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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in xOpheliax's LiveJournal:

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Friday, November 11th, 2005
9:33 pm
i wrap my felt jacket around my shaking frame
not as thin as i'd hope, but attractive enough
i walk out of the cheap, greasy spoon of a bar
i'm not old enough to drink, and i didn't get any offers
i sat, watching the ice melt into my diet soda, seperating
i wish i were a smoker, it'd have given me something to do
instead, i thought of performing acoustic covers of the bad songs the jukebox sang
to make silence less awkward, i imagine

i watch a drunken couple
the woman's lipstick is too red, it runs,scared for it's life
to her cheek
her bottle
his neck
i wonder if they knew eachother before a few drinks
hers a cheap beer
his, a mixed something
i can't tell from over here
part of me hopes they're strangers, it would make for a better story

the firmiliar face of a woman i've known most of my life walks over
"can i get you anything, doll? 'nother soda? something to eat? you look starved"
"no thanks, i'm good"
my napkin's soaked with the chilled sweat of my ice
she brings a plate of fries
"but i..."
"it's on me"
i pull out three wadded dollar bills, she shoves them back
"keep it"
i smile the best i can
she was right, i was starving

i watch a lonely man downing shots
of something hard,thick and brown
i gag, take a swallow of my flat, watered pepsi and breathe
he must be so lonely
i want to take his picture
but my camera's in my car
and it's freezing for sixty-five degrees
sixty degree november, i scribble on a matchbook

matchbooks reading something about free drinks
it's nights like tonight i wish for bravery
and drunkeness
Thursday, September 15th, 2005
9:38 am
writing challenge of the week
write about a performer. a folk singer, rock star, magician, las vegas dancer. write about james dean or marilyn monroe or harry houdini.

here's some stuff on houdini i was reading, for inspiration...

"From 1904 and throughout the 1910s, Houdini usually performed with great success in the United States. He would free himself from handcuffs, chains, ropes and straitjackets, often while hanging from a rope or suspended in water, sometimes in plain sight of the audience. In 1913, he introduced perhaps his most famous act, the Chinese Water Torture Cell, in which he was suspended upside-down in a locked glass and steel cabinet full to overflowing with water.

He explained some of his tricks in books written in the 1920s. Many locks and handcuffs could be opened with properly applied force, others with shoestrings. Other times, he carried concealed lockpicks or keys, being able to regurgitate small keys at will."


"In the 1920s, after the death of his beloved mother, he turned his energies toward debunking self-proclaimed psychics and mediums, a pursuit that would inspire and be followed by latter-day magicians James Randi and P.C. Sorcar, and even Penn and Teller. Houdini's magical training allowed him to expose frauds who had successfully fooled many scientists and academics. He was a member of a Scientific American committee which offered a cash prize to any medium who could successfully demonstrate supernatural abilities. Thanks to Houdini's contributions, the prize was never collected. As his fame as a "ghostbuster" grew, Houdini took to attending séances in disguise, accompanied by a reporter and police officer. Possibly the most famous medium whom he debunked was the Boston medium Mina Crandon, a.k.a. Margery.

These activities cost Houdini the friendship of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the creator of Sherlock Holmes. Doyle, a firm believer in spiritualism during his latter years, refused to believe any of Houdini's exposés. Doyle actually came to believe that Houdini was a powerful spiritualist medium, had performed many of his stunts by means of paranormal abilities, and was using these abilities to block those of other mediums that he was 'debunking' (see Doyle's The Edge of The Unknown, published in 1931 after Houdini's death). This disagreement led to the two men becoming public antagonists."


