Neon and Pastel’s blog

i was wondering what an ice age would be like when she appeared
and spoke to me like pineapple juice and ejaculate
two more things that go together:
my name bursting from her throat

those were different days
filling the inbetween moments and twilight hours
with myspace
and masturbation
[the mental type that ends up fucking everyone over]

and yet
i just couldn’t wait to hear my name again
two things i love:
hearing her speak
and the idea of having sex with myself
[the ’making babies’ type that end ups fucking...well...that ends up fucking]

nights like these remind me of nights like those

that grimy taste you get in your mouth the first time you drink water from a foreign land and you think to yourself, i could do this again
return to the same water hole
you bathe in
you swim in
you shit in
so when you get back
the world - your tiny version of it anyway - will shake your cum-covered hand
and call you a hero
a modern day savior
the bastard stepchild of jesus and buddha
yet another moderate
in a world of lukewarm believers

but you’re not a soldier anymore
and god forbid you ever become a minister again

i was wondering what an ice age would be like when she appeared
took my guitar out and fiddled about
tinkered with strings i have never understood
melodies i didn’t deserve to know

and started writing a song about the apocalypse

it sounded awfully familiar.

hopefully, when you read this, you will understand it's meaning.
i am writing at a time when words are becoming scarce;
fleeting memories of proper syntax and grammar
rules that i don't bother to follow myself,
essays and poems and papers on humanity
that will all be forgotten eventually.
and hopefully you will remember me,
the significance of how to read,

he gave her one last kiss for good measure

as if he had the right to determine

the dimensions of love

the volume of passion

the area of relationship

the weight of communication

he gave her one last kiss and let her go

some pseudo savior

with a catch and release mindset

that allowed him to retrieve the biggest 'bass'

without making an ass of himself

because everyone loves a good story about 'the one that got away'

he gave her one last kiss

and thought himself quite the noble one

with his affinity for diplomacy

as if he understood the operation of the heart

with it's intimate idiosyncrasies

and casual codependences

and finite formalities

he gave her one last kiss

and closed a chapter in his life

unfinished like the night

which can always grow

darker

colder

and more alone with each passing moment

but then, he was notorious for leaving his reader wanting more

his lovers wanting nothing more

his loves wanting no more

of his acute immaturity

which set on like an unseen [and often unforseen] plague

causing both host and parasite alike

to choose 'death'

rather than live a life of untold truth forever

and knowing he was nothing more than a boy in man's clothing

he gave her one last kiss

an extra touch of theatrics for old time's sake

and exited the stage

leaving behind

one dark and stoic cape

two 'X's made with tape and

three days of space between his last act and next predictable excuse

as to why he could no longer play the part

he gave her one last kiss

and betrayed his martyr heart

and she became the savior of his world

simply put,

i am allergic to a world without you in it

much like the difficulty i have imagining

religious men without indoctrination

or

foreign men without suspicion

or

homeless men without blame

i cannot comprehend my life without you

and i realize there are medicines for allergies

convincing in their own right

ampoules of 'plenty of fish in the sea'

tablets of ' casual infidelity'

injections of 'this too shall pass'

but nothing will be able to subdue

the allergen known as

'the absence of you'

and frankly, i don't care to discover such a 'cure'

though i don't doubt it exists

simply put, i miss you

much like ministers miss their savior

or

slaves miss their perfect liberty

or

beggars miss their pride

i cannot seem to grasp a galaxy in which you and i are not the center,

hovering in silent space

as the world spins around us

life can be just as pretty

while you're gone,

blooming with the sound of nature's song

brilliant colors

&

entrancing scents

&

all the 'Ob La Di Ob La Das'

to last eternity

but you see

simply put

those blossoms of beauty are meaningless

when i can

hardly see

barely breathe

&

always have to sneeze

i am allergic to a world without you in it

Ah-choo[se] you!

All women are born women.

They long for men because men are merely children, and it is good to know a child's love.

The child that leads us is adorned with a suit of armor; soft skin protecting a hardened heart.

This suit is called a man.

It is nothing more than a defense.

She confesses her sins to a listening night. Bent down and doubled over are the contrite, however, she stands with her head held high, eyes wide like bowls being filled with a liquid light that shines through the stained glass sky. She no longer fears the stars.

All men are born with wisdom.

As they become older, they trade their wisdom for knowledge, and their knowledge for power and their power for a place between a woman's legs, until eventually they are nothing more than a stupid child suffocating inside a deflated suit of armor.

It is a horrible thing to remember being wise once, before putting on a man.

As it goes, a man is a horrible thing.

Rosary beads dangle from her tightened fist like a fallen kite trapped in the grasp of a greedy tree. She passes the pulpit with a hurried sense of duty and stops just shy of the towering crucifix that hangs above her head, suspended by taught metallic wire. There is no prayer for forgiveness, no psalm of gratitude. Her grip squeezes the necklace in her hand with relentless tension until the string breaks, allowing the beads to fall and scatter at her feet.

All children are born from hope.

They are not innocent as they would seem but instead more attune to purity.

Their bodies have not been burdened with the weight of the world.

Their souls have not been scathed with the flames of hurt.

They are as burning candles, slowly melting into time and we should know better to cherish their light.

She gazes at the iron mold of Christ;   limbs, stretched out and held in place by nine-inch nails, a crown of thorns pressed firmly down into his already beaten brow, lashes from a hungry whip stretched across his surrendered flesh, and an open gash between his bruised and broken ribs. "I wouldn't have been as merciful" she exhales with a murderous breath. "I wouldn't have let you die as easily as that." With a fiery contempt, she removes her clothes and begins to climb.

All humans are born again.

They remain as such until the day their dust returns to dust.

One birth takes place inside the hollow womb, the other just outside the womb's domain- where they are born, truly born again.

The spirit is the spark that fills the flesh; the flesh becomes the child that we know – but – what do we know?

With legs wrapped tightly around the waist of the hanging statue, she brings herself face to face with the slaughtered lamb of god.   Her arms extend with his; hands grasping the iron nails protruding from inanimate palms. His chest is cold and lifeless against her naked breasts as she begins to thrust her hips in one fluid motion.   Her mouth hovers above his, their lips occupying one space, one moment in time. They kiss, and as she reaches climax, her head tilts back to reveal two weeping eyes and one defiant smile.

"I forgive you", she whispers with peaceful betrayal.  Relaxing her now weakened thighs and throwing her own arms out to her side, she plummets to the Parrish floor and breathes her last.

All women are born women.

They long for men because men are merely children and it is good to know a child's love.

The child that leads us is adorned with a suit of armor; soft skin protecting a hardened heart.

This suit is called god.

It is nothing more than a defense.

it snowed the day before your uncle died.
thin falling flakes
more wet than frozen.
we ate our perspective meals
in a small cafe,
in an even smaller town,
and watched the world descend
outside the window.

had I known then what we know now,
I would have grabbed you suddenly,
pulled you out into the falling sky,
pulled you in to my chest,
and whispered in tones
as soft as the snow on our faces:

"If our lives are but a moment, than I'll love you in this life"

that night,
with the ice covered streets
and shivering teeth
behind us,
you sat at your piano
and squeezed your heart out
through your fingertips
like toothpaste
on pearly whites.

and without regrets,
had I known then what we know now,
I would have stood behind you
and rested my hands
on your tired shoulders,
barely singing
a harmony:

"If our lives are but a moment, than I'll love you in this life"

it snowed the day before your uncle died
but somehow, in the purge of icy tears
that fell from prophetic clouds
new life was born
in the form
of two melted hearts