APAD #24: Gloss

I want nothing more than to rest the head
of my finger upon your cushion lips,
to lay there as we watch daytime sitcom reruns on TV

Neither of us laughing,
Neither of us minding that

And my finger so comfortable
that there is no way in hell it's getting up to change the channel.

[End. Short because I suddenly realised I had one minute until the deadline. Britains, go see "In the Loop". I laughed so much it hurt. GOODNIGHT]

APAD #23: Life and How to Relive It

I like to think we write a new manifesto
Every time we leave the house
Every time we ditch work to play in snow
Every time we declared "Fuck tomorrow morning"
Every time we decided to do a second encore

- but really, all we ever did
was reiterate the rules of reverie and abandon
that we'd learned from midbudget movies
(So they could afford to have your favourite band's
dumbest song soundtrack the emotional climax,
But not so they couldn't afford not to desperately appeal
to my one man demographic)

Susan doesn't care for my philosophy.
"Why give a shit about being 'original' so long as you're having fun?"
I would wonder about this,
but a smile like that is near impossible to disagree with.
If she never takes up any dangerous philosophies,
we're all fucked.

[End. Written whilst listening to The Microphones and The Weakerthans. Title in reference to the not-as-good-as-it's-title (but then, could it possibly be?) R.E.M. song "Life and How to Live It"]

APAD #20: One Worries About These Things

I no longer have bad dreams
about giant spiders
dead children
and nuclear armaggedon.

Instead I have nightmares
where I have gone mad
and am halucinating all of the above.*

But mainly?
Mainly I have bad dreams
where I cannot work out the plural form of
"apoclypse"
And resultingly have to rewrite large sections of poetry
with only 15 mintues to go before my self imposed
NaPoWriMo midnight deadline.

*Full disclosure:
I was also halucinating giant statues of Disney charachters
And fast food items.
But that doesn't sound scary, horrible or cliched
does it?

[End. One can only hope that tomorrow something interesting will happen for me to poem about. Alternatively, maybe I'll grow an imagination.]

APAD #19: The Sound of No Strings Swelling

Your heart keeps beating at the same speed it always has,
The rain falls as fast and as heavy as it ever did.
There's a vile little popping sound as your lips part
And an even worse wet whack when they re-engage.

No strings swell, no soft focus, no camera spin.
You let your eyes open and look up
at the triangular window, high above the door
hoping for the moon but all you see is grey
so you close them again.
And keep kissing and keep wishing
you could stop thinking about the phrase "bacteria transfer".

Hollywood has lied to us again:
Slow mo never kicks in when you need it.

[End. Written whilst listening to Saint Etienne.]

APAD#18: Some Silent Prophet Taking Comfort

When everyone I know and/or love is dead and/or gone
At least I will never have to wait outside Topshop again
Cursing the disgusting young beauties in my head
Whilst a sister or friend buys shoes.

When everyone I know and/or love is dead and/or gone
At least I will be able to stop pretending I tolerated
The bastards they hung out with when I wasn't there
The funerals will be spectacular, I assure you.
No one will walk away unscathed.
Except me: Still cussing inaudibly,
Some silent prophet, taking comfort where I can
Now that everyone I know and/or love is dead and/or gone.

[End. Written whilst listening to Destroyer's Watercolours Into the Ocean. Written in a single 4 minute burst except for the first two lines which I drafted in my head about eight hours ago. Not edited.]

APAD #17: Things That Need Naming #23

The feeling where you are:

Experiencing
(watching/listening to/reading/seeing)
art that you are certain you enjoyed
(loved/adored/lived for/took as your personal Bible)
just a few years ago when you were basically* the same person you are now
(13/14/15/16/17)
And finding, much to your horror
(dismay/shock/disgust/shame/sadness/nausea)
That you no longer like it all that much.

It's disorientating, is what it is.
*And you and I know both know that THAT
is total bullshit.

[End. First person to guess which film I should never have rewatched wins something.]

APAD #12: Ten Possible Titles For My Poetry Collection (Lazy List Poem #7)

1. More Poems About Girls and Alcohol
2. Adventures in the Post-Teenage Wasteland: A Memoir in Poems*
3. POETRY IS DEAD//LONG LIVE ME.
4. These Are Not Poems*
5. All Of These Poems Are About You Yes You Yes You*
6. How I Survived The Pokemon Years
7. You and Me and What Facebook Did To Our Relationship
8. Everyone Dies At the End*
9. Nobody Dies At the End*
10. A Rope Of Sand - An Epic Historical Novel In The Form of 45 Pieces of Short Prose Poetry*

*I figure if I obviously lie in the title
People will have a good idea of exactly what it is they're getting into.
Writers owe the reader nothing.

[End. I'm too tired to be anything other than mildly amusing. Normal service resumes tomorrow, with a poem about girls or alcohol or maybe a sequel to yesterday's look into the world of the Young Poet. Who knows? I may actually use any/all of these as titles for things at some point. Written whilst listening to: Yet more Okkervil River, and some Art Brut.]

Quick Notes

1. You can get the new Dirty Projector's single for free here: http://www.dominorecordco.us/usa/news/09-04-09/dirty-projectors--free-track/ for the price of an e-mail adress and it's absolutely amazing. I listened to about 9 times in a row after I downloaded it. This is what your summer is going to sound like. [Well, this and Phoenix]

2. I now have that Google Follower box thing going on (I know one of you was having trouble Following me) so scroll way down on the right for that.

If you're looking for Saturday's NaPoWriMo Poem, it's beneath this.

APAD #5: If It Were Shared

If it were shared
the unending opressive warmth (even with windows open)
the blinding white hot sunlight (even with eyes shut)
the gravity that stops me lifting my legs (even with hours of effort)
the impossibly heavy duvet that I cannot shift...

If it were shared,
the sum of this could be a damn good sunday.

As is though:
It's hell.

[End. Written and Edited whilst listening to Superchunk]