gone part 2

Shrug me that bold shoulder again,
and I'll draw that fine line between mice and men.
Where poison sinks to fill your jowls
and sloshes still in sinking scowl.
Eyes rolled to a heaven set to burst
in search for thirst - i hope for parch.

Tell then of your shrinking scribes, your words fall flat
your verbs contact
where pierce once served, with fangs bared stained
of glum refrains shorn
blue blood beat veins torn
soaked heart shoulder slung-
still pounding there among the horns and calendars.

In the forest of where these things still dwell.
Alone among the sheltered shrubs
held hoping for untethered tug.


_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

dedicated to the sleeping poets.
may you dream of dead words that consume your flesh
tethered there
in where.

gone (unfinished)

In the low hung rungs of summer's sun
the heat draped thin
still touches skin
and burns.

How red must read wax before peel?
How fed must fed tax before heel?
Questions floating unsung
where mere speech was shrugged for show
now rote words are sought for harvest
on the scored earth of preference and flash.

Will that light too one day burn?
Will it wilt the roses,
leaves luck plucked, thumbs unstung?
Will it brown soft patches of Whitman's words?
Will it slur sight scope in thirst's blurred search?

Or
does that same yellow that reds flesh
hold to stone our silhouettes
hung among the cracks and steps
stripped of fears, of words that left?

Would the bones of questions appear perplexed?
Bereft of context, tongue and touch?

Or would we all just be gone?
Gone of soul, of blood that speaks.
Gone of limber, snaps and creaks.
Gone of all that sun does greet.

Left is street
and aimless heat.

Re: the last few blogs

Do not fret!

I was exploring a side of anger through words. I used to be quite capable of capturing anger in my writing, thus releasing it into the cosmos as neutrality and alleviating my own harsh feelings.

I was trying to do the same thing here. If the "angry" posts pop up again, you'll know what they're for.

-g

bottle

Perhaps my flaw is that I was too selfless
And I'll probably gift away my last breaths
Half-dressed under flickering street lights
Half-confessed, half-possessed
they'll say as say they stare into the abscess

"Relax", "Don't stress" I guess I get your good intents
But intense to one, just seems to pale in others lenses
back to the sixth sense myth
emotive over-sensitive it's
"good that you should vent" or it's
"just like everyone else's"

Well this seems a barren plain of platitudes
as it's rude to neglect the help that's readily dispensed
well it's just that- dispensed
25 cents and turn
and your plastic packaged bandage
should cure from itch to burns
remove stitches and spurn glitches
spit genies from urn
in fact, if it floats, it'll cause witches to burn

which is exactly my predicament
I am just a witch in this
Malleus Maleficarum straddled best seller list
which just displaced the exodus
stakes enter rib cage, exit dust
what's next, it's trust
followed by a bottled form of regiment

sediment
sinking to the bottom, ever reticent

and then...

again. It's always the same. IS this what I'm meant to do? Is it even so deep? What else do I have to offer if not this. No other sights in my view seem to appease these thoughts of my inherent futility.
Just push, push, push...
That's all I see. Fractured dreams and a broken scope. No lens to clarify, straighten or demystify; just the same dull answers and a shovel for digging.
The aches on my shoulders and bags under my eyes are now nearly impossible to mask. And I can almost hear the gray hairs poking through, old age at such a young juncture. So much weighing right now that escape is neither an option nor a solution. In fact I'm obligated, my past mired with a litany of unfinished chores, hopes and dreams, abandoned with as little forethought as a crashing waves gives to wayward kelp, to persevere. I owe this to myself; I, who have reflected on these "quittings" from my past and realized that nothing can make up for them, and who have taken on the hero's helm and mantle of responsibility, of the flawed hero who's current modus opperandi serves a self-interested purpose of redemption.

And so where will it leave me if I shrug off this helm, this cape and mask? What then? What hero will I be then? To whom will I owe allegiance if I can't hold it to myself? To what depths do the borders of my country sink if my vision is mired, my stature so frail, my word so thin?

