ignore_the_pain_in_a_pretty_face squint a pretty face hugs the ugliness in me and the others see just what they want to see when they say I am beautiful and things along the crooked lines of why could you be so sad with a pretty face? don't hurt yourself, you are pretty! Its so ridiculous that they don't see I'm trying to bring out the ugly in me so they can't ignore the gnawing beast that makes me move and wears my body like a filthy favored puppet and maybe once the pretty face is cut free they can see the truth in me. 020714 ... lycanthrope your body is a stifled litheness, a tree from youth i should've named you that i climbed ever insufficiently to leave thickets like bookmarks. it always seemed mighty but no one could say why. and me and my peers would mock one another for trying. it is not how far it reaches into the sky, how many shadows it casts, it is the intensity with which it seems to reach. the way gnarled is an adjective of ambigous motivation. the way pain suggests glory, undone slowly and given to others. a bra slides off, and mauve stars can later seem scars from which something was taken. wishes. a tree like you i'd call a wishing tree. and do i proscribe to you its same fate? hitching a ride on the first tempest you think real enough to call so with your roots leaving the soil. branches and leaves trailing behind, a serial map of what had need by need been driven in, nails and shanties and wanted posters. and missing kittens. innocence in the lost and found. those who thought it stable were unable to see its airy top, breaking through layers of fog and scattered blue to opaque clarity. me and my chums had to bide amongst the branches which had been pruned to a point rising and strewn about on the ground like the meticulously dishevelled and moderate clothes so suddenly offensive to the warm holds of mine and yours, bodies i never expected the first time we sat together in the park. where the tree you were arched as if heaven was a dome to pierce, where it buckled up, gaining weight at its top, we later stood silently beneath with upturned faces, all those who had adjusted on its shadows never saw the soils dark churning where roots had been mired. and never saw its flight. but only felt the gnarled possiblities that was their tension. a wishing tree is something we can feel and taste, something we stretch our feelings to. a core and thickets, and you cannot tell where one ends and the other begins, untill the evidence is torn from you. your body rides me like a tempest, i feel your roots prepare for flight, and i know you're tired of our wishes. 020715 ... kerry that is beautiful. 020715 ... stork daddy every good clown believes themselves the hero untill that last painful laugh right? untill the moment when the crowd leaves him alone, alone with the one person he cannot save....himself. weep weep. 020715 what's it to you? who go blather from