A Cut Above Rest

State of Mind : Infected
Inner Music Whore spinning: Peter Bellamy “Yarmouth Town” ( que va?)

The Piece

She writes, sketches, raps and rocks, debates, photographs, treks. She travels, stops, mocks, criticizes. She also cuts.


Frequently. Inexplicably.

A decade is not enough time by way of explanation. Then, niether is a lifetime.

Why do you do it, chica?

Coz it helps her breath, release, return to what is normal in her head. Its control. Its agony pierced in small measures. Its silence punctuated by deafening cries. Its stoic suffering. Yes. Its significant release. Yes. You do it, like you do other things. Like you salsa, like you spin music, like you click insipid streets on rainy afternoons. Yes, somehow, she has convinced herself that its as normal as life itself. Ever third week of the month. A day reserved for the ritualistic defilement. But, if its normal then why is it “defilement”. Explanations …we don’t seek.

Don’t talk bout it though. Coz they’d either snigger or offer advice she doesn’t need. Its like warning labels on ciggarette packs. Don’t you think, we know?

How much can you take?

Apparently. Not Enough.

Lisa Kekula’s melody blends with the sardonic air that prevails. The razors are lined neatly across the marble. Its a varied choice. SHapes and sizes. Wish life offered you the same choices!

You pick one. You drive it in slowly. The first trickle. Then the constant crimson flow. Then the mini puddles. Then…partial amnesia.

The slightest taste of blood in my mouth, the thinnest cloud of smoke over my head. The blood callings, the entrapments, the machete-wielding ghosts of improbable angst are exorcized in a slow surreal manner. There is your book, your movie, your song- Its all right there.

Then, the sounds of music return and so does consciousness.

The crests and troughs, the oblivion embowering calm  and vice versa..

Distortion along the edges of a metallic razor. Stings and sings and repeats it all.


The interregnum.


Pages of Ages, written on the gaunt faces of redolent paper. Slam Poetry and the harmony to accompany the main course of verbal rapidity.

Sound-open to interpretation.

Silence-open to relocation 

She needs no fucking agitation knocking at the shell of my staid tarn. She will pelt stones at self or sit at the corners of naked lakes singeing the ebb and the flow with her scorching veracity. That’s her stimulus. She borrows from all things proscribed. Love and Hate are now purely reflective surfaces for  her to bounce her art off of them. Is she allowed callousness for the sake of my work? –  She doesn’t know and at this point she doesn’ t care either. She knows She is clichéd – just as much as the city She lives in. Dying for more rented bodies and pricey passion. Some more venom filled vials of slow urban deliverance. She adores derelict lives- She labors for that station of self-destructive antagonism. She is driven by the most dissolute desires and She doesn’t see a point in stopping. Most people will come out to tell you how erroneous a life you live. Well, thanks for the fish and the goose, now stop being such a fuckin blood blister and move along, in the line. All said and done She is not ok with being maneuvered by this seemingly omnipotent foreboding. She knows my limits. She has tested them inside out and has escaped not entirely unscathed. This, She believes, is living- a constant renewal of faith in life. And so She has lived. She is driving this machine now and forever. Russian Roulette will be fun now.

Peace. If Death then Now. If Life then …Find Me.


~ by iconoplastic on February 8, 2007.

6 Responses to “A Cut Above Rest”

  1. Perhaps it’s the color of the sun cut flat
    An’ cov’rin’ the crossroads I’m standing at,
    Or maybe it’s the weather or something like that,
    But mama, you been on my mind.

    I don’t mean trouble, please don’t put me down, don’t get upset,
    I am not pleading or saying that “I can’t forget you.”
    I do not pace the floor bowed down and bent, but yet,
    Mama, you been on my mind.

    Even though my eyes is hazy and my thoughts they might be narrow,
    Where you been don’t bother me or bring me down in sorrow.
    I don’t even mind who you’ll be waking with tomorrow,
    But mama, you’re just on my mind.

    I am not askin’ you to say words like “yes” or “no,”
    Please understand me, I have no place I’m callin’ you to go.
    I’m just whispering to myself so I can pretend that I don’t know,
    Mama, you been on my mind.

    When you wake up in the mornin’ and look inside your mirror,
    You know I won’t be next to you, no, I won’t be near.
    I’d just be curious to know if you can see yourself as clear
    As someone who has had you on his mind.

    Stop Hurting. You are eternal and I shouldn’t have to remind you how entirely beautiful a thought you are in my mind. So, Angel mine……..Be you fine. Kalinychta.

  2. sorry…I disappoint…

  3. All my life, I worshipped her/Her golden voice, her beauty’s beat/How she made us feel/How she made me real/And the ground beneath her feet/And the ground beneath her feet

    go lightly down your darkened way.
    your favorite song as a reminder for you because we promised we ‘d be ok.come what may.we’d be ok.

  4. 🙂

  5. Don’t know all the reasons but I am sure that low life trash of a boy is not one of them b’cuz I think you are smarter than that. Accept life and discard the garbage that often collects at most doorsteps. Find a good disposal system! LIVE. THere is so much to find and learn. Like D said – we’ll be ok. Go out.. discover who you are. You haven’t even realized half of your potential. And don’t be ridiculous..one December mistake doesn’t a Schezi make! 😛
    Much love and wine flows this way. {Hugs}

  6. Btw..Did “he” quote Buckley in that comment? Marry Him!!
    He He

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