A world of Oxymorons

SOPA

2012-01-17T20:52:00.001-08:00

Comic of the Week... Gunshow

2011-02-08T22:40:00.000-08:00

I decided that I would do something a little different and share a online comic that I find epic (or at least ridiculously awesome)on every Wednesday from now on until the end of time or of my attention span. I hope you find my choices refreshing, that they will make you leap with joy and enhance your wittiness!

Happy Reading,

Amanda

link:

http://gunshowcomic.com

Years

2011-02-07T20:18:00.000-08:00

I can hear my cigarette hiss

Through my lips, cancerous bliss

Colors dimmed I fight the urge

To scream at you

You're not even here.

If I told you once I told you twice

Time to shut up, take your own advice

There was a time I could lean on you

Now I scream at you

I want back those years.

Foot in mouth embrace your disease

The idea's not so fucking hard to seize

I stand up and scream just leave

It's quiet now

I want back those years.

The Desire For Initiative

2011-02-02T20:54:00.000-08:00

Hey I'm as high as a kite,

so I though that i might ,

take initiative and write.

I'd like to tell you what passes through my wandering mind,

I'd whisper to you about kangaroos and

wonder If you've ever been to the zoo.

I'd take you there, and we could scare ostriches and peacocks,

Any birds with other obscure names helping out my writers block.

I think I would laugh at the flurry feathers swirling around your leather.

Sorry, if this letter is lacking in rhythm and structure but that's not

How I write, I think that words need not be solid infrastructure,

Because, these ideas won't collapse and crumble to dust.

I've not stumbled,

Though I'd thought I might;

Taking initiative to write.

Damn right.

2008-12-02T13:55:00.000-08:00

A new acquaintance whose blog I had read over recently inspired me to do a quick little review (and a little advertising) for one of my best friends, Andreanne, who is in my opinion a wonderful singer/songwriter. None of her original songs are up on her website, unfortunately, but I can have you listen to some of the few covers that I consider musical jems.

On her myspace, http://www.myspace.com/andreannesmusic, I was recently enticed by her new cover, Karma Police by Radiohead. She has an excellent voice and an great handle on the song, even if she told me that it was just a rough recording. My other favorites, though she only has four up so far (though I hope to see some more really soon!) are her Bob Dylan Cover, It Ain't Me as well as her chillingly melancholic interpretation of Hallelujah.

Although obviously very biased, I highly recommend taking a few minutes for a little easy listening. Her rich but soft voice is very relaxing and worth the trip across the net.

Happy listening,

Amanda

2008-11-10T20:26:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting on the couch again but this time it's so hot and the windows are full of fog cause it's just so damn cold out there. Though nothing, no one is keeping me from being here, from being anywhere I feel guilty about being so at ease with you lighting another cigarette and taking a long drag. You joke about something I think is stupid but I laugh cause it's all just a joke really.

Now I'm high again, my mind floating adrift the tendrils of smoke that irritate my eyes and nostrils. Words are bouncing off the ceiling and into my mind but they are quickly forgotten and replaced by my surroundings. A kitchen full of empties and a coffee table with a bottle of JD. A pile of clothes and a lawn chair. I think it looks dirty but cool. "Pass me the Jack I want another swig, my throat is dry."

Swaying again I wish someone would grab me and knock some common sense into me. This high that won't last. This blur that will soon clear and things could be going either way. I will go back to the bruises on my hands from punching the wall, to the circular burn on my finger from another night of forgetting. I will go back to the woods where this all began, to the tent, to the rushed, hushed voices and the drunken yearning that made me seem like nothing less than a fool.

"I could keep doing this all night," he said, "I could drive you fucking wild. I could have you screaming and begging me for more..."

He always whispered all this erotic shit into my ear.

I fucked him. I was drunk and horny and I fucked him.

I'm on top of him and I'm upside down and backwards and I'm all too wasted to be ashamed of my nakedness. I can hear him panting but I can't feel. I don't want to feel anything but this anymore. He's finished now and he topples over. I can feel his weight next to mine and I groan in the hopes of getting his attention. He turned around and held me until I fell into sweet oblivion...

To be continued.

(Togther Apart)

2008-04-08T17:38:00.000-07:00

This must be subjective fiction.
Your hands on her face; this is not time, I must be in some other place close by because it seems all too real. You whisper words of comfort into ears that are not my own, my clone, these lines in between are blurring out of shape. "I have to go now," is just another phrase. There is no hint of you wanting to stay here, or there with me, with she. "My feet are still cold." "Put on some socks."

