Author: hotsurf

Like to travel, read, play cello etc.

Script.

It's always a good time so why do I resent it?
It's situational family comedy with strangers.
Maybe that's where I find the plot:
I'm no one & that's fine.
And hardship cloaks my misery & loneliness
like sweet crafty.
If I can be noticed, if I find my place,
maybe it's all worth it.
Tell others' stores by telling my own
without taking charge.
I put something on the line but
never too much until, "Action."

No title.

If you really look what do you see?
The space in front of your face filled with dreams.
But when you focus there's nothing really there.
And when you blink to discern it's gone forever.

If you really look what you're going to find?
Maybe love, maybe loss, maybe something dumb.
When you pause to write who guides you hand?
When the rhyme is not a rhyme but a breath.

If you really love what's gonna be the keep?
Blood flows, tears fall and a will is croaked.
When you dare to grieve who's holding your head?
The light is dim but the sun still shines.

Comfort child.

I'm a comfort child who's unwanted,
a band aid to my parents' broken spirits.
Forced to grow a pair to shoulder the burden
that my parents wouldn't acknowledge.
They do that by doing to me what's
been done to them as if to say, "
Let's share a life that's painful."
I'm no comfort child. I don't care any more.
Your emotion is yours to ignore, so is
your health, your finance, your power trips & back.
I'm tired of being sick all the time worrying
about if you're warm enough, calm enough, when
you care none of it, so you can't care for me.
I'm a comfort to myself & my heart's desires.
That is all!

Narci-sext

I cry after I masturbate
at the accompaniment of piano.
It's a great relief all things considered.
I don't have to think of other people.

The attractions of sex as a female:
the titts, the lips, the old cave.
It's the primal mission of survival
with the soul weeps another layer.

Why do we have to think when we don't have to?
To make art? To fill the gap? To beg for more?
Keep it simple while simple gets you dead.
I'd take that hint & cram it up my own ass.

My heaven.

My heaven is a Japanese 7/11.
The fresh stuff, seasonal miracles.
All lovelily, lovingly packaged.
The drinks are elixirs, the chips angel wings.
The prices are cheap, at the counter
they apologize for their humble politeness.

I'd get a veggie bun steamy hot from the oven
and egg sandwiches that have no rough edges,
a rare find is the holiday white peach thingies.
All kinds of onigiris especially with wild plants.
After I die, I'd go straight to a Japanese 7/11.

Garden.

There's a dagger in my heart,
shackles on both my arms.
My legs are running fast.
All I see is blood red.

The contorted soul looking for relief.
Don't know how & don't know where.
Too scared to look within,
afraid there's hell fire.

What's important is on the inside.
Know the garden that's neglected.
Build fences instead of walls.
It takes time & wisdom to be organic.

The sea.

I'm correcting a giant barnacled ship
whose rudder's stuck at true Pain
in the mindless sea where no fish swims
where the skeleton crew is true to its name.

The Capitain searches for the Voodoo doll
from a witch with bloody needles & a kind smile.
He's stuck with her & she with him.
Though they struck land, there they remained.