Something I put up here a while ago and then took down and am now putting up again...?

It was a classic I hadn't heard before; you said it reminded you of me. Back then, the sadder second half seemed irrelevant, but eventually you made it all true. So right now, to me, this song is everything. 

It's the perfect theme, the summary, the movie montage. How pretty it is, to wrap it all up in pre-packaged meaning. It happens every time: the cliché seduces me with its powerful comfort, and I can't resist. Indulge guilt-free in the cheesy similes, because the perfect song is like a blanket, it's like a long embrace, it's like a bittersweet symphony or a warm gun or a shot through the heart. Pain and complications condensed into a digestible dose; a bitter, soothing medicine that will wear off by the next morning when I'll wake up aching and need to find a new one.

Right now Tom Petty sings about me. He flatters and pities me; I am his tragic heroine and his guitar rings out in agreement. That electric D, in endless repetition, knows my naivety and persistence. Tom Petty knew. He wrote this for your mixtape, our late night joyrides, my crying for broken things.

When people make stories and songs they know that to venture outside a clean plot line is distracting; the heartbreaking awkwardness of real life is set aside for clarity's sake. Our memories do the same thing, and to me, our theme was the music. It's a cliché I can't resist. We shared it and it had so much meaning, said every tender thing we couldn't. It sang through us when we were free and happy; when I was yours, finally. We lost it, and fell apart. A beginning, a middle, and an end. Themes make things so easy. Themes make so much sense.

Tonight I will go out with my friends in the town we used to own, together. The lights will flash and dull in my half-drunk haze, and we will ramble down the streets, shoes in our hands and laughing. For a while I will forget everything, and I will be so happy. 

But with your bed so close, it's bound to happen. When the music pulses through my chest and I move with the hot, thick crowd, all I will wish is to keep that one little promise. "I'll pull you out of the darkness and into the fire, onto the dance floor." It is dark here too; no one will see our faces, no one has to know. And we can dance here like we said we would, just for a while, to the music.

Brief meditation on the collegiate male/note-taking in art history class

-Freestanding,

-open form,

-contrapposto stance,

-oratorical gesture.

Here we see the figure depicted in the ceremonial drapery,

Right arm raised, the eyes cast heavenward,

We are meant to assume he commands a crowed of plebians

(Most likely,

some rite or festival declared in his own honor)

Having proclaimed himself most exalted,

He would continue to garner his titles:

Divi filius,

Pontifex maximus,

Shared blood and godly make-up with Venus;

Rome will take its fall, of course,

But if he orders his immortalization

enough in bronze casts and marble,

perhaps no one will note his.

Can I tell you everything?

If you are an animal who roars in my face 

or shrinks and cowers like a mouse;

If you paint rose gardens, 

or uncover bones with tiny brushes,

or mow lawns;

If you drink and curse and rage like a monster

or tenderly love, and fear your God;

I could even hate you,

It won't be hard:

Can I just tell you every sorry, sparkling thing?

And then--then you tell me

every single little thing,

All your joy and every darkness.

Everything, everything, everything, and I will listen hard for days

Until your lungs run out of breath.

Our throats exhausted,

Bedridden tangles in our hair will explain our mission 

when they find us locked in a sad, silent spell 

of the only thing left to do: care.

Blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblah, insomniac crappy poetry theater.

I'm to live in the city

That was built here for me,

Each brick laid by hand and warmth

Breathed into rooms.

I'm to sleep here where I

Was laid down in a bed

That held and contained me and was almost home.

I am to drive the roads you paved.

Every day, I am to live in this city

That you painted with me,

Splashed red, 'cause it hurt.

But we lined the streets with lanterns to hide in the shadows,

And tore down the walls to make love in the rubble.

I am to live in this city

Left smoking, in ruins.

Its architect off to more lucrative offers:

Paper skyscrapers and Styrofoam homes.

I will live in this city, 

And will sleep through its crumbling

And let it burn down

And grow back on its own.

Blawg

http://haleycrain.tumblr.com for everyday thoughts and bullshit. 

Dead Love Song*

Well my baby's a zombie,

I hit him ten times in the face

And he didn't feel a thing.

We knew we were dying,

Decided to fight it

But he up and walked

and I still feel the sting.

Where's all your peacocks and 

teacakes and teapots?

When you fall, your chin hits the ground.

I know in the end everything will get broken,

but we could still sit back and 

enjoy the sound.

He rose, well he rose up

From grandaddy's grasses

Decided that he oughta be a man.

But these days he's stirring  

his tea with the ashes 

Of all the things he thought he'd

play by the plans.

Where are your elephants,

Lions and ivory?

When you fire, your shot hits the ground.

I know in the end everything will get broken,

but we could still sit back and 

enjoy the sound.

It's better than rotting away,

it's better than rotting away.

You can't dance with a zombie, but baby believe me,

I would have tried anyway.

My babe was a zombie,

I hit him ten times in the face

And he didn't feel a thing.

We knew we were dying,

Decided to fight it

But he up and walked

and boy, I felt the sting.

It was better than rotting away,

better than rotting away.

I'm sorry you're sad and I'm sad you're not sorry,

But maybe it's best you don't stay.

*Or, "Haley attempts to write something resembling a song and probably makes a fool of herself in the process but oh well it's just a dumb blog"

Angels fall short of all that we could make this life

And they're all assholes anyway;

your heroes and your poets

are dead.  

We right here right now are alive 

and will live forever 

and we will have known our own names.