Off again into some unknown obscurity. And yet as hard as I pull on the mask, it will never come off( but that's anothertopicforanothertime).

because nobody reads this

because nobody reads this I can say whatever the fuck I want and no one will care. I can say the most devilish things, things that most push out of their brain I can indulge. I can say everything I feel, everything I've done, and everything I desire.
Fuck it. No one reads this anyway.
I can't do this much longer. Not this way. Too much stress. Even the ones I love feel it. I feel it. And I never learn. It's always the same story. And one day she'll leave me and I'll be sorry. I'm self-destructive to such a fault, sometimes even plotting out the worst case scenarios and living them out. When it's over and my tower crashes and I have nothing, and I have nothing to offer, and I have no one to turn to (and rightfully so), what then? Fade into the obscurity of the American landscape... and probably in more ways than one.

A review of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

Novel vs. Film, Film vs. Novel- an epic battle whose end seems about as approximate as the end of our occupation of the Middle East. A battle which, in this humble politico's view, is just as futile. Maybe I still have college-kid cockiness because I took a few film courses dealing with this precarious relationship and understand that they are different mediums, with different conventions and different aims, and so I believe I'm an authority. Maybe I'm easy to please when it comes to something I'm familiar with. Whatever the case may be, I just can't sit around and defend the film against the argument that that it's not exactly like the book, or that major elements were cast aside.
What I can say is that it was an excellent film. In this, the sixth installment, Potter and his friends must deal with their raging hormones, and the constant threat of Voldemort and his legion. As to the latter aspect, there are various mentions of atrocities and occasional shots of Aurors (Dark Wizard Hunters) pacing the halls of the fortified schools. However, as a whole, that tense atmosphere was not well-communicated, but relegated instead to single shots such as the black whips of Death Eater trails repelling against the dome-like force field protecting Hogwarts. Whereas this could have been a detriment to the film, the director instead chose to focus on Malfoy and his quest, which remains a well clouded mystery until about halfway through the film; and even then specifics are shrouded (unless, of course, you've read the book). Here an ominous threat is cast over the otherwise bubbly landscape of the school's corridors, when Malfoy's usually boastful and angry grimaces are coupled with looks of weariness and uncertainty. Tom Felton, in a few words, finally delivers an authentic performance of substance. We feel his dilemma, we understand the internal conflict between his mission and his character, and that alone makes up for what should have been a much darker film.
Where the film succeeds is in the contrast between the solemn and the jocular. Hormones bubble to the surface, with an intense focus on potions class and the intentionally bubbly personality of its new teacher- Horace Slughorn. As his character unravels, so do the relationships in the novel- from light, humorous and airy to mysterious and wrought with guilt. The teenagers find love and, with a brazen air, wrench it from the mantle of fantasy; and like most young relationships, find it far too heavy to easily bear. Whereas Ron's relationship with Lavender is painted with humor, Hermoine's pain and heart-break is visceral. These emotions are paralleled with Slughorn, whose flighty character soon chips away to the foundations of guilt upon which his hesitance to re-join the faculty is rooted.
The film ultimately serves very utilitarian purposes: one last hurrah for the frivolity of youth; cementing the thematic motif of difficult decision making; and finally, grounding the roots from which will spring key plot points of the seventh and final chapter. As vague as my last point seems, to give more detail would ruin the film for those who've yet to read the book. And in this deliberate, utilitarian treatment of the reference text, the director succeeds in a fine adaptation. The nature of the book is intact with respect to the scope of the novels.
"The Half Blood Prince" aspect plays only lightly into the story. A bigger tale needed to be told, but it's function as part of the title is never fully served. Instead, it's presence is used as a device to find a means to an end. The "big reveal" seems to be a perfunctory revelation, more than an eye-opening point of further contention for Harry. However, this might be addressed in further detail and in subtler ways in the final films.
I won't give creedence to arguments of book vs. film, but I will say this: in an ideal world, I'd love to see a more precise translation. However, director David Yates delivered a film whose purpose and gusto do justice to the source material and, more importantly, to the continuity of the story as delivered through film.

8.0/ 10
(Random tags) Funny, lighter than the previous film, moments of sadness, mature-child friendly, inner turmoil,