This must be subjective.
Walking home from there, from here, I see pools of water on the road. The trees above me, below me, reflected underneath me. Their bare branches waving, welcoming, come hither, they will beg me to stay. "If I jump into this puddle maybe I'll fall in to another world." "You'll most likely just get your feet wet, and then what good'll those socks do?" To you it is just a spot of wet left over from the rain; to me it is a gate to a world where holding hands is the sole decree.

The staring game.

2008-03-27T18:34:00.000-07:00

You blinked and I was gone.

(Fictionalizing Reality)

2008-03-19T16:23:00.000-07:00

I scream for release.
The booze warms up my insides but my feet are cold against the linoleum floor, "what am I doing here again?", I ask him. He cannot find the voice, never mind the words with which he could reply. "How long have I been here? It feels like I have been drinking forever." Maybe it was the walls swaying, or maybe it was the soft smoke he was blowing into the air as he looked down at me, but the edges were soft and welcoming.

I dream for release.
The fridge's gentle hum annoys me when I am trying to sleep. It keeps me up all hours of the night, when he lays holding me, softly snoring. His sheets lay above us like a secret society, an irresistible pledge to allegiance so alluring, a fleeting feeling of a promise spoken years ago. My dream worlds are far away and he's talking in his sleep again. "Do you ever shut up or are you going to mumble like a psycho all night long?" He is, indeed, asleep.

I scream.
Louder than I ever had, and the booze is still burning my throat, or is that just me yelling again? Either way this is trouble but losing my voice is appealing, the excuse to give no excuses. "Sorry I have no voice..." He is looking at me from the other side of the room, I am in the spotlight now, swaying on stage, I am drowning in the music that I long to lend my voice to. I lend it to the night and to the crowd too, but mostly it's to the constant beat that pounds inside my head.

I dream.
I am in a house with a thousand doors, wandering around so that I can find that fridge and pull the plug. The milk will turn sour and lay like jello in the carton, and your ice cream will melt to the linoleum floor, and most likely my feet will get all sticky, but at least I will be able to sleep. Or am I already dreaming? The smoke is choking me, the edges are now blurred and I am swaying. "I think I am about to faint." "Try not to get your hair into my ice cream if you do."

I.
Am chain smoking and fiction writing.
Am drinking and falling down and picking things up that are not there.
Am getting my hair into your melted vanilla ice cream and my feet are all sticky.

I.
Am fictionalizing smoking.
Am falling into drinking and picking you up.
Am getting ice cream into my dream hair and my feet are still cold against the floor.

My Art Work

2008-03-12T09:33:00.001-07:00

Hey guys,

lately I have been up to some painting and I really love this new peice that I have...

Looking for some feedback, what do you think? (It's my second time painting on canvas, and I started 2 weeks ago.)

Online comics I love - and that you should too.

2008-03-10T22:12:00.000-07:00

Hey so these are a few great comics that are fun to read. If you have time to kill you should try em. If not. Try them anyway. Cause they are just friggin awesome.

http://www.asofterworld.com/ ---> totally wise insanity. I love the sick twists the artists put on their work, and how they worked photography into comics.

http://pbfcomics.com/ ---> irony galore, brilliant images. Just plain hilarious. I read the whole thing through.

http://www.americanelf.com/ ---> Really cute, I came to love the life of James Kochalka through his web-blog-diary-comic site.

http://xkcd.com/ ---> funny nerdiness.

http://www.fartparty.org/ ---> so funny, so vulgar, so i wish i could be that crude sometimes...

http://questionablecontent.net/ ---> like an online soap opera. i like how the characters evolve, emotionally and drawing-style wise.

a box.

2008-01-22T20:47:00.000-08:00

I tried to fit 3 years neatly into a box. You know what box it is, it was your box, with your letters that I had saved. I saved every letter because they were a part of you.
I took down all the pictures. They did not want to come off the walls, the blue gummy stuff clung to them as if for dear life. I did once too. The last picture I put away was the pictures of you and me. It was only a few a weeks ago, we took them in a photo booth. I know you remember. I did not like those pictures because I could see my eyes. They did not have love in them, they looked like they had given in and run out of smiles for you. I think they really did this time, but it kills me to admit it to myself.

