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stoned before school. current song: you know i'm no good by amy winehouse meet you downstairs in the bar and heard your rolled up sleeves and your skull t-shirt you say why did you do it with him today? and sniff me out like i was tanqueray cause you're my fella my guy hand me your stella and fly by the time i'm out the door you tear me down like roger moore i cheated myself like i knew i would i told you i was trouble you know that i'm no good upstairs in bed with my ex boy he's in the place but i can't get joy thinking of you in the final throes this is when my buzzer goes run out to meet your chicks and bitter you say when we're married cause you're not bitter there'll be none of him no more i cried for you on the kitchen floor i cheated myself like i knew i would i told you i was trouble you know that i'm no good sweet reunion jamaica and spain we're like how we were again i'm in the tub you're on the seat lick your lips as i soak my feet then you notice little carpet burn my stomach drops and my guts churn you shrug and it's the worst to truly stuck the knife in first i cheated myself like i knew i would i told you i was trouble you know that i'm no good my limbs are heavier than i remember them being. my fingers are slow to respond to the impulses that i know that my brain is sending them. the low spark of high heeled boys is playing now. my dad loves this song. i find that now that i'm older i've been seeking out a lot of the music that my father played for me when i was young, and i'm not exactly sure of my motives. i suppose it has something to do with wanting to be accepted by him in a way, and maybe it's partially grasping at a childhood that went away all too quickly; either way, i know that another part of it is that i find meaning in a lot of the lyrics he used to quote. i can't name the number of times i listened to the talking heads' life during wartime or bob seger's traveling man and thought in my head that those songs were written for me, about me. if i gave you everything that i own, and asked for nothing in return, would you do the same for me as i would for you? or would you take me for a ride? and strip me of everything, including my pride? but spirit is something that no one destroys. and the sound that i'm hearing is only the sound of the low spark of high heeled boys. i remember asking when i was little exactly what the "low spark of high heeled boys" was, and why boys would be wearing high heels in the first place. my father laughed his throaty laugh and smiled down at me. "it's talking about the sound of someone starting a motorcycle, and the spark that sometimes happens when the pedal hits the pavement. as for the heels - boots have heels on them, do they not?" i nodded vigorously and he smiled and went back to his beer and his photo album of pictures from when he was my age and had long hair and motorcycles and the world by the ass. when he was my age he was in algeria, welding in an oil compound on a french work visa. he didn't let the world tie him down. why have i? he did have a trade, one that let him travel where ever there was work. and i guess that's what i'm working on. as soon as i have my nursing and my medic, i'm free. and i can live like i've always loved living. up with the sun, gone with the wind. she always said i was lazy. i'm rambling again. i'd started this entry at 0130, and it's 0220, and i've been writing this entire time. it's time for me to go to bed. ~*~ immediate yesterday. ~*~ divination. ~*~ get your own guestbook here |