"Britsh singer Kate Bush recorded a song about Houdini's wife visiting mediums to see if his soul had survived which was included on her 1982 album The Dreaming, the cover of which showed Bush as Mrs Houdini, passing a small key to her husband via a kiss."
Monday, August 15th, 2005
12:08 pm
come september my life promises to be different.
when she leaves, i know i’ll cry.
but that leaves him, with me. poor dear.
paul simon always seems to know what to say and when.
but folk guitars and the beauty of personifying a calendar shouldn’t amaze me as it does.
maybe i should take up smoking, smoking or perhaps toothpicks again.
i considered that only for a moment.they would become an extention of my awkward body, like guitar picks or converse shoes.
mixed tapes become tokens of something like affection and damn it, i have nothing interesting left to give to you, I’m sorry. i wonder if the boredom in a lifestyle could kill one pretend beatnik or another. i must someday come to the conclusion that i’m not wonderful, nor will i be the next stevie nicks.
cuts and bruises not included of course.
his eyes will become fond of younger years and forget about me. not that he remembers brown eyes in the morning, anyway.
“times casts a spell on you, but you won’t forget me. i know i could have loved you but you would not let me” truer words were never written.
love, what does it mean? for me, it’s the click of a lit lighter just before a let my latest cheap cliché go up in flames. i don’t expect much, they don’t have to like poetry, drink coffee like the fiend i am or even be an alanis fan. they don’t have to dress, act, talk a certain way. though i have a tendency to fall for the anorexic, want to be badass, fowl mouthed ones. i’ve never pictured him in a music store, so, a forest seems fitting.
i’ve written too much already but my life depends on the words you or i rather need to hear from my own insomniac addictions to bad eighties bands and women on the verge of sexual revolution. femi-nazi i wish i were some days.
i told my mother i wanted a tattoo, just to see what she said, or even if she’d flinch.
“yeah honey, whatever you want.”
damn it, i can’t even get a rise out of her anymore. fuck trying.
although, she grimaced slightly as a bought a new set of fishnets. yes motherdear, your wonderfully self addicted nameless faceless child has become this, a bargain whore. for cheap music and bad drinks. good god, if she thinks i’m that shallow maybe she should be the one with the medical history.
the shins can’t save lives. however poetically seductive they seem.
baby, i could give you songs to change your life
but, would you need that? want that?
“i love you, even though you’re ridiculous”
he doesn’t realize that he just appointed himself the one to save my life.
Sunday, June 26th, 2005
12:22 pm
fuck all those kisses
i'll get it started.

any criticism is appreciated. :)

"choke on it, sweetheart"

in your hand
lustrous with
saliva & desire

between you & me
i just can’t stop.

like touching a haemophiliac
i always have you bleeding
leaving a galaxy of scars
a new cosmology of stars
pricked and perforated
dark into your flesh

black where the wounds creep shut
scraped into your heart
with my teeth
lacing strands of bruises into your skin
sewing your mouth shut with my own
stroking on your bones
a shuddery glissando of pain.

i’ll suck the sun from your sky
keep you in the dark
shake the glitter from your wings
leave you fluttering, sputtering,
broken in the dirt

i’ll deny you
any hope
of heaven.
12:17 pm
pace yourself for me...i said maybe, baby, please...
this community is dead!

come on, everyone post...something!

write something about someone you hate...or love...or both. and share it here!
Thursday, March 31st, 2005
6:48 pm
the radio ruins everything,except the news and you
« Written on: March 29, 2005, 10:11:34 PM »
by LE Hendricks

you speak of me as if
i were yours [lover,friend,muse, otherwise]
lady, don't place me on such a high shelf, i'll have farther to fall
my words are simply that, words
my smile is just what you wouldn't want, bones
my voice is a simplistic vibration

you, my sweet Barbara Ann, shall be immortal
in these words that don't so much sound lovely but are because you say so
you are so
everything [air, sunshine, music,poetics,romantics and dramatics] wonderful

simple calls of the domesticated foreign love affair surfaced
before i even knew a face to a name of my poison

in reference to the man with dreams like mine
[we spoke of him once a day, once]
new york city, skyline of the wonderland lived in by bohemian rockstars
and poets, all of them are poets

bert healey's got nothing on a smile like his
with rhett butler flare and wings of a butterfly, clothed in whimsy
the lady with the clay always adored whimsy
while you, good sir, adored paint instead

immortal you shall also stand
at different standard
with self inflicted, self imagined black eyes
while i had a guitar

Current Mood: inspired
Monday, March 28th, 2005
4:54 pm
lucky number twenty-nine
did you suppose somehow
i would never wake
thinking of those others
twenty-eight, in fact
girls who shared your bed
sleeping between your arms

five, ten, fifteen, twenty
twenty-eight to be precise
like days in a short month
making me lucky number twenty-nine
a leap year girl
only comes once every four years
(and isn't it ironic?)