There are some dried flowers in that box. They were one of the first bouquets you offered me. Those were my favorites. You came up to me with a sad smile, because you forgot to put them in water and they were all lopsided. They smelled bittersweet, almost sour.

Your clothes are in my bottom left drawer, I still don't know what to do with them. Everything im my room is you. I am wearing your sweater. I forgot it was yours until I really had to think about it. I had to take off the ring you gave me 2 and a half years ago. This marks the first time my finger goes without it in 2 and a half years. I had to put away your butterfly necklace because it reminded me of a million things, and I can't think of those right now. I think I still have your tooth brush. I think I'm falling apart. I'm dying to call you and to talk about what is breaking my heart. But I can't.

I told you I would love you forever and never have I been so sorry because never did I believe more than than that I would. I don't know if you will read this, but if perchance you do, I hope you know that everytime I said "I love you", I meant it and it was all true.

Midnight Vampires

2007-12-18T15:29:00.000-08:00

You wrapped the Christmas lights around your head,
a halo,
and switched on the power.
You looked like a multicoloured angel my love.

I dreamt of soft colors dimming in the computer glow,

Yes.

I think that was you and me.

We looked like midnight vampires waiting for a fight.

Should the soft sheets tangle we could play a while,

you and I,

multicolored angel vampires.

Making love while computer light bleaches our skin.

The travelling bum

2007-11-23T09:19:00.000-08:00

I gave my sandwich to a bum.

I know I know. I have heard it a million times before.
Do not give money to the homeless or you will end up on the street along with them. They are just going to hit the bottle. They are too lazy to change. But I do not believe in those sayings. I do not believe in closing my eyes, or clutching my purse closer to my being. I do not wish to turn away and pretend that all this doesn’t exist.
So I gave my sandwich to a man maybe if only because his sign said “feed the travelling bum”… Though I have seen signs my entire life.
Do not feed the animals.
Do not park here.
No loitering.

Feed the travelling bum.

He was sleeping in a corner of the metro station. He was so young, he must have been barely 20, but the dark purple rings under his eyes aged him by a thousand years. In his left hand he held an empty paper cup hanging limply from his dirty fingers. His other hand was buried somewhere in the midst of one of his two coats. He was sleeping on the floor all his worldly possessions around him with his cardboard sign propped up against his bag. I felt sick. This felt wrong. This is wrong.

I tried to keep walking but it felt like my legs were weighted down, like some kind of cosmic being was pulling me back. I pulled my school bag off of my back and rummaged in it until I found my sandwich. For some reason I had packed myself an extra one that morning. I realised then that I had made it for him. For the travelling bum. .

I gave my sandwich to a travelling bum.
I have never felt so hungry and so full.

Irony.

2007-11-14T20:00:00.001-08:00

My beautiful Princess of Irony. I love the magic of paint, don't you?

(Train Banter)

2007-11-14T15:08:00.000-08:00

Allow me to introduce myself. I am the queen of digression, the princess of irony, the oxymoronic prophet. I ride the train twice a day for 45 minutes to get somewhere, in every sense of the expression. I stand on metros (subways for those who do not know Montreal lingo) for half an hour each day and I cannot ride a bike. Once when I was 12 I… sorry. Anyway. I see things that are strange on the train that I ride from one end of the line to the other, things you may find offensive. If you have kids, you should plug their ears and hide their eyes so as not to see the monstrosities of the people who ride the train. Well, not all people. Some just read newspapers, paperback novels or gossip magazines. I am not fond of the latter, if you want to know the truth. Some just listen to their MP3s and their iPods others just type away at their laptops. I am the latter. But only when I get lucky enough to get on the rush-hour train and get a seat, in which case I am the middle man, in the sense of train pass-times. Mine is pink. But I digress.

I see strange people on the train, interesting people and tired looking people, all kinds of people. But the people I like to see the less on a train are the people who are answering their cell phones and screaming out their personal lives. “SO ARE YOU COMING TO THE PARTY TONIGHT? I HEAR IT IS GOING TO BE AWESOME!!!” I’m sure that most of us surrounding these persons are wondering one of the following; Is the person they are talking to hard of hearing or is the person screaming who cannot hear themselves? Or, “why was I not invited that party.. I’m free!” my personal favourite would just be a good old fashioned “shut up for all of our lives sakes!”…

