draft? did i write this in my sleep?

"It seems the only bit of fiction my brain can conjure comes in a completely hypnagogic state...so then, i dream stories and forget them for the most part, except for the truly disturbing. Which, honest to god, turns me on."

What does this even mean? Ever since Abby and I stayed up til 5am (chain smoking and watching old episodes of "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia"), my sleep schedule has been out of whack and taking a severe toll on every facet of my life.
Writing.
Exercising.
Diet.
Bad habits (smoke feind, booze hound...well, those were always bad, before the sleeping thing)
Self.Es.Teem. It's hard to love yourself when the rings around your eyes look like busted tires from your old car.
Grammar is suffering the most.

Oh well. It's humpday and the morning sun tastes like runny eggs and fresh-squeezed beginnings.

Does that resonate with anyone? Dr. Woelz, fiction professor extroadinaire (goddamn my spelling! no wonder i never won 'cherry pie' in elementary school...) has been encouraging our class to-get ready for this one-use imagry in our writing! Who'da thunk?
Examples of my own piss poor work:
1.The music sounded heavy as the good-bye cardboard box after the break-up.
2.The color green feels like an awkward confession.
3.The inside of the kiwi smells like watery eyes and getaways.

Oh well. I recently had a poem published in the monthly ship 'zine "Spawning Pool". I kind of like that my POETRY is sometimes appreciated...I don't consider myself a poet by any means, but then again, I can't seem to write anything else, so perhaps the piteous life of poet it is for me!


Agony of the Twin Bed:

"It takes a spasm of love to write a poem."
-Erica Jong

I sleep so soundly
when you don’t spend the night.
sleep in your bed so
I can let my guard down,
Let limbs drape, sheets tangle.
spend the night and
I stare at the ceiling,
Restlessly aware of my every uneasy
twitch.
Your arm’s asleep and I’m wide awake.
Contricted, we spoon to fit.
Not to be close, but comfortable.
I sleep so soundly when you stay at home,
But I prefer the twin;
The toss and the turn.

"They all cheat sooner or later. You might as well have one who isn't a bore the rest of the time."
-Jong


^^Inspired by a certain ex-lover about a year ago. Jong speaks to me directly, I feel. Everything she says hits me like a foul ball to the teeth.

The next, also inspired by the same guy. Whether or not these poems mean anything, I couldn't tell ya. But...you know. I dig them, cause I did them. Recently painted the following poem on a black vase in my house in white puff paint. Delightfully theraputic. It feels nice to make things.

Not Dreams
they aren't nightmares
but dreams are filled with fairies,
romance,

mermaids with pink scaly tails
and pouty lips.
Seashell bras. Not ripped off,
littering the sea floor
but on,
keeping the ocean a decent place
for the fish race.

Can I call it "dream" when you appear?
You suck the magic out of rooms
when you're here, you make it mean.
Not scary, not always. Not nightmares.
Not dreams.



Hopefully this weekend, some questions in my life will be answered. I'm a little scared that I've already answered them and that allowing what I'm allowing to happen will prove to be an exercise in futility, but ah. Isn't that life?