i want to know things about them
(short brunette athletic tall redhead
skinny paints her toenails sent you flowers
loves country music has a tongue ring
and green eyes)
and why they left you
(couldn't cry found someone else taller
or more thrilling caught you cheating
or spying or perhaps they/you
just became bored)

so tonight
when i wrapped my legs around you
and pulled you into me
i wondered
if you ever confused my body
with Carrie's (who smelled of yeast and vanilla)
or Elizabeth's (whose skin you cried over)
or any other of the couple dozen that remain

i felt you smile at me as i slept softly
afraid to wake me by touch
because Melissa never liked it
and when i did wake, frightened
you told me every other morning
without me
caused you a strange sickness
in your head and stomach muscles
Sunday, March 20th, 2005
8:07 pm
east coast girls

stomach—not flat
chest—like ripe fruit
yeah, I think I’m all that
I am a working woman
need no man to tell me what I can
or cannot do
shit, I make
my own money.
no sugar daddy,
but that’s okay,
because I have love for myself.

so, I spit when I talk,
I’m not rude--- just excited.
and I trip when I walk—
I’m just in a hurry to embrace life,
and embrace my curves,
wide pelvic bones help reproduce the human race
the 90-pound Olsen twins got nothing on me
let’s see them push babies out of their crotches.

Bus ride home from nowhere

Staring out the window,
writing your initials in the fog
But wiping them away before
anyone notices.
Thinking about our phone call from
late last night,
Sitting and deciphering all
your precious
words , trying to find a bigger
But it’s cold, and it’s static,
and the only thing I know is
your words are not enough.

West coast girls

Rich girl,
Wafer thin.
Bones protruding from stomach,
clavicle, hips.
Money can’t buy her happiness.
It may buy diamonds,
size 0 jeans which fall
off her waist.
But money can’t save her
from herself.

Rich girl,
Scars decorating stomach, arms,
Money can’t fix her reality.
It may buy perfume,
Coach bags,
Beaver fur coats to cover
her cuts
But money can’t save her
from herself.

One in five

They think that we are fools,
because only fools rush into love.
and maybe it is true,
that we were on the rebound.
But I needed to be caught
before I hit the ground face first,
and you were the one who caught me.

I am not incapable of bouncing
back from ruined relationships.
I have the strength of my mother,
tough-shelled Italian,
no man will walk over me
without surely regretting it.

So when he said goodbye to me for the first time
and the last,
I barely cried.
I was not ashamed to be single,
not in the least.
And in fact, it was a mere accident
when you and I first kissed.
But you told me you don’t believe in
only love and hate.
And that is why you’re completely irresistible.
Thursday, March 3rd, 2005
7:53 pm
Paper Dolls

The way you look at me.
You want me to be ideal,
your ideal-- cut me so thin
that I can blow away when
I am tethered and torn.
You want me to be your prize girl,
etched in the way you have dreamed of
so many times before.

You tell me that thin is in,
And I listen,
because I love you.
But I cry on my way to work
and there's a sharp pain in my chest.

I cannot be perfect,
But I'll try,
because I love you.
One day you will have to let me go,

Mid-Life Crisis

You taught me well,
I learned from the best.
Now it's time to raise hell,
Die quick, no protest.
At first the rope's loose,
So in goes my throat.
I'll tighten the noose,
Here's my suicide note.


Untitled Triolet

Nothing matters anymore,
Since the day my sister died.
I found her hanging by the door,
and nothing matters anymore.
Her bloodshot eyes, her neck was sore,
legs swaying side to side.
Nothing matters anymore,
since the day my sister died.

I see her resemblance in my face,
So final is her death.
My sister, no one can replace,
When I see her resemblance in my face.
Her future-- everything's erased,
Memories are all that's left.
I see her resemblance in my face,
So final is her death.

I hate her,
For what she did.
Remember how close we were?
Man, I hate her.
Suicide is not a cure,
So much to live for, she was just a kid.
I hate her (so much)
For what she did.

That's not true... I love her more than anything,
She was my best friend.
How much pain one death can bring!
I still love her, more than anything.
It's very hard, forgiving,
Her life had such a selfish end.
But I love her more than anything,
She was my best friend.

Current Mood: bored
Friday, January 14th, 2005
1:08 pm
but the day may come when you've got something to lose...
Call for POETRY Submissions! [Please pass this along to other writing groups or poets you know in your area, we'd like to start getting some French-Canadian poets!]

Quills Canadian Poetry Magazine is in it's 2nd volume and is establishing itself in the Canadian literary market. Concordia University is using Quills in it's syllabus for the creative writing department. Over 600 hundred poets now contribute on a quarterly basis. Join us by sending in your best poems. They can be previously published as long as you remain the copyright holder. It's now available in stores across Canada, please check the website for locations near you. If you want extra copies or your local store is sold-out you can order directly from us.

