theallconsumingvagina

the paint begins to splatter the wall
2004-07-07 02:58:20 (UTC)

the day a foetid dream came true

my greatest and darkest.
fantasy.
As if lifting a nostalgic curtain, we proceed in files of
20 or 30 to the thick, humid confines of a dimly lit yellow-
hued gym. Our pallid white gowns dampen as we march
militantly to what seems our impending doom. Some march
rhythmicly, some stride in a waltz, some are totally out of
step, but regardless- we are to march as uniformly as
possible and are to stoically retire to our tinsly seats.
What matters is not the ceremony itself- no, not the
speeches, the thank yous, the goodbyes, the good lucks, nor
the impersonal congrats to endless bobbing heads, shuffling
feet and shaking hands- it is the dramatic release of
throwing hats up in the air and letting out a well-
earned "HOORAY"! It is the confetti, the fireworks, the
jovial celebration that we are all looking forward to- the
acceptance letters, the parties and open-houses to attend.
It is like squeegeeing water and dirt granules from a
windshield, shaving heads, vacuming dust-ridden carpets,
erasing dry-marker boards, plucking eyebrows, throwing out
old hallmark cards, erasing phone numbers, trashing folders
from former classes, squeezing pimples or throwing buckets
of offensive color into virginal plaster walls.
It is spoil and extermintion we want; spitting from high
up, dropping cannons and bowling balls off of grand
balconies. We were all doing it.
We are looking forward to deletion and simplification, we
are religiously driven to whittling it down to a single
bubbly point so that happiness can be contained in it.

time

Ticking away the moments that make up the dull day
You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way.
Kicking around on a piece of ground on your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way

Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the
rain
And you are young and life is long and there is time to
kill today
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you
No-one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun!

And you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's
sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again
The sun is the same in a relative way but you're older
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death!

Every year is getting shorter, never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to naught, or half a page of
scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over, thought I'd something
more to say

Home, home again
I like to be here when I can
When I come home cold and tired
It's good to warm my bones beside the fire
Far away across the fields
The tolling of the iron bell
Calls the faithful to their knees
to hear the softly spoken magic spells




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