post-modern alchemy

Smoke for oxygen (Fumaça por oxigênio)

jamimarie — Tue, 18 Jan 2011 09:12:49 +0000

You find comfort in the arms
of women who do not hesitate
to kill their own children;
your children
just like flushing a shit down a toilet.
Because its poetic? Or tragic? Or just f-ing sad?
Or because in their company you become the effortless hero,
replacing stale smoke for oxygen
and trying to die?
If life were a sinking ship, you’d be the first rat a running-
so the women and children had better move fast.
There is just no room in your one man life boat.
Why with your ego,
and your lonliness,
and that grudgeyou’re holding
against God.

Fumaça por oxigênio

Tu encontra conforto nos braços
de mulheres que não hesitam
em matar suas próprias crianças;
tuas crianças
como se estivessem despejando merda descarga adentro.
Porque é poético? Ou trágico? Ou apenas triste pra caralho?
Ou porque com elas tu te transforma num herói sem esforço,
substituindo fumaça mofada por oxigênio
e tentando a morte?
Se a vida fosse um navio afundando, tu seria o primeiro rato a fugir
é melhor que mulheres e crianças se apressem, portanto.
Simplesmente não há vaga em teu barco de um homem só.
Com teu ego, e tua solidão, e esse rancor
tu segue desafiando Deus.

thoughts…

jamimarie — Tue, 03 Aug 2010 19:21:15 +0000

i eat very little and sleep even less. like a double life, with none of the trouble. hands not idol enough for the devil to take the wheel; although every time i speak his name, i’ll be damned if he doesn’t appear.

I’m changing my name to Jellybean….

jamimarie — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 14:48:58 +0000

So this is the book I am currently reading. A little strange that I haven’t read it already? Minus the mutated thumbs, I practically was Sissy Hankshaw as a child! And now more then ever I am seriously considering moving to Eastern Montana and starting a Goat Ranch. Coincidence? I think not.

Spanglish

jamimarie — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 14:39:39 +0000

There’s a boy in Miami

Who’s perfect to the T

And “te quireo mucho baby”

About me.

Untitled

jamimarie — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 14:30:02 +0000

Toothache and heartache.

Potatoes and beer.

Bald head, fuzzy beard

And a world in-between us.

Dogs with no owners

Must beg for their food.

The cats are a crying

And you listen to them.

Blue sky, blue ocean.

Horizon is vacant.

Never again to smell your sweet scent.

Thousands of miles

Have stolen you from me.

Time to remember

You’re not even there.

Dug from the earth

The flower of our wild love.

Planted in a pot

And it died in 11 days.

Pee Soup

jamimarie — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 00:56:01 +0000

Oh Dear,

How I want to shit in your mouth

And then make you swallow.

To give you a taste

Of what you’re doing to me.

Devil Dog From Hell

jamimarie — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 00:49:25 +0000

25 years old, and I had never seen a vulture.

Now 100 or more are circling my head,

Begging me for dinner.

Sweet hell,

I’m half tempted to give them

A taste of me.

Found out last night

My lovers been whoring

With the demon of pleasure.

Now I know how it feels

To be bitten by my enemy.

I’ve drank my share of two large oceans.

Maybe next time I’ll listen when

She lulls me out to sea?

Problem is,

I never listen.

Least not to the voice of reason

Or anyone who knows what’s best.

Can someone please tell me which direction up is?

What kind of vessel propels you deep into this yonder?

Who has put a leash on you,

My devil dog from hell?

internal dialog

jamimarie — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 17:49:41 +0000

No matter how much my body resists it, the internal dialog never stops, cant destroy it. with my cigarettes, or junk food, or my bad attitude, can’t make extinct the thing that’s possessed me.

right in front of you

like a worn out tune of blues,

looking like leftover food, but not so tasty.

it’s a dream of mine, and in time i will learn what it takes to

make the seed grow.

never know? doubt kills like

pesticide,

insecticide,

boys at columbine.

with vicious and preconceived certainty.

no humanity or humility, only cruelty.

like the beast of nature, (pardon me)

nature of the beast.

the nature of the beast

will never cease. like the internal dialog, never stops. can’t destroy it with my cigarettes, or junk food, or my bad attitude. can’t make extinct the thing that resides inside of them, that’s possessed them.

Voodoo For Dummies

jamimarie — Sat, 28 Jun 2008 22:43:36 +0000

IF you ever decide

the dream is NOT dead

I left you my pillow

laying on your bed.

There’s a drop of my blood

on the floor of your bedroom

from when the fan almost cut off

my long clumsy fingers.

I have shed my gold hair

all over your city.

Just like the cat

and the dog

that I am.

This would be enough

to concoct a magical potion

IF you ever decide

the dream is NOT dead.

Brazil June 9, 2008

jamimarie — Mon, 16 Jun 2008 14:24:17 +0000

When will you give me the “let’s just be friends” talk?

It took me 10 years to not do the same.

It’s really not kinder this way.

So much I want to say I cannot find the courage.

I’d do everything different if it were up to me.

The sadness I know, do you know a piece of?

You feed it to me like a slice of sweet cake.

If it were up to me, I’d do everything different.

Is there a key to unlock this prison?

I really had hoped it would be different with you.

If it were up to me, it would be-

but is it really kinder this way?

I’d sleep but you are not next to me.

Would I stop crying if I could?

There is not enough smoke or mirrors on this whole damn planet

to make me forget what you’ve promised to me.

Will I never see my white horse or baby flower?

Will I never stop searching for the one to set me free?

You’re not the only one who would like to fall off of this planet

and I really believed that we would jump together.

Feeling so foolish, and so much like a child.

I’d just stop breathing, if it were up to me.

Involuntary thoughts, like involuntary functions.

Necessity breeds invention.

Now tell me, what should I make of this?

If I could only SPEAK all that I’m thinking.

That which does not kill us will make us stronger,

but what about those who are better off dead?

I need a clock like I need a hole in my head.

The opposite of King Midas syndrome

where everything I touch turns simply to shit.

Drinking this wine, in lue of your breath

which is far more intoxicating, treasured, and sweet.

I would replace it for the air,

if it were up to me.