Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

i think i want to die
by the flowers in your garden
paint my nails black
dot them with neon green, red and purple
roll clear gloss on my lips
and dress me in black
i think i'd like that very much

i think i want to love you
but i don't really care

just let me die in your garden
with a cookie on my lips

...

thanks Still!
you know, I actually wrote this when I as wired and happy and in a rush, which totally contradicts what I wrote...
I was conscious of its existentialist undertones as I wrote it but didn't disclose it completely since it says "I'd like that very much" and existentialists don't really care, which is what I say in the next verse
In all honesty, I wrote the cookie part because it didn't really belong, but it did because it opens up another door into this life we are just meeting

there's more to her than can be written about

thanks!

...

what do you mean by saying the existentialists don't really care?

they certainly care quite a bit about the issue of death, which is not an undertone, but an explicit theme, if not an obsession without resolution.

great poem, Lucy, by the way.

I made an error in my writing, please excuse me
I recalled Albert Camus' The Stranger, whose protagonist seemed indifferent to his own death until the end when he read teh newspaper article which made him realize the complexity of mortality
I wasn't undermining the sentiment of existentialists at all, I am sorry about that
My poem is not entirely based on death, which is why I said it had undertones of existentialism (which I was drawing from Camus), but offers a narrow insight on the poet's view of life

...

I only recently stopped believing in Santa Claus.

How existential is that?

....

Still, I am sorry you are uncomfortable...I don't know what to say that could make you feel at ease when I am not quite sure what the problem is

If you ever need help with anything though, don't hesitate to
"Ask the biotch"
http://www.studioeight.tv/phpbb/viewforum.php?f=33

that last line is a hell of a curveball

73-degree turn

a surprise but a pleasant one, like finding a beer after cleaning out the 2-week-old leftovers from the refrigerator. Not to say that the rest of the poem was like cleaning out the 2-week-old leftovers from the refrigerator.

My favourite things in art are the things that make laugh and think "Where the hell did that come from?"

That cookie is a quick final splash of yellow on a purple painting

a cookie on my lips

I deleted my last post on this string, my inarticulate attempts to express my pleasure at the last line, mars expressed it so well I thought my post superfolous and then just got carried away with deleting

I appologizel


sorry to leave your post hanging on my three dots, trying to remember what I wrote, something about the existential undertones of stupid bob calling me a goodbuddy, something about wishing to see somebody like anniefay.

mars and you like a new begining for me, it amazes me that I can communicate with you any at all, most of the time i feel Old And In The Way.


Mad Girl's Love Song
Smith college 1954

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again
(I think I made you up inside my head)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And the arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
An sung me moon-struck, kissed me guite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hells fire fade.
Exit seraphim and Satan's men
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said.
But I grow old and I forget your name
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they may roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

(actioning with lucy's poem)

i think i want to die
with the flowers of your garden.
i want to lay graceful by comparison,
hidden between the dust and the creases
of the felt petals quivering in the smoke you breathe
when you burn my fingertips. i want
to fall enamored, skin swirling
through the vines you reconstruct
with the ashes of my hands, clenched
in defeat.

i think i want to fade
with your memory of me, just
as i've faded
with my memory of you.
i'll lie with your flowers,
in a pile of my ashes,
and weightlessly drift
at the height of your flame.