Then there are the just-done-shopping people. I have an excellent example of this kind of people, as I had bumped into a couple of them just yesterday. A translation will follow.
“Hey, j’ai vraiment besoin d’un fucking smoke.”
Let us step back for two seconds now. What would happen if we replaced every swear in their vocabulary with a less aggressive word? I would suggest “toggle”, but honestly, just take a word that YOU feel comfortable with. A funny word. Know what word I find funny? Poodle. Moving on.
“Ouin, moi aussi j’ai besoin d’un toggling smoke.”
“T’as-tu vu mon nouveau chandail?”
“Y’est un peu simple, non?”
“Ah, mais yé tellement cute. J’peux-tu voir le tien?”
(Taking of shirt from cute pink bag)
“Oh, wow! C’est un beau chandail pyjama”
“… C’est pas un chandail pyjama…”
“Ben, ça pourrait en passer pour un…”
(This is where it gets good. Queue cheesy cell phone ring tone. That’s right folks, not only was this person a done-shopping-person, she was also about to become a scream-about-my-personal-life-over-the-phone person. The poor girl was doomed to start.)
(PERSONAL STUFF I DIDN’T NEED TO KNOW ABOUT)
“Hey, skuse la… Ca te deranges-tu si on va au toggling (insert cute café name here)?”
(lots of toggles interrupted by multiple cell phone discussions)

So you get do you get the point yet? Oh. I promised an English translation, didn’t I? Well it’s down in the footnotes, don’t get your skivvies in a bunch... Know what other word I find funny? Flip-flop. What kind of an insult to the English language is that? Yes, I suppose some could argue that it is an onomatopoeia, but still. It’s not much better in French either… Gougoune. Seriously. I give up.

So back to riding the train. To the symphony of cell phone ring tones ranging from Beethoven to Kanye West. To the sweaty people squished up like sardines in between the rows of seated people. This is the stuff of dreams, I tell you. Pure unadulterated dreams. Well, I hope that you got to have an enlightening look into the life of a (common?) commuter. There will be many more stories ensuing, I can promise. There are always interesting people on the train. People reading newspapers, sleeping standing up. People not buying train tickets and getting tickets from train authorities (those are my favourite people to smirk at, I just can’t help it. The irony of it kills me.) Just everyday people like you and me sitting in pastel coloured seats and trying to make it home in one sane piece.

#. “Hey I really need a toggling smoke.”
“Ya, I need a toggling smoke too.”
“Did you see my new shirt?”
“It’s a little simple, don’t you think?”
“Ya, but it’s so cute. Can I see yours?”
“Oh wow! That’s such a nice pyjama top!”
“… It’s not a pyjama top…”
“Well, it could be…”
(...)
"Hey, sorry, do you mind if we go to toggling (insert said cofee shop name here)

iHuman

2007-11-09T19:27:00.000-08:00

I am cold. I have dreams and I am all too human, and inhuman, an iHuman… I have felt a million feelings, but none of them were my own. I have lived others feelings, I have killed my own. iHuman. If you were to cut into my simili-flesh you would hit the steel that makes me unreal. I have lived a million dreams it seems that none of them do anything but fall apart at the seams. iHuman. My lava lamp mind floating ideals, of the surreal dream to feel. 3D affects, my glasses are broken and all I see is the ceiling, the blues and greys of other days that have killed me in a hundred different ways. iHuman prays to stay decent if only for one more day in the fray of a gently cloaked lie. I am cold, iHuman, I have only dreamed of inner warmth once before your hands touched my skin, this skin I have deplored. iHuman I broke my own glasses and I set the times, the rhymes, confined in the shadow of this gently cloaked lie. I am cold.

Strawberry fields

2007-11-07T17:37:00.000-08:00

We have spent a million days together. We have had good days and bad days, yes, everyone has those days. We’ve spent days holding hands, holding our breaths or just holding each other up. There were days spent under noon skies, in strawberry fields, touching shoulders and staring up into space. Touching fingers and staring into each other’s eyes.

We have watched autumn leaves fall and set the ground on fire, only to have the soft crystals of snow put out the flames. We have run home in the sun and walked to senseless places in the rain. We have shared blankets, colds, hot chocolates, cherry popsicles, successes and failures.

There were days we spent under umbrellas and over bridges. There were days where I lay broken hearted and dull, until you walked into the room and lit it up with your love. Sometimes it felt like all we had was each other. Some days it was true.

We have loved each other in mid-July and at the end of December. We have kept secrets and broken promises, but at the end of the day, we only had a million days together under cloudy skies and starry skies, keeping ourselves together when everything else was falling apart.

