Pathetic Rejects Society's Journal|
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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in
Pathetic Rejects Society's LiveJournal:
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|Thursday, November 4th, 2004|
|Sunday, July 25th, 2004|
|Tuesday, January 13th, 2004|
Untitled - for a friend
"This morning at 6:20 Dr Shipman was found dead in his cell at Wakefield Prison"
Do you know
That you have been dead
6 years, now?
Do you still make the daily shop
For bread, for fruit?
I glimpse you sometimes
From the bus
Your back round against the wind;
Or turning a corner;
Passing through a crowd
On market day.
They bubble up
Struggling for voice
Gasping for breath
Do you still save new pennies
And old magazines
Wondering when I might call?
Tangled in roots
Amongst rotten weeds
An empty shriek
I had thought filled Current Mood: sad
|Friday, October 3rd, 2003|
A useful source of inspiration rather than a poem...
and enter the online competition. Make sure you know the correct answer (a quick bit of internet research in a new window deals with it) and enter.
When you submit a correct answer you get a code that allows you a free online page-a-day calendar. Follow the instructions and opt for the 14,000 things one.
Each day you will find a list of 5 things. I find these lists spark ideas that get me writing. Happy writing!
|Friday, June 27th, 2003|
The Heirs of Stalin
Mute was the marble.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxMutely glimmered the glass.
Mute stood the sentries,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxbronzed by the breeze.
Thin wisps of smoke curled over the coffin.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxAnd breath seeped through the chinks
as they bore him out the mausoleum doors.
Slowly the coffin floated,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxgrazing the fized bayonets.
He also was mute--
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxmute and dread.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxhis embalmed fists,
just pretending to be dead,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxhe watched from inside.
He wished to fix each pallbearer
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxin his memory:
xxxxxxxxxxxxfrom Ryazan and Kursk,
so that later he might
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxcollect enough strength for a sortie,
rise from the grave,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxand reach these unreflecting youths.
He was scheming.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxHad merely dozed off.
And I, appealing to our government,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxthe sentries guarding this slab,
and stop Stalin from ever rising again
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxand, with Stalin,
I refer not to the past,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxso holy and glorious,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxand the flag raised over Berlin.
By the past, in this case,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxI mean the neglect
of the people’s good,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxthe jailing of innocent men.
We sowed our crops honestly.
Honestly we smelted metal,
and honestly we marched,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxjoining the ranks.
But he feared us.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxBelieving in the great goal,
xxxxxxxxxall means justified
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxto that great end.
He was far-sighted.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxAdept in the art of political warfare,
he left many heirs
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxbehind on this globe.
xxxxxxxthere’s a telephone in that coffin:
From that coffin where else does the cable go!
No, Stalin has not given up.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxHe thinks he can
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxfrom the mausoleum.
But how remove Stalin’s heirs
Some of his heirs tend roses in retirement,
thinking in secret
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxtheir enforced leisure will not last.
xxxxxxxfrom platforms, even heap abuse on Stalin
xxxxxxxxxxxxyearn for the good old days.
No wonder Stalin’s heirs seem to suffer
these days from heart trouble.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxThey, the former henchmen,
hate this era
xxxxxxxxxxxof emptied prison camps
and auditoriums full of people listening
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxfrom being smug.
xxxxxxxxxxxsome say, but I can’t remain
While Stalin’s heirs walk this earth,
xxxxxxI fancy, still lurks in the mausoleum.
© Yevgeny Yevtushenko, 1962
|Thursday, June 26th, 2003|
A GOOD OLD FRIEND
Pain comes like an old friend,
with no by-your-leave,
Weeks, months of silence
by the telephone call,
the knock at the door,
The cry for help
in the middle of the night.
And always welcoming
I let her in,
make up a bed
let her stay
as long as she wants.
No need for questions,
For always her coming
of life lived well.
I knew her as a child
when we learned together
to stand, to run,
to walk, climb trees.
She showed me my limits
and spurred me on.
And in youth she was there
though the churl I was then
thinking her no friend of mine
as she accompanied others
more often than me.
Yet she did not forget.
We are much with each other these days.
She comes to me now
as good, old friend
will come and go
And reminds me glady, of life
still lived well.
(Copyright Paganini Jones, 23 June 03)
|Friday, June 20th, 2003|
I get first dibs cause I am 12 hours ahead, ergo cooler by default.
