the skittles of sadness, by carrie lindsay

what would the flavor be of self-hatred
if it could be factory made, how would it taste
you might say bitter
you might be right
i think it’d be tart and kinda good
but if you ate too many it’d make your tongue tired somehow

what color would it be,
the skittle of sadness?
a greenish brown, i think,
a greenish brown
that turns black as you suck it

your band, by carrie linsday

I know everyone in this city but i have no friends
i saw you band last night and it was like everyone else’s band
i’m the only one i know who’s never been in a band
or isn’t in one at present
sometimes i wish i’d kept up piano lessons past age six
but i don’t wish it too strongly.

i’ve had probably 13 best friends
they haven’t ever lasted more than 13 months.
it’s never my fault
okay it was one time
i don’t miss her
sometimes i do
but i don’t too strongly

conversation by carrie linsday

he said, “people only follow you because you’re hot,”
“they only like your poems because they think you’re cool”
he said a lot of other things,
and i stopped listening,
and just nodded,
i just watched his lips moving,
and i remembered being little
and scared of the carwash
the suds and the flaps pelting the windshield

boring by carrie lindsay

I took the subway and it was boring,
I walked down the street and it was boring
I did drugs and it was boring,
I was bored and it was what it was,
and the street lamp burned into my window
as I was pretending to try to sleep,
the street lamp burnt into my window
like a star wars laser
and the city is a hard rock to sleep on,
and these are cold summer nights in the city,
and I miss my mother and her house
and I miss my mother’s cookies,
and the city is a cold place
even in the heat
and the coffee’s never strong enough
and there’s hardly any breeze in the city,
and i don’t like my job
and it’s quite normal to not like your job,
I don’t do what I love and I live in the city
and the city doesn’t care about me,
and I’m homesick and no one cares
and it’s boring

and then we broke up by carrie lindsay

i woke up next to my bf
and felt sick, like almost throwing up
the sheets were sticking to my ribs
and i was almost throwing up
at the sight of him,
slobbering there in slumber
having his idiot dreams,
dreams of a dog no doubt,
dreams of a dog slobber,
my idiot bf with his hairy chest
and his preckly face
a soft and moist cactus,
i couldn’t believe myself
i couldn’t believe i’d been having sex with anyone
that i’d admitted this
this body
this flesh thing
with all its little holes
all its glands
i couldn’t believe myself
i crawled out the window onto the fire escape
the sun was behind his building
it was 6:17 a.m. and the sky was lightish blue
it was the last bits of darkness there
the sun was behind his building and it was pushing from behind,
pushing the day on
and i looked at the buildings
and they were strange
they did not say good morning
and i shuddered
and felt dry inside
like a shell on the beach

Tumblr you ol devil you

That’ll be the ticket,
by jove ye know it,
the less the more the oftener,
and the sales tags looking a bit askew
Mimi fix the sales tags they lookin a bit askew,
he says I have a nice body but a soggy brain,
and what’s that mean eh?

Winter’s my favorite season
always been a contrarian like that,
whatever people like I like the other thing,
gotta be different
don’t know why, just always hadda be different
since I was a kid

Tags: poetry

Seaweed

Like the wisps of seaweed in green
against the brown water,
all slithering beneath the surface
in unison with the water’s movement—
The vision massages my skin
like those tentacles of chlorophyl might,
and in sign language laconically speak:
“Slithering, not not driven,
is life’s purpose—”

And how they lock my body,
the sight of those flapping fingers’
beauty makes me nervous,
the million of them
in greeting waving goodbye,
the ocean’s silent poetry in cursive:

"Cease to cling for
change and death are certain;
to fight against this tide’s
the only burden…”

Polkinghorne (1992) lists the themes of “post-modern
thought” as :

i) Foundationlessness - there are no universals; “no
sure epistemological foundation upon which knowledge can
be built”.

ii) Fragmentariness - reality is “a disunited,
fragmented accumulation of disparate elements and events.

iii) Constructivism - there is no world “out there”
to discover, all knowledge is constructed; “human
experience consists of meaningful interpretations of the
real”.

iv) Neopragmatism - the criteria for understanding
are not whether knowledge corresponds to reality, because
this cannot be known in the “post-modern” world. Rather
it is whether knowledge “functions successfully in
guiding human action to fulfill intended purposes”.

Tags: philosophy

Disillusions

I’d have been a mage
but I had to settle,
and seek the closest
vocation to shooting fire
from my hands—

and in this world
as in the game
the fantasy’s never final,
and we never admit it,
we run and hide from the day
the fetish leaves our objects
and they become dulls as rocks
and the earth proves not a mother
but a dull rock—

and disillusion flows like rivers
to the brackish sea,
from sources on imprecise mountains
dreams like meltwater
dripping,
collecting
in the thin,
clear,
air

Tags: poetry