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To That Girl
15 October 2009 17:36It’s how you turn around.
It’s like a guitar hitting a stage. Your entire life reminds me of migratory birds trapped in cages and it’s snowing outside. The fight between Beta and VHS ended up in a victory for VHS while Beta was demoted to be used only in special effects companies and television studios. Now that DVDs rule, VHS has all but disappeared and Beta is still the industry standard in broadcast television.
I think you’re a beta tape. The caged bird waiting for the returning summer. The artist destroying her instruments in front of us and we love it. Every penalty you receive is a tattoo you wear for the world. Every unused door prize is held in your copper teeth. Your bandages are hidden underneath the clothes that stop the bleeding. Children grow up around you. Parents dig holes and call you a bullet. There are no guns for the listing walk of ships that move you from coffee shop to coffee shop to bar. Every alley is a hotel.
But you tell me it’s not permanent. And I know that it never has been.
Your checklist is simple. Don’t starve and stay dry. You remind me of how much I don’t need.
This circle that keeps us in contact disappears one by one like fingers letting go of a ledge. I’m afraid that soon, I won’t be able to see you. I’m afraid that every “see you around” will turn into a “that was the last time I saw her”.
But then I feel that feeling and I can see that you’re alive in a way that none of us are. The streetlights are jealous of your eyes. Fashion designers dream of attaining the authenticity of your aesthetic. People write odes to you without even knowing who you are. A dancing dream of homeless direction, dreadlocks and piercings, ink on a pale body kept thin and hard by the cold world.
Even in the summer, you wait for summer to return. You heart uses your ribs as a ladder but it can’t get out through your mouth except in laughter. It jumps sideways but it can only get out through your fingers in writing. It jumps down to bring people in desperately. You use to sex to turn the volume on the world up, not to tune it out. You are one big bite in the shaped of young woman.
In terms of destinies, I don’t know much about the tarot or tea leaves. If things play out like they do in the movies, then I’ll probably live longer than you. But there are no guarantees. I hope I’m wrong. I’ve been wrong a lot lately.
There are a lot of steps in front of both of us. Let’s keep on walking.
Let’s wait for summer the way that caged birds and beta tapes yearn.
Let’s keep ourselves warm with fire in the meantime.
tags
It’s like a guitar hitting a stage. Your entire life reminds me of migratory birds trapped in cages and it’s snowing outside. The fight between Beta and VHS ended up in a victory for VHS while Beta was demoted to be used only in special effects companies and television studios. Now that DVDs rule, VHS has all but disappeared and Beta is still the industry standard in broadcast television.
I think you’re a beta tape. The caged bird waiting for the returning summer. The artist destroying her instruments in front of us and we love it. Every penalty you receive is a tattoo you wear for the world. Every unused door prize is held in your copper teeth. Your bandages are hidden underneath the clothes that stop the bleeding. Children grow up around you. Parents dig holes and call you a bullet. There are no guns for the listing walk of ships that move you from coffee shop to coffee shop to bar. Every alley is a hotel.
But you tell me it’s not permanent. And I know that it never has been.
Your checklist is simple. Don’t starve and stay dry. You remind me of how much I don’t need.
This circle that keeps us in contact disappears one by one like fingers letting go of a ledge. I’m afraid that soon, I won’t be able to see you. I’m afraid that every “see you around” will turn into a “that was the last time I saw her”.
But then I feel that feeling and I can see that you’re alive in a way that none of us are. The streetlights are jealous of your eyes. Fashion designers dream of attaining the authenticity of your aesthetic. People write odes to you without even knowing who you are. A dancing dream of homeless direction, dreadlocks and piercings, ink on a pale body kept thin and hard by the cold world.
Even in the summer, you wait for summer to return. You heart uses your ribs as a ladder but it can’t get out through your mouth except in laughter. It jumps sideways but it can only get out through your fingers in writing. It jumps down to bring people in desperately. You use to sex to turn the volume on the world up, not to tune it out. You are one big bite in the shaped of young woman.
In terms of destinies, I don’t know much about the tarot or tea leaves. If things play out like they do in the movies, then I’ll probably live longer than you. But there are no guarantees. I hope I’m wrong. I’ve been wrong a lot lately.
There are a lot of steps in front of both of us. Let’s keep on walking.
Let’s wait for summer the way that caged birds and beta tapes yearn.
Let’s keep ourselves warm with fire in the meantime.
tags