The Aaron Rivel
You are how you bleed, Current Mood: silly
And look at all the beautiful red spots,
How it pulsates tenously, unpalpably so,
Independent from that lovely head.
And who can know what runs through it,
Who can catch you, when you move too fast.
Oh how I laughed when you said you broke it,
And I wonder, how many more you will rent.
It's tough to love you when you leave them sore,
You rive as well as Brutus,
But he wasn't as gorgeous as you are.
*P.S. I know it's pathetic (lol) but I just wanted to say I hope your birthday will turn out better than how you hoped it would.
|Tuesday, June 17th, 2003|
it's sad that people don't post in here much anymore. so yeah, i'm posting something new of mine. it's called 'death of a boy'.
the cigarette ash floats
on sanguine water;
heading nowhere, now that
the ripples have stopped.
while the cigarette itself-
a stub on green tile-
slips in with hand attached.
he is the metaphor of youth:
the inevitable ending of
start fast, end slow.
i enter like death,
somewhere between his breaths
that i can still hear,
as if not witnessing this
would make it undo itself.
i can feel the weight of the
scythe on my mind
as it drops,
an infinity known,
with another being on the end,
formed like a pearl.
he sits in the white orb of him,
on bodies of those before.
as i sink down,
the scythe empties itself
of all but the newest.
|Monday, June 16th, 2003|
i haven't posted a poem here in awhile. so why not:
the sun rises earlier than
any other day i can remember.
the sparrows unveil their song as televisions
begin to flicker off one by one
the nightly news, as children
have just begun to dream, their heads buried
in blankets like sand.
nature has known to be weary
of silence, darkness,
the danger of hearing what�s coming
before it arrives, acceptance of death
worse than death itself.
there�s nothing that you or i can do now,
fate heavy like feet on gravel
baring down. you wield your wounds
like a shield; lay open your heart
to the mud, still beating.
no use, you know, no use.
when the phone rings i flinch,
over and over it rings
and i flinch, the earth so quiet now
between those bursts.
my community, writingcritic
is having a writing contest, any form of writing. the winner gets $15 and a mystery book. if anyone wants to join and participate, you're welcome. voting started today and ends july 6th.
|Saturday, June 14th, 2003|
Posted this in my journal, but I thought maybe it might help if I posted it here.
Krissi, or anyone else who knows Kristine Briese, do you have her email address? I see that she has been active at pathetic.org, but other than rejoining the site, which I don't want to do, I have no way to get in contact with her.
|Friday, June 6th, 2003|
so far, no dice.
oh, Do sell me on this marriage thing. tell me how
i'm not going to hate the person that has been
stealing my covers for twenty years and keeping
me awake with their awful snoring every winter.
i'd like to buy your belief that their over-use
of the word "like" won't drive me further into
alcoholism, or that when they don't replace the
role of toilet paper when done, it won't make me-
CHRIST!- it won't make me just want to dump water on
the new role, take every soft paper product within
a three room radius of the camode, and then leave
for work. i'd love to be so optimistic as to think i'll
be so accepting and compassionate and loving. but i
just can't seem to fathom it. and while you're at it
make me believe that jesus actually rose from the grave
and can now talk to people. believe me, i've tried, but
so far, no dice. Current Mood: rhp
emo kids make pretty badass pirates when you really think about it.
i have two camus books, side by side. and aside
from this emotional mathematique equating to too
much depression [for less than one inch worth of
shelf space, mind you!], there is a parenthetical
significance of who it used to belong to, and i can't help
but factor that in. i've a propensity to blow everything
out of proportion, over-distributing memories, like my
buying "plain song" at the front desk, as "the stranger"
crept further below my belt, threatening to climb
down my leg to safety if i didn't trap it between my
left hip and the edge of the counter. i may have two
fully functioning legs, but one remains the witness to
excitement late last december as i tried to show someone
i was falling for just how much i cared, and how "this goddamn
capitalist system couldn't repress us young commie bastards
from sharing our love for good, sad bastard books." and i'd
consider amputation for memories like this, walking around
on a peg leg- hell, maybe i'd buy a parrot to further the
look, perhaps evening out my shoulders from that awful chip
that's been weighing down the other one- but i'd also have to wear
two black patches from witnessing many "apples of my eye" go rotten
within a year of each other, and i'd have to weild two hooks
so i wouldn't have to look at these hands that have held the
smalls of backs of several girls i could have slept naked next to
for years, if only they'd stayed. all in all, if i would cut off
everything that reminded me of a Her, i'd have no bed [that she'd
slept on], no books [that she lent me], no records [we found at a
thrift store], no eyes, hands, or legs...hell, i'd make a pretty goddamn
badass pirate, really. but i'm afraid of sharks, so that option is sunk.
