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My nephew calls this the song about bad dreams. It is a cover done by Emmy Reynolds and Opus Orange.

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Oh, I’m not gonna kill you.

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psychophysics, #2

Define; Neu-ron.

A flash

the shivering globe

less than measurable seconds

from the instance of contact--

a gentle caress of the thigh

a flood of dopamine

shuddering thalamus,

lacrimal smile

and the gates are indisposed.

we are not so complicated.

we are not so different.

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the crave

Universal irony;

the soul searching

for enlightenment,

separated from community

pleading isolation,

needing to be alone

as it is the only thing

logically secure;

still, the room

darkens at night,

all cats stalk the halls

hounds run in their dreams

and again I wallow

and crave

the flesh of another.

“I just want to be alone”

all it knows

is loneliness.

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I wont forget anytime soon.

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A Bit of a Review

I’m just going to drop this here. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Waltzing_Matilda

I have written some poetry in reference to a “Matilda”, and there are some on Tumblr who think this is a personal call out, and that I’m writing it about them. I’m going to drop this here as well, since it stands to note the name is not rare or determined for a singular purpose. In fact, the name was quite popular in some areas of the world, rather recently.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Matilda_%28name%29

To be a “Waltzing Matilda”, aside from the folklore around that first wiki page, is to be a traveler on foot. In the book “Norwegian Wood”, written by Haruki Murakami, his main character Toru Wantanabe happens to share the interest of hiking and walking with his love and friend, Naoko, who in the book takes (from my perspective) the first place in his heart. When I first read the book, I found that deeply moving, and thus I adopted using the name “Matilda” for some of my poetry, mainly for a little ambiguity, but mostly because that book was fucking amazeballs. To top it off, Toru spends the majority of his time in Norwegian Wood running (or walking on foot, if you will) from and fearing the depression that arose from his best friends’ suicide. He is constantly on the hike, making trips on his own, doing things just for himself, traveling to an unknown location for some unknown peace of mind. To drive my initial point home, the Waltzing Matilda is kind of an axiom and I don’t use it to refer to anything other than a selfish traveler.

I don’t know who crownroyalstudent is, but they aren’t me. This is my active blog. The only other blog I have is ourwatch3r, which I have abandoned for time unseen. Whoever “Matilda” is to this person, I’m sure it has nothing to do with me, or you, Milo. As for the small cache of posts you have complied and blogged on your dash from this blog, comparing the two instances and uses of the name Matilda, I’m not exactly sure what to tell you. I find Toru the most selfish character I’ve ever come across, and part of me hates him for the things he does to other women in Norwegian Wood. Any contempt you’re seeing, such as the “Still not about you, Matilda” I posted a while ago, is not aimed to you. It’s aimed toward a fictional thought, crafted by an amazing Japanese author, who has managed to make me hate his creation and love it at the same time.

It is obvious that you’ve spent some time thinking about what happened when we met again in September. I don’t much care anymore; I’ve let it go. I read your posts to that blog, and I just have to say that I thought you were more put-together and mature. The one that was made in clear fury (or screaming, whichever one) especially disturbed me. I’m not sure if I should be offended or terrified that you think about those things, and believe them. If it’s any consolation, I’m sorry for my part in the dispute we had in September. Don’t take that as an omission of guilt on your part, but I’m done, and I’ve been done for a long time.

Please don’t come back to Algoma U. If you do, then just keep your head down and leave me alone. I’m sure I can speak for 90% of the people you’ve come into contact with here.

Take it easy.

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omfg daryl

stopppp

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and it sounds like

backyard grass stains,

an older grandmother

i don’t remember

meeting.

she exists,

but her breath sounds like

Oh, Danny Boy

in the small

hours of the morning.

gram, you would be

so proud of me

for moving into this skin

and putting up.

I dream

let go

cradle diaphragm and release

the heretical nicotine

into the night,

a spray from

my own mother’s

lungs.

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Lizzy Caplan // Off Camera with Sam Jones

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When he looks your way.

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Excerpt #6780, rough

“You can always count on the men,” She licked the chocolate from the tips of her fingers, staring sideways at the Armani business suit, pistol resting on his creased forehead, “Can’t you?”

She smiled, lips taking everything on her face. Her crystal blue eyes caged the little boy inside the six-thousand dollar suit, still fascinated by his surroundings. She rose gracefully from the gaudy tall-backed recliner, amused with her trapped prey. The pistol hung loosely in her hand as she removed the rest of the sweet syrup from in between her knuckles. Wrapped in a thin red cloth, the woman turned back, beckoning with surprise at her one-time lover.

“Aren’t you coming?” She opened the balcony double-doors, slipping out into the night.

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I found this in my writing folder. I believe it is fairly old, but the point I’m making is that feeling you get when you come across work you’d previously forgotten. I find myself re-enchanted by my own juvenile tendencies. To top it off, compared to my assessment of the work I have thus far, I like it. A lot.

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Still not about you, Matilda.

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1996, in the back seat

and on that question

of what, never mind

the context, it is

a strange tactile feeling.

the upholstery will bend,

make a shadow one way,

taking it back in counterparts.

i asked myself

why I chose to be alone, and

settled into the nuance

of it was the wish

to understand

the meaning of all.

so ask what,

and the answer will be tactile,

like when you were a kid

and all you cared about was

the way she held you

below the breast,

in a time

not so removed from place

echoing the pace

of his heart beat

a rhythm to life

and safety was a song.

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the sky

my mother,

replenished and durable

steel, the lustrous

binary code of her

palm lines,

at the crack of dawn

the down of rain

a spiral of begotten lightning.

“come, and watch the storm with me”

and i replied on

mnemonic flash,

my legs strewn in child fashion

across the cobble of our

front step,

“where does it come from?”

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can we please take a moment

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everybody

all the artists on his couch

 are writing smut;

next level shit,

truly.

I’m dying

and I feel like I can’t live it down;

the old legend

that I was born for the purpose,

that little beginning

we don’t talk about

anymore.

I used to kill you

effectively.

I didn’t need to ask for permission.

Things change

I don’t want to grow with it,

I really can’t take it.