Sinister: Till Tuesday

[DelyM2 at xxx.com]

thanks a bunch to whom ever posted that bit on genital mutilation. I had a 
horrifyingly vivid dream about it.   Good ness.    

I am what one might call, un-intellectual.    So this next bit might just be 
a gas for some of you .    I'm going to attempt to reason out why belle and 
sebastian sound so delicous.  

See, the thing is .  the lyrics stand at middle ground. they are not so 
shallow that you cant bear to listen to a word of it. but they are also not 
too meaningful that you have to listen so closely to them.     Therefore, you 
can listen to a belle and sebastian song. and enjoy it without having to 
think about why.    (which goes to say, is great for someone like me)        
Anyway sometimes i wonder if "deep thought" is  just a little over rated.     
Skimming pass the surface causes you to miss some important details.     or 
maybe not.

PS: i wrote a poem. i hope it isnt too truamatizing for you.

She has been so eloquently missplaced upon this earth of ours.
Her feet carry her softly across the soil that has refused to accept her,
yet she still worships the ground she walks on.
A puzzle is the path she has taken. Troubling, Incomplete, yet fits so well.
And an open field full of fireflies would just make her night,
but her body is too feeble to take the journey.
It seems unfair when waves of dirt flood the others into the light.
So her nights are filled with rows of wires hanging from the sky.
Showing characteristics of the graceful weeping willow,
but ever so false, ever so lifeless.
They carry the conversations of the dolls from inside their tiny wooden 
houses,
which are stored in dormant attics for mice to investigate. 
She plays no part in this never ending line of communication.
The lines paint the skies, the lines paint her forehead.
They were painted with the brush of her memories.
Dabbed in colors of glass clasped inside her palm tightly.
Framed with salty water that deviously escaped her eyes.
The scars on her deliciously delicate hands form patterns that seem 
unlogically curious upon examination.
Till Tuesday, when she recalls the pain which caused these complex designs.
These lines.
Upon the arrival of the field, she lays out her design like a warm blanket.
It keeps her sensitive back at a fair distance from the prickly, yellow grass.
She looks up and feels complete,
and at that moment the spiders that she thought were lost under the rubber 
soles of her feet, creep out from underneath her.
And she is covered by these hands.
She has always been covered by these hands which she thought lost.
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