Off-beat Punk; and the Parapet Eclipse
She was leaking them bright eyes;
was crying like the end and the
shiny little dark
was no longer - and the rest would be history. . .
but we lost touch and Record Rewind.
Looking up; at the sign glowing in the day.
There; that would-be reason.
In one of the developed corners,
lives ensued as If there were already
OFF-BEAT PUNK and this world.
But leave from there
In cars, or from a store or cafe
or something, from the video rental place;
but from it – cuz it already happened;
that seamed outlook under Record Rewind
sign and the parapet; at which sun
shadowed there;
especially there;
then she left.
But could remain; used and renewed
Again and again. Yet had she dawned in it.
Again.
Heather Glastonbury had a pie corner wedge missing
from one rounded cornea, from her silvery eyes –
heyyyyyeahhh_itssohardonayounggirl
she wanted to go back more than ever
marvel in it and felt City
And she missed so much of it
-she figured a way that she could.
There. Return. Rewind. Rebirth.
But the next day, she tried
-because,
somehow I never seen her again
and heard stories about this girl
with silvery eyes and eyelashes
who took her life to go back
–would she not still be here?
Had I went back inside and just
Played some Get Bent – City
Forest Avenue, mmmm Stacked and Shifted..?
OR talked to her or anyone for that matter?
had I reached Heather?
Had the parapet not angle.?
Longing to customize, this story,
had i succeeded in it, --
would still forever bE creating
With awkward pulsations or pumps
of my heart starting, flutters,
drips heart thick, snorts gulp, throats
swallow chunks flutter drip heart thick…
until the uvula like an IV, becomes empty
and every bit is jittery loose in me; and
with nothing left -keeps swallowing;
but the nerves panic for more;
like food or fuel; until the twittered ways
inside just relax and finds that eclipse.
Where, Convinced but in these separate foreshadows
and assumptions, conjuring circulations
-- an impaling real hard sensebut wagered inanimate
and prodded in through, wavered me
like the leaves inside a breeze--
Now, my dear reader,
you might think i was the cause
of my own disease,
but i am not here to prove otherwise;
but i am just trying to tell you
what i have to do.
For posterity, what i had to do.
Shriveled in my desires for natural
energy, and maybe i should have
just went on back in and said something;
to everyone; but spent -but in it would not matter;
the day after this one was always the same.
And like them, she was forever gone.
SO----Turning artificial withdrawals of life turning places and things that would inspire
living --that way it is.Turning.
Luckily, She had The Anniversary.
Things like Serene, Far, Finch,
Funeral for a Friend and all i could gain
about Perfect Plague- Your Rising Stars....
Get Bent. Parapet.
--And used media stores
afternoons lingered,Right!?
Mustered through [so unlike old writers]
(who never had music at hand, a stereo)
something that legends never did;
and artificial energy; and with that
over Faulkner or guys
like Shakespeare, Poe, Homer, Seamus Heaney
…Thomas Pynchon [you tremendous you - huge one]
---so so out of touch, amped in my
–or maybe in the music, makes me writing
seem more grand---there in the….mind…
formulate great ideas and poetry
so amusing, used, records
(or, did musicians have what i did not?)—
Anyways, on the sides from CD cases,
into parts and the artwork/insert
-them ragged lines; lyrics.
The ink, characters, nearly like
someone’s handwriting; form a new
supersonic sliding of plastic doors,
open new thrills further forming the foreseen forms
you are going to someday be reading of,
my friend,
like they as ancient as Plato.
Anyways there. Beyond, it was her,
“Mario, could you come fill in for me?
i am not . . . . No, not at all.”
when she ran on over the phone,
sly shoegaze of speech
carrying the telephone with her
into the back space; biting as
something scorched from speakers
as what i hoped but could explain.
‘WHATAMIIIIIIIII_DOINGHERRRRRRRE’
And let the soundtrack and the
world and stuff reincarnate
how it all happened
Since, in that atmosphere, heard
‘Mario’ muffle in the earpiece
‘you aint tryin to take your life, again?’
–phoom! gone forever.
and all the titles—emerging—
songs, blistered-in chills—
seemingly long lost scraped goosebumps
everywhere goose flesh, maze moved so magnificently,
empowered—fresh as she remained
somewhere backstage—in the backroom.
Textured then all in the sounds;
so familiarly perfect. And i just hoped
she heard them. . . felt the same. . .
it slipped faint along the old way
‘THISISHOW-I_spendmydaaaaaaaayyys’
in the deepest aisles, more tattered
than VHS containers, movies,
with titles themed in themselves
on undesignable cardboard, and within torn edges
crammed into their own sides; 90 degrees world;
the perpendicular mark to the purple crayon.
Turn your head –at the wrinkled wave
distorting infinity to remain, like posters, posed,
form theme; form next to them, and films—
turn to the quiet, hapless, infinite leans
against each other, and way fury
of alternative funk and background of arms,
that doom of rain, sweat and mud
---the smeared reach with apocalyptic intentions
--but tilt your look at its brown huge image
over so many walls—and splatter
between 10,000 stars and millions of arms
….mmmm! say, contained into one of them
lines ;
just blow apocalypse away.
She gathered up in tears and exited,
staring, connecting to me
into the same chrome empire
that smeared fearless looks
into all that remained..
just like that; this one day.
Her hoary eyes could see the future
she’d never reach. i never reached
Heather Glastonbury; in tragic places
she neatly understood; in curious frowns
and engrossing curls, in her tight looks
she wore without needing to explain,
or maybe even knowing -which sent her
a century ahead--as in such apathy,
in flashing glints through moments
she made me, too excitedly, too peripherally,
too forward for effect, where i could not sing
to her psyche; the tilted line off the barrier
i will never know or fully understand.
Yet, below, and never
truly revealing her, but before I
spoke to her; which with the infectious
but longings to figure out; never would or will
I (at an age when the only available thought
was to surely think they would last 1000 years)….
I know Elsie. Familiarly, and in this day
when she construed, but
“What is it Today?”
and should have said it out loud,
maybe I would have reached her,too
but I figured not, and left the place in my own
usual far-off daydreams of what it / was or could be. . . .
as the sun angled low, grazed her
in the places’ like the sign against the parapet,
the above, the awning, the section cut in the storefront
jawline fractured where she spoke
and i did not touch