this may seem cut short, but that's the point, really.
|Friday, May 30th, 2003|
|Sunday, May 25th, 2003|
haven't got a title, damnit
tell me if you still remember
summer flesh and summer song,
once yours and never mine, withering
when you left - without fear
and without regret - for a kingdom
hidden deep behind your eyes.
and she -
sleeping softly beneath my hands -
abandoned, silken midnight rain.
she was silence and spring at
winter's end, frost melting from
her lips, words soft and golden.
but deepening, these places within
the heart, as the leaves turn and drown
her voice. can you not see?
winter still lingers beneath her skin.
and you won't return for years.
|Wednesday, May 21st, 2003|
The meeting was like weather
For the week
Storm clouds gathered
By ten o’clock
Round the chairman
Who noticed his son’s
In his pocket
Either side of the table
Arguments rained down
notepads and minutes
The way ahead
Like a break in the clouds
Gave promise of rainbows
With a bad joke and forced laughter
the small boys
Came out to play
(21 May 2003)
|Wednesday, May 14th, 2003|
I cleaned my plate because my mother insisted,
citing all the little Ethiopian children who would
be hurt and disappointed if I didn’t eat my beets.
I cleaned my plate because my DNA predisposes me
to be a plate cleaner, and American food makers create
products that encouraged, nay, commanded me to comply.
I cleaned my plate because life is unpredictable and
food equaled my only comfort in a house where
the word used most often to address me was “Bitch.”
I cleaned my plate for peace and protection, relying
on the paradoxical fact that the bigger a person’s
body grows, the more invisible they become.
I cleaned my plate in the great game of distraction,
to keep me from understanding or caring why
my name in my own mouth tasted like shit.
|Wednesday, April 30th, 2003|
On some days, her eyes would fix on a spot,
Looking at the gates of heaven open.
Sometimes she never sits still, and you would
Have to hold out your tongue to catch her sighs
In little teardrops, til there is no more
Of her sweetest self to give to the sky.
When those wild, sad eyes cleave to your insides
Exposure is instant, and the stars crumble,
There is no place, no time but only this,
Only confusion, the taste of her lips.
And you will drown. But to the outside world,
It will be as though you chose to hold still. Current Mood: sick
|Sunday, April 27th, 2003|
1-025 Unrhymed Sonnet - Spring
In the long grey battle of winter come slow
I longed for the bright green of early spring
that reaches the heart through the eye and the mind
to gladden the spirit and uplift the soul:
for the tiny tight fists on the chestnut stem
that turn to huge hands lifted up to the sky;
for the soft furry buds on the willow tree
that lengthen to catkins of dangled gold.
In the pine-green and red of Christmas time
I longed for the yellow of springtime’s dawn:
for primroses, daffodils, dandelion flowers,
for broom in the garden and gorse on the hills</p>
And now in the lavish spring so quickly come
I can't gather it in, help me gather it in!
|Friday, April 25th, 2003|
War from a distance – Hide and seek
He has a punk hairstyle
and wears a crusader’s breastplate.
In his hands are
a broken air rifle
and a silver-plastic cowboy-gun.
This is not a nightmare
but some game.
He looks up at me, worried.
“Have you seen two little children?
We’re playing hide and seek.
I’m a Christian.
They are Iraqis.
I’ve got to find them
but I don’t want to get shot.”
I shake my head,
ask if he has looked over there,
point at the shrubs.
He wanders around the corner.
I wonder, where would I hide
here in this village,
If I didn’t want to get shot?
An empty wheelie bin?
Birds sing out from the hedges.
It is nesting time
A magpie watches from an elm.
He comes back,
small boy in tow.
He carries a cardboard shield
and a potato gun.
“He gave up,’’ says his brother.
“He’s on my side now.”
A small girl wanders around
the corner by the pub
that is also the post office
and corner shop.
She wears blue ribbons
a water pistol.
“Bang, bang! You’re dead!”
her brother says.
She falls to the ground
It is only a game.
25th April 2003