Justine's new blog

2007-10-08T20:04:00.000-07:00

I removed the story of Justine from this blog, seeing as it was consuming it, and that is not what my blog is all about. I feel she deserves her own blog. And so here it is for those who are interested in reading further.

justine-the-enovel.blogspot.com

hope you all enjoy,

Amanda

(Untitled) - Randomness

2007-07-19T10:19:00.000-07:00

So the cigarette lays in it's tray and burns itself away,
And the wisps of smoke choke us and broke the mould
That shaped us into this joke so telltale
We failed. But that's just a minor detail.

Your fingers got caught up in my hair.
I got caught in your stare so austere. Almost there,
We catch ourselves gasping for air as if it was all we ever had.
And so it was 'til our throats burned with the last of our emotions.

Our devotion to our motions is clear
And you appear sincere so I draw you near
To hear the beat of my metronome ticking
In it's dome, it's constant drone
Drowning out the phone.
Hun, I think our fun
is done.

Complex Obsessions

2007-07-13T21:06:00.000-07:00

Yeah, we're all part of this
twilight

Zone(d) out of this
galaxy

Realities that seem
unreal

To you and me.

We fixed up the settings

The light bulbs, by candle
light

A complex obsession, yes.

You and I.

Done!!!

2007-06-19T10:40:00.000-07:00

I. Am. Done. High School.
Done. Killing. Myself. Softly.
(Without. Pretty. Songs.)
I. Can. Now. Sit. Back.
And. Just. Enjoy.
Living.

Excuses.

2007-06-10T18:03:00.000-07:00

We had our excuses. The many, the few. We drove ourselves mad reasoning with the wrong trying to set things right. We had good times and grey skies, sometimes simultaneously, but those days are far and few between. We've had days beneath rain clouds, and storm clouds and clouds that hung low and threatning, but that didn't do much at all.

We drove ourselves mad with summer fevers and while trying to play Marco Polo, though the only lakes we had to play in were in our minds. Yes, we can both agree that our minds are bent and twisted but that mattered little or just not at all. We lived in a world built on a foundation of excuses and our faces, at that discovery, betrayed our obvious dismay.

Okay so this one's for my baby's cocky-ness

2007-05-26T19:34:00.000-07:00

So we were sitting at the kitchen table deciding what to do and you suggested cards. Okay, great, cards. I'm not a fan of cards but what the hell. Crazy 8's. I won 3/3. So you rolled up your proverbial sleeves and told me we would play a real game. A mans game. Texas hold em'. Should you win you get my shirt. Yes. My shirt. Should I win I get your shirt. But you have to leave my house and go home after.... We played a few rounds and I could see your pride slowly dissipating. Then it was looking good for you for a while and we played for a good half hour and I had a lot of fun...

I think I'll wear your shirt as my pyjama top tonight.
Thanks. :D

cocaine dreams

2007-05-10T15:04:00.000-07:00

We laid on our backs in the grass staring without actually seeing the shooting (up) stars, and while our bodies lay low (high) we went on a (trip) ride on some comets and such. When we took the time to come back to earth, we were still just another generation of lovers until we made (love) out in public & everyone stared. Then, naked and exhausted, our teeth chattering something terrible, we gathered up our clothes and walked our way back to the place we call home.

The sky was any colour now and the pregnant moon was full of last hope wishes. We held hands and stared right back at the masses who had accusing eyes. This crime we did not commit hovers over us like a thousand broken promises wilting with time. There was a tree in the distance and though it was summer, it was bare. Dead, desolate. We carved our initials in it's bark as if to sign the ''4ever'' contract that was already there. The grass was dry and it cut our bare legs, though we still could not feel. We sat under this tree and spoke of a million different scenarios that had once crossed our minds. We carve the butts of our cigarettes into the ground and watch the last wisps of smoke escape our chapped lips.

It wasn't until I awoke that I realised that you had long since left me alone in my cocaine dreams. If I had cared to notice, perhaps I would have smelled your scent, your distinct natural cologne that sticks to you, always. But I do not care to notice and you are gone. The sun is rising now and my clothes are all astray across this lonely field. Our cigarettes lay bunched up on the ground and I wonder how long ago their cinders went out. Yes I am alone, but for this tree, and for my thoughts, and your cologne. Hours ago we were making love and doing lines, and I wanted to stay in an ersatz reverie forever. Now wish I was somewhere else with my goddamn self.

