I need a mental day

I'm gonna revive this.

cheers.

<3 mme. Media

been awhile.

How do you get along in a room full of white hurricane trash? The insipid inside jokes.

Elk hunting fools who rather click the top of a bruskey than do their own damn laundry.

Do they accept me? My mocha skin, my legs crossed to even zap the air between my thighs. I smile; I can shake hands like the best of them. Are they Jewish? I see a menorah sitting on the mantal..a Jewish flag hanging on the cracking bookshelves.

I look to my lover.

“Your grandfather is Jewish, huh?”

“no.”

“eh?

“It’s just a flag….”

My pocket vibrates I shutter and wonder if they can notice my wild attire. I whisper on my cellphone.. ”It’s like I’ve walked into hell’s swamps, Wisconsin, and vacuum sealed dirt charred on the back necks of these visitors.”

Wes knows I don't belong.

but watch me blend in.

watch me.

~Mme. Media.

It dropped bitter splashes of rancid cranberry juice.

The kind that taste like plastic skeet and dirty laundry.

The blankets are hard and crusty. Squeeze the mattress and I swear it will leak out sweat.

Not even the spiders will cover their eyes on this one.

She rides that Iron horse like an Alchemist.

He can three-knuckle shuffle, with all odds even.

They can flash a bullet in their teeth, boondocks.

Hold hands while they cause another hole in your throat.

You can’t cover your moans with ammonia.

Sprayed to cover blood soaked walls.

You can’t cover your moans with black glasses.

So your eyes won’t watch the bodies fall

You can’t cover your moans with sex treated trail mix.

fucking in every house where there is a corpse.

“Prop the body up, baby. I want them to watch…”

Silencers on a barrel, rusty shells like Billie the kid.

“…..switch hands this time, before the cops notice..”

Pistols snuggled besides breast.

Cold metal on naughty parts.

“we can do this sweetie….just open your legs..”

**************

And one sad sad story...(my first love died in my arms.)

~Mme.Media.

I can hear the construction grinding, tearing down wet leathery leaves. This forest, a paper-written disease. They say, “Words have to have meaning” there is no such thing as a mouth vomiting out exist signs. No scrambled up French loosely printed on the poorhouse walls. No wordiness, dead punctuation or fucked up grammar. There is no grave digging it’s self on broken sentence structure. No clean street paper that needs to be bleeding with red pen marks.

There are no open doors to literature. No ink smudged on dirty plagiarized fingertips

No need to argue yell and damn that high suit collar that stole your idea

For they are just words…

Power to the powerless

Bring a gun to the worthy

It can climax the organs out of death.

Fuck the destruction out of a third world continent.

Words are worth it.

*****

thats an ode to my English 1301 Professor. that witch.

<3 Mme. Media

(Well done....solider)

Anything of quality I write will never grace this xanga again. Mainly because paranoia goes really far in my life, and I worry to the point of sleepless behavior.

I'm utterly sarcastic.

rant # 2. (I 've been thinking about this for awhile)

It's been almost 5 months.

He says he loves me endlessly, and whispers words of forever in my ear. How can I help my cheeks from flushing when thoughts bring up teenage love of dreams not yet drempt. I'm so helpless from all the things that are said, and want whatever is thrown in hopeless cliche depressing poems. One day, my heart flutters I am connected to this single soul. Smiling and digging myself deeper and deeper in this hole.

I think my heart is sober enough to say, that all previous likings have nothing connected to their name anymore.
I've possibly have tricked myself into thinking, that all previous sparks was something fantastic other then bombastic.

I am easily softened, when spent a good time with.

Easily soften when my guard is down, and able to trust you with my soul.
I am easily softened when allowed to shed tears.

I allowed myself to love another.

Another who never loved me back?

but, now...someone told me it was okay.
and I believe him.
I won't hurt him, like I was hurt myself.

I promise.

thank you, darling.

I'm sorry for making you cry.

+++++++++++++++++

When they met, it was different.
For he didn't know the shadows drought.
They poured the growth serum in the cold hard cement.

Just to see if baby breaths and roses would sprout.

the water sucked up, the Clementine cracks.
The ignorant blue that could flow from his eyes.
She is stunning, he is out there.

and neither family knows why.

She wants to marry, his picture perfect friends.
and he rather wed the velvet plush coffin instead.
he sprinkles the land mines on your tongue.
sparkling bells, flock of orange doves, the preacher’s haiku.

They don’t need a bible, God..nothing…nothing is true.

The relationship, the hearts that bloom..nothing but you.

The shitty sky, the clouds that lie…nothing..nothing is true.

He’s not happy.

but she is.

she is.

yet, he needs something to be happy too.

+++++++++++++++

~Mme. Media (and the same beats flow through rhymthic hips.)