Love says trust me And your heart breaks Again, like a stone That isn’t supposed To fracture, By some ponderous law of pain Or physics—I say If breaking my heart 10 times or 100 Pushes me, like a Demi-urge, toward a kind Of deeper Love more meaningful Existence—then, Yeah. I’m ok with That.
When someone asks you Do you have any heros? And you are about to say No. Because you don’t. You never have. And you’ve never gone deep on that point. But the truth is you haven’t been an easy person to understand, by your own self, let alone by others. You think no one could know your crazy heart, not because it’s complicated, just the opposite, in fact. A little anachronistic for sure. You don’t want anyone in that space. A hero? Maybe some runner ups. Faces of free spirits float in and out of your mind. People who would know why you can’t just belong to someone, something….when you belong to everything else. It would have to be someone you would like to meet, sync with, save from being gone too soon…someone you would be proud being and being with. Then it hits you. And you’d never even thought of it before that moment.
Gypsy steal my heart.
Sing my soul, hippie queen.
Lose the shoes; live your blues.
And why not, Mama?
“…and I’ll be yours, until the rivers all run dry. Yours, until the poets run out of rhyme. In other words…”
The Conjuring 1 and 2
Children of the Corn
Halloween Town High
The Devil’s Candy
The Haunting (of Hill House)
Hell House (Roddy McDowell)
Fright Night original and remake
The Wicker Man
Invasion of the Body Snatchers (Sutherland)
Let’s Scare Jessica to Death
The Watcher in the Woods (Betty Davis)
The Reincarnation of Peter Proud
Julia (Mia Farrow)
The Changeling (George C Scott)
Witches of Eastwick
Escape to Witch Mountain
I Am the Pretty Thing That Lives in the House
Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.