i could swim but i feel i haven't the energy to keep myself afloat. i feel heavier, less buoyant than usual, like a woodcutter had cut open my stomach, released whatever was imprisoned there, and replaced it with stones. gilded, like my pose could freeze at any moment, directed by a perceptive passer-by, who could then take me home and place me appropriately in some corner. my eyes, my mind, would still ingest; dishonest, yet still enviable, people would tell me their secrets without saying a thing to me. no one would break the spell, or even imagine there was one. my arms would fall off, as is the fashion with statues, then, when i finally died, perhaps crushed to pieces by an innocuous garbage dump machine, simultaneously releasing and killing me, they would multiply. dozens of plump, shapely arms, and i would be so soft as to absorb anyone who touched me. but i would be blind. the most sensuous of the senses, the most intense, would then be nothing to me as sight is nothing to me now. i would forget colour, and philosophise to replace what had been lost. children would study me in school a thousand years later, landmarks, and perhaps a new species of moth, would be named after me. people who had never read my poetry beyond a cursory glance would mention it in passing anyway. everything i would think would be some kind of regret, until those greater than i got entirely sick of me, and reincarnated me into someone either very fortunate, very fervid, or very resilient. i would come back cleansed, metaphorically pink-cheeked and smiling; radiating. i would then be promoted to one of those previously greater than i, to decide the fate of those now lesser than i. once i, and those lesser than i, had learned all we possibly could, and forgotten most of it, we would simultaneously diffuse, evolve into a whirlwind of pinprick lights, and become a newborn universe, full of as much potential to complete the cycle as the last.

nothing bothers me
i rip-roar around corners
collide with things four feet away

i've failed two assignments
(one by 0.15 of a mark. HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?!)
& aced the rest,
disturbed genius that i am

my eyes are behind me
stagnant in the past
colliding with things four evers in the future

my next book shall be entitled
"bus stop poetry"

i've ladiebugg nails

I completely flaked on my major poetry analysis essay. I thought it was due on November 8th. it was due on November 1st. I realised today, November 6th, when I sat down to start it.
now I'm not going to do it at all. it was worth 40%.

I need to commit myself.

in other news, my body hair is sentient.

Kubla Khan, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge - the first example of the drug addict as poet.
It came quickly, spontaneously, from a dream. The epitome of Romanticism!
He was interrupted and couldn't ever get it back; it remains unfinished.
Mindset: I might one day be able to finish.. but can't! won't!
The mind is not a pool of water, to settle back to its mirror image after the ripples have faded. It moves on.

The Technical
The rhyme scheme is seemingly all over the place, yet quite strong despite its irregularity. But not always! sometimes quite weak.. why? There is always a why regarding the technical aspects of poetry.
i.e: eye-rhymes. looks like a rhyme but doesn't actually rhyme, doesn't work: Khan/ran, enchanted/haunted, waves/eaves. It gives a sense of interrupted/thwarted continuity/flow - unsettled. Obstructed, intermittant motion, very dream!like: sometimes very clear, sometimes obscure. This is a dreamlike poem about a dream.

He used rhyme to pull sentences together, to make sure the sentences stay sentences. To make sentences! Chunks of poetry. seems unruly but is very carefully contructed. Not as spontaneous as first thought, not a random outpouring. Each stanza is like a paragraph in an essay - seperate topics, connected by first and last sentences. This is why the stanzas are all different lengths, they're purposefully split into paragraphs, each with a different topic.

The rhythm is rhyme's lover! also very strong yet intermittant, strengthening the whole stupid dream er.. theory. i.e:

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.

The Subject
Enough about the technical. The topics! of those essay-like paragraphs. The first two (stanzas) describe a bizarre physical scene, very visual.
first: a garden surrounded by walls. land/ground, horizontal - landscape, practically a painting. unnatural, civilized, calm. still. dead.
second: a river! down into a cave. alive/breathing, vertical - funnels down to a climax. savage, natural. vitality!

So. we go from the quiet, serene, tended garden of the emporer to the savage, violent caves. A world of beautiful but stagnant order to a world of vitality, but violence. From stillness to movement. Unnatural to natural. Order to chaos.

The river. wow! goes down so fast, violently churning, that it throws up rocks as though they were chaff! It tumbles down to the sea - to death. Just stops and loses its life, its identity.

The garden: Peace, a sanctuary.
The river: "Ancestral voices prophesying war!"

Why all the oppositions?
- war/peace
- order/chaos
- life/death

Why, that is life! Full of opposing forces.
yin/yang, good/bad, ups/downs
the ego and the id! destructive and violent, but also creative. we present an ordered, peaceful outer, while we have tumultuous inners.