Remembering yesterday

2007-05-07T15:36:00.000-07:00

The cellophane flowers caressed the evening sky and littered my front lawn and I was breathless. I ran down the street to catch up with you, to tell you that things would all work out in the end. But like in the movies, you were gone as soon as you turned the corner of my street. I didn't really know if things would come together, if they were really meant to be, like peanut butter and jelly, or Oreos and milk, but I hoped and sometimes I prayed, though to be honest, I wasn't too sure if someone was listening. But anyways. The flowers were caressing the sky and so on and so forth, and the phone was wailing, screaming for attention that I was unwilling to give. How did he disappear around the corner so fast? Why do people always call at dinner time? Does the sushi place deliver on Sundays? Hell my mind was racing and the finish line was nowhere in sight. So I lay in the grass among the flowers and started to count the stars that shimmer in the moon light, but I lost count after 66 or 92 ... did I already count that one? I dunno... I think of him once again and about his infamous talent for vanishing out of sight when the time doesn't call for it... Maybe he has some sort of superpower? Most of what I'm thinking doesn't make much sense to me, but I don't mind because I'm in a comfortable place right now, and I don't think I'm leaving anytime soon. I'll just stay here remembering today. But the watch says 12:02. Okay. Remembering yesterday.

Silly dreamer

2007-04-23T18:14:00.000-07:00

She sits in the rain
Elegantly, she watched the water form into droplets and fall
Another delicate scene playing on behind heavily closed eyes
She lets the sins slowly fill her up, however small.

The water runs warm
Down her cheeks and to her neck, elusive and pale
Her slender fingers intertwining deep other thoughts
Breathe in deep, let it all go, just inhale.

She stands up
To beseech the hiding sun to show for maybe just a while
Take away the chill she feels inside since he has departed
But he refuses to shine and she declines the offer to smile.

Silly dreamer…
He won’t come back today

cake

2007-04-23T18:11:00.001-07:00

Could we just lay here and exchange witty and playful banter for hours without end, forever? We could live in our own Neverland and just never grow old or tired of the dull rhythm of life. You're my drug, my heroine... God these urges just keep coming on stronger after each and every hit where we would fly on shooting stars and share our views from the moon. Our hearts on fire we'd light up in the room, any room. Anywhere. Were we drunk or just high on emotion? High strung, high pitched voices screaming for release a last ditch effort to feel something sincere. Sometimes I would crumple the newspapers I would read half-heartedly and throw them to the ground of our strange candy-land and we would argue over who should pick it up. Then we would head to our little run down home and smash our bottles down just because we like the sound of things breaking when they are not a part of us.
Oh yes the world was nicer then but it is just a gorgeous now in it's Tim Burton's kind of style. It is not sorry for being black and grey and full of lonely characters and therein lives it's beauty. So I guess we'll just lay here in each other's arms watching the world fade into a fuzzy haze and we'll stare at ourselves in amazement as our walls fall down and everything around us turns to rainbows full of everything we've ever held dear.
''Now this is what I call a cake'' '''... What cake?'' ''... Um.. I love you?''

lunar power

2007-04-23T18:08:00.001-07:00

We live this dream in moon clouds, in technicolour and the details are vague but we don't mind so much. We have left our reasonable, rational skins behind us in a ball on the ground and we now wear more absurd attire on our freckled skin. We'll use our dusty 3-D glasses and see ourselves looking so real we could almost touch fingers again. But the florescent stars that light up our world are flickering out and this dingy dream is getting jaded again. Change the batteries will ya, the red light is flashing again Then the lights of a stranger place will drown out our own and blind our already near-sighted hearts. Maybe we should just take out our old space rocket and and play a game of polo amongst our neon stars... Just until our world starts making sense again.. Or at least until the lights go back on...

Calling all cats

2007-03-23T21:37:00.000-07:00

The scene is red lights and harlequins
Their hips swaying in time to the music
Wisps of smoke twirling in the air
That seem to come from nowhere

They gaze at chatoyant raining sequins
Snap scarlet painted fingers to the beat
Swift tango kisses pass between lovers
Beckoning to share more under covers

A wink a smile a laugh calls every cat
That ever roamed that evening’s streets
“Come spend the night where every chick
Out looking for some kinky kicks”

Til the shining red lights evanesce by fault of morning brightness
When the smoke gives way and the sequins fade out of view
The deadpan harlequins return to their off beat living death
And the johns and dolls go home to catch their breath.