The Writingsof Stuart

                       Waisted.          8/5/01

This silence is slowly killing me.

Nowhere to hide my bleeding soul.

No happiness for me.

Emptiness is what seems to be

all that is left for me.

Nothing I say now will change a thing.

Your heart has no fucking room for me.

I've waisted all this time on a dream.

I can't believe that this scene

felt so real to me.

Now all that is left is a broken heart

and another fucking reminder

of what to escape through art.

Why was truth so bitter?

---

                  Untitled         8/3/01
                          

Broken by my sorrow

and wheeping in my life.

Nothing ever matters

in this world of broken dreams.

Crucify my eyes

for they have sinned.

They saw a beauty no eye

should ever see.

I've drunk the poison.

Life is not far off?

You were my something

in this world of nothing

But now you're gone.

Why did I fall for happiness?

               Losing Desire to Write

Bannished into sleep

my creative mind lays

beneath the sheets of dull

unemployment.

My desire to express

to relish in experience

is dying and I drown.

I assume a smile to kill my mind.

The page once

a friend most loved

and adored now

stabs at my eyes.

The enemy that to me

I hold so dear.

And what words can be spoke

in ink, that shall bring me joy?

             Catwoman

The heat is stifling

and I am tired.

Yet I dance on and slide my hands

along her hips and draw her close.

Her body held tightly in a dress

of night, glides along the floor

and swings her moving hips

against my person.

And how I desired her

body and the pleasure of

her being. Her very soul

I wished to know.

And what if I had followed her

into the cool of the night?

Would I have slept in her arms

and awoken next to her naked body?

My mind is torn and

indicision stabing away

at my heart. I find

myself asking, what if?

          At the Party

In the corner behind the archway, sit I, a misserable stranger in a room of faces.

Voices drown out my whispering thoughts. I cry out for someone to rescue me from lonliness.

But too late I fall and fall and fall and find myself sitting crouched in a corner.

My mind on the verge of madness. My soul prepared to shatter.

And even though I fear lonliness, I run from the voices the smiles and the laughter. I reside in the very state which I fear.

Sweet lonliness, I fear your coming yet weep your leaving. My words are spoke.

A time shall come when I must again go into the cold world as I must into the world of forgotten death.

                    Ramble #10

Crowded between the walls of bricks

found in the void behind the empty room,

you loom indulgent like a fool

who burns his beard in a shower stall

of flimsy memories pasted to the floor

like an actor desensitized.

I hear the cries in the movie dreams ob broken faith

and plastic signs of the centuries

bound to the dreams of

suburbanites beneath the

hatted clouds of misery.

     What?

The scribblings of the conscience

upon the bridges of failing religous innocence

can not convince the blind believing therapist

of crumbling childhood and endless jest

to preach a new sermon to the minds of the self-impresst.

I exchange my lonliness for a life

swollen in sacredness, to burn the pages

of thoughtless actions as

menus bent to sweet delight

are the first to shudder in the light

of the birth of death in plastic dreams.

Howling at the cell-phone moon

in relentless leather bound confusion

sighing in the candle wax mystery of yesterday.

Fantastic scenes of generosity

crash against the sight of frozen saints,

who bared their eyelashes to the hourglasses

of corperate monks in the three piece realities

confined in fiery books of moral hypocrisy and

curious sexuality in coffee cups.

Confined in the all night restraunts of obscurity

she prays to the high-chairs of security

as the tiled walls of insanity

buy the scenes of immeasurably long foolish visions

of computer suicide.

     How?

Hearing the electric streets give birth

to burning lamps of raindrop camera tax agents

who spin the clocks of gambling scenes

into pen filled monasteries full of the queens

drowning themselves in the tears of torchlight tyranny.

I speak to the child of the stop light mother

who burns the film of a cooking spoon

baring its reality into the inked out rivers

of translucent murders of the napkin king

of mattress dreams.

Father, speak of the beauty of the falling accounts

of ashtray artists spitting out the tooth-pic picture-books

of frozen eyes

into the trashcan of childhood

as the sun

goes

down.

2/8/01-2/11/01

---

         J.C.E.

Drown yourself in conversation

you don't know that you lost your tongue.

Your lips move to the words you think

Unaware of the fact that you lost our ears.

You switch your heart every other day

claiming that your friends have betrayed you.

But your the one who betrays your friends

your the one who will be friendless in the end.

You sell your soul for recognition

searching for what you don't deserve.

You claim that society owes you

Claiming that men have done you wrong.

But I'm not the one who held you down

I'm not the one who did you wrong.

I was just trying to live my life

I was not the one who wanted to fight.

Why could you not just let it slide?

Why did you have to take a side?

The incident in question did not concern you

You were not even in the rooom.

You reside in a world of lies

hiding your ears from the screams and cries.

You try and hide from the truth that haunts you

living in a world of your own devise.

But no one will be there to help you

no one will be there to hear your lies.

And one of these days the truth will find you

and there won't be a place to run.

And when that day finally finds you

and you at last see the pain you've caused.

Then I'll be standing there above you

I'll be the witness to all your wrongs.

And maybe then I might forgive you

maybe I'll be the one to help you rise.

But until that day finally comes

I'll just have to stand here and sing this song.

3/3/01- 3/15/01