The third stanza is different, takes a turn. Without it, the poem would have been fine, good. but with it!

The damsel with her dulcimer is obviously a muse, inspiration.
If I could be like her, he says, if I could revive within me the qualities of her song, it would make me so happy that I'd build that dome in air! I would do it! And you would SEE it, it would be REAL. If I could have her genius, I could build a castle in air that everybody could see.
Everyone would then say Beware! He has the power to make us see his very dreams. Don't even look at him, he is too powerful. A god.

It doesn't seem a fragment at all, doesn't seem unfinished. A very vague but powerful vision of balance/sanity. I love it, love it.

The Poem
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

If you like either Coleridge or Wordsworth and haven't seen "Pandaemonium," I highly recommend it.

spent the day procrastinating,
rather than studying.

i can be as boring as the best of you.
my mind is split a million ways.. wavering

Regarding my unexplained statement: you can't go to heaven if you die fearing.

Firstly, I don't think of heaven as the house of God, I don't think of hell as the abode of the Devil. I don't think there are angels in heaven, don't think hell is a depository for evil.

I think that when we die we go either to heaven or hell. Heaven, if we lived peacefully and died peacefully, is a floating place for the fulfilled. A reward given by the self to the self for the self. Hell, if we lived unhappy and died fearful, is a stewing place for the unfulfilled. A punishment given by the self to the self for the self.

Mind you, I don't believe it, only think it; and I think a lot of things. Mainly nothing.

i really did see fairies dancing on the dashboard.
let's see. record every memory as you have it, lest it be lost.

i get untalkative. my mouth sewn shut by said fairies.
i think all the things i'd say if i wasn't untalkative
over & over. i once peed
in my grandmother's car.
because i couldn't ask to go to the bathroom.
why didn't you just ask? she asked. couldn't reply.
somewhere between five and seven.

i had sexual fantasies when i was very young,
somewhere between five and seven.
then i'd think of my dead grandfather, and that maybe
he was watching me from heaven. and i'd be ashamed.
never told anyone that. i'll never tell anyone the details.
don't think i've had sexual fantasies since.

i crave closeness/affection. hug me all night long.

sigh
smile an hour a day
it's polite to close your eyes when making out
thoughts are so jumbled..

how long does it take to learn honesty? i am honest.
i am.

MY MOUTH
IS FULL
OF FLESH
but it's only mine.

where I come from there are twice as many colours,
everything is loved hard, everyone,
all time is wasted,
I find the weather fine.

(I apologise to everyone I've thrown,
blame it on my period. over emotional,
I've been up&awake for too long.)

My darling Lila is such a funny thing,
when she hears me coming up the driveway:

maniacal, swaying
music is filling me to the brim, can't hardly think of anything else
amazing how it over takes me
I sing much better, now.. & love it
when it's not imperative that I do it, and Now!

and dreaming of now
creating my own
i love, love, am positive and some,
could do anything, marry me.

I prefer the backseats of cars
singsong sighs
it should be getting easier.

sitting in a cafe, today:
"that girl has amazing hair. and she keeps looking at me. that's why I noticed her hair."
"everyone looks at you. hadn't you noticed?"
ten seconds of silence.
"no."
"I notice it everywhere I go with you. older people especially."
"oh, well, older people always look at younger people."
"younger people, especially, too.. now that I think about it."
"shut up."

I would like to die of fright. I would like a drowned girl to crawl out of my TV and flicker slowly closer, frightening me to death.
last time I was frightened:
thinking for 3x3 minutes. oh yes! I started wanting something today.
I want to be desperately, insanely jealous. nevermind hate, hate is old. jealousy is the new hate.
go on then. make me jealous. dare you.

have to spit out stuff to keep it pouring out my eyes.

my feet are quite badly cut up. I went mad for a short while yesterday and arrived home with abused feet. I should wear shoes constantly, just in case my absent heads get an impulse to shoot me out the door and all over every bit of broken glass and jagged pebble within a 20 kilometre radius. I wrote all about it, now I need only to add a sufficient amount of fiction that I can share it.
wouldn't want to bare my brain+heart=soul to all you spies.

been locked in a room two days, on drugs, reading a lot, sleeping a lot.
lines from my dreams, scribbled down upon waking:

when I die I will be frozen in my most perfect day
I've already chosen which day

won't/can't let you into my heart

the flowers are so fluffy. I feel I couldn't possibly roll over them, they're so nice, but when I do they spring back up like they're helping me along. flowers always liked me.

there are things I love too much. they make me shrivel into a speck of dust and grow huge enough to swallow the world in the same instant. they're painful.