Write What You Know (Parts 3 & 4 of a novella by Dutch Pearce)
It’s like a week from Christmas. Procrastination is the poor man’s masochism, and as I window shop at the snack machine, I realize just how poor I am. This morning I wrote a poem. False catharsis just to make sure I still got it. It’s not much, but I like it.
“Only the good die young,” said the man who granted me the burden of immortality
So, now I walk these streets of light and reminisce of worse days.
Rivers are only a leak of something greater I’ll never see
Dreams are only pictures of something better I'll never be
And I pick up my guitar and sing a sad song of even sadder days
“Your love is an oubliette, and it’s here I’ll sit.
Your trust is a dungeon, and I’m not budgin’.
But I’ll wait for the sunshine of your smile
To peek its way through the window”
Walking these miles, scribing these half hearted heart broken tunes
Better men have drowned in the ink of their pens
Better man have drowned in their own elixir
Now we reach the moment, the climax of the song
Where I cry out the real kicker
The one liner that will burn itself into your brain
But these lines are blurred with obscure metaphors
Through poetic catharsis, I’ve bled myself dry
But I forgot to mention, they’re really not metaphors
Only lies
Only poetry for the sake of poetry
I’ll shed these tears just to see who really cares
I’m not really blind, I just can’t see.
I’m not really deaf, I just can’t hear.
I’m not catatonic, I just can’t feel.
*****
Christmas came and went like cancer through my family. We all know we’ll eventually get it, but we live recklessly just the same. I knew Christmas was coming, but I waited ‘til the 23rd the go shopping with what little money I saved up. I got her some earrings and some other junk. Whether she likes the earrings or not, she’ll wear them. Simply because it’ll make me happy.
“What are you thinking about?” Dooter, the most unreliable person in the world and, unfortunately, my good friend asks into the cold air of my car. The air transforms the humidity on his words into a slowly moving apparition that creeps over to meet my own short-breathed reply.
“What?”
“What what? I asked you what you were thinking about.”
“What kind of question is that, Dooter?”
“. . .I dunno? An earnest one?”
“It’s a girl question, Dooter.” My toes ache with chill. I don’t even remember what day it is, but I assumed it’s a weekend because Dooter and I are coming home from a show. And I’m clean shaven, so that means I saw Emma recently. And Emma’s mom is a nazi, and only lets me see her on the weekends. Holy shit, grown ups are unrealistic. Granted optimism is good, but sometimes we need to draw the line between optimism and denial. “I guess I was thinking about Emma. Why? What are you thinking about?” No one will ever ask you a question without having some sort of agenda of their own. Dooter asked me what I was thinking about because he wanted to tell me what he has on his mind. Or perhaps this is just the paranoid suspicion of one of the few misanthropes left.
“I was thinking about the band.” The band, our band, my band. We go by the moniker of They Move Beneath Our Feet, at least this month we do. We used to be called Utopia Ablaze.
See also: Golem.
The Suicide Blueprints.
Autumn Disposition.
We play arrogant, chaotic metal. It’s arrogant because we have the balls to play shows without having practiced and it’s chaotic because we never practice. To some it’s art, but art is shit.
“What about the band, Doots?” I ask dryly, still my breath haunts the air before my face.
“It’s awesome, man! Our Halloween show ruled! I had girls trying to rip my pants off.”
“Dooter, if I had to choose between having a ninety pound tumor on my back or living with you, I’d ask to be reminded of the difference.”
Last night my mom flipped out again. I guess before I say something like “again” I should explain the verb in the sentence. She’s been flipping out lately because my dad cheated on her. I’ll get more into this later, or maybe I won’t. I have ADHD, so I get behind or ahead of myself a lot. I just know that I’m never on track.
“Only the good die young,” said the man who granted me the burden of immortality
So, now I walk these streets of light and reminisce of worse days.
Rivers are only a leak of something greater I’ll never see
Dreams are only pictures of something better I'll never be
And I pick up my guitar and sing a sad song of even sadder days
“Your love is an oubliette, and it’s here I’ll sit.
Your trust is a dungeon, and I’m not budgin’.
But I’ll wait for the sunshine of your smile
To peek its way through the window”
Walking these miles, scribing these half hearted heart broken tunes
Better men have drowned in the ink of their pens
Better man have drowned in their own elixir
Now we reach the moment, the climax of the song
Where I cry out the real kicker
The one liner that will burn itself into your brain
But these lines are blurred with obscure metaphors
Through poetic catharsis, I’ve bled myself dry
But I forgot to mention, they’re really not metaphors
Only lies
Only poetry for the sake of poetry
I’ll shed these tears just to see who really cares
I’m not really blind, I just can’t see.
I’m not really deaf, I just can’t hear.
I’m not catatonic, I just can’t feel.
*****
Christmas came and went like cancer through my family. We all know we’ll eventually get it, but we live recklessly just the same. I knew Christmas was coming, but I waited ‘til the 23rd the go shopping with what little money I saved up. I got her some earrings and some other junk. Whether she likes the earrings or not, she’ll wear them. Simply because it’ll make me happy.
“What are you thinking about?” Dooter, the most unreliable person in the world and, unfortunately, my good friend asks into the cold air of my car. The air transforms the humidity on his words into a slowly moving apparition that creeps over to meet my own short-breathed reply.
“What?”
“What what? I asked you what you were thinking about.”
“What kind of question is that, Dooter?”
“. . .I dunno? An earnest one?”
“It’s a girl question, Dooter.” My toes ache with chill. I don’t even remember what day it is, but I assumed it’s a weekend because Dooter and I are coming home from a show. And I’m clean shaven, so that means I saw Emma recently. And Emma’s mom is a nazi, and only lets me see her on the weekends. Holy shit, grown ups are unrealistic. Granted optimism is good, but sometimes we need to draw the line between optimism and denial. “I guess I was thinking about Emma. Why? What are you thinking about?” No one will ever ask you a question without having some sort of agenda of their own. Dooter asked me what I was thinking about because he wanted to tell me what he has on his mind. Or perhaps this is just the paranoid suspicion of one of the few misanthropes left.
“I was thinking about the band.” The band, our band, my band. We go by the moniker of They Move Beneath Our Feet, at least this month we do. We used to be called Utopia Ablaze.
See also: Golem.
The Suicide Blueprints.
Autumn Disposition.
We play arrogant, chaotic metal. It’s arrogant because we have the balls to play shows without having practiced and it’s chaotic because we never practice. To some it’s art, but art is shit.
“What about the band, Doots?” I ask dryly, still my breath haunts the air before my face.
“It’s awesome, man! Our Halloween show ruled! I had girls trying to rip my pants off.”
“Dooter, if I had to choose between having a ninety pound tumor on my back or living with you, I’d ask to be reminded of the difference.”
Last night my mom flipped out again. I guess before I say something like “again” I should explain the verb in the sentence. She’s been flipping out lately because my dad cheated on her. I’ll get more into this later, or maybe I won’t. I have ADHD, so I get behind or ahead of myself a lot. I just know that I’m never on track.