Please email your 3 submissions with "Quills - Submission" in the subject line and make the poems part of the body or your email, not an attachment (we can't open any attachments, this helps protect us from viruses and keeps our email address book information from being compromised).

Include your 35 word (maximum) bio (written in 3rd person starting with your name) and your mailing address so we can send the selected poets a complimentary copy.

The DEADLINE for the SPRING Edition is February 1st so please send them soon!

Please remember, we are not supported by Arts Council grants or government funding so we need subcriptions or advertisements from publishing houses, chapbook printers or poetry related events. Subscriptions are only $25 per year plus GST. Make cheques payable to Quills Canadian Poetry Magazine and send to PO Box 21660, Vancouver BC V5L 5G3.

Help support the art of poetry for Canadians! Don't forget you can get a subscription to Volume III by entering our annual poetry contest "Byron's Quill - Award for Poetry" http://www.quillspoetry.com/byrons_quill.html

Order your copy of the erotic poetry supplement Lust for only $13.85 http://www.quillspoetry.com/lust.html
Thursday, January 6th, 2005
10:45 pm
the stereo says everything
into my empty, cold floors and walls
i dance without grace, through life and my livingroom in pajamas
screaming at the top of my lungs
to purge myself of the wicked vapors that i breath
the guitar twists itself and misunderstands every chord i try to play
soon amature fingertips become professional liars
paid with blood and tears of the those who control them
misinterperated, mad madeline
still starving, artistically

excuse me while i kiss the sky

passionate kisses laced with straight vodka
[but would you admit it?]
drunk enough that you will only remember the smell
of an innocent girl in the morning
ophelia, he may seem so strong but he's not for you my precious
the highway home was covered in winter's birthmark
you swore not to drive yourself
petty attempt at being admirable, sir

you're so much like me, i'm sorry

the drafts from the wall cracks send you chills sealed with a kiss
the thump thump thumping will drive you insane
you pray that the couple next door uses protection
his hands are too rough for skin like hers and her lips are venomous
[you hope]
thump thump thump, scream
thump thump thump, passion
thump thump thump, nervona and silence

another ol' lang syne

the long haired man behind the radio's microphone
wishes me a happy new year

i played the following song too loud

Current Mood: artistic
Monday, January 3rd, 2005
11:34 am
it's the way love always was for you
suckbiteteethmoan so good you cried
so damn good, baby
bite harder, leave marks, you know?
(before you'd leave your mark differently--
the wasted carcass the next morning
in the nearest gutter after draining her frame dry)

a dangerous game as always
she relishes this bending below you
(below your shouldersarmsteeth)
and how you've gone completely wild
coating your flesh with fine thin sweat

her mind screams sensual overload
from the first time you never touched her
so completely does she adore you
and how you swallow into yourself
every bit of her she so darkly despises

no longer love-making, this has become
a different art, a weaving together of filaments
of lust and desire and a need to be filled
tongue over teeth over skin so soft

yielding to damaged veins and purple bruises
suckbiteteethmoan so good like a trashy romance
complete with ripped dresses and swooning women
it's the way love always was for you, vampyre
Sunday, January 2nd, 2005
3:51 pm
hey girl i like your flavour...wish i could be your neighbour
another writing prompt

write a poem or short story or whatever you want using...

title: "vampire"
subject: uncontrolled/dangerous etc love/passion/relationship
words to use: adore, swallow, filament(s)
Wednesday, December 29th, 2004
6:30 pm
wishing you could request the weather comes standard
i'd request snow
[everyone looks wonderfully fantastic with snow in their hair]
cement wouldn't need to be wetted then, it's frozen over so much that you fall[in or out of love respectedly]
you don't expect as much from winter romances as those of summer
simply because in the summer you're closer to more naked people
everything you know, becomes a game of limbo
[how low would you go?]

the simplest power of the word no
the power of choice
...the love of sidewalks that get you from one place to another

in the glow of christmas lights
everything looks different in tones
purple, blue.green and gold
it's almost as cliche as school spirit

do you love me?
would you?
did you?
why don't you?
why don't they?
why won't we?
and so the story goes, enough to drive a person insane
if you're asking for something more important than romance based simply on seasonal reactions to visitors and your strangersfriends
pick up your phone and tell the voice on the radio, you need snow

Current Mood: working
Sunday, December 19th, 2004
10:30 am
Sunday, December 12th, 2004
6:45 pm
yeah, i know, i'm being used, but it's okay, cos i like the abuse

For one hundred years (1840 - 1940) the freak show was one of America's most popular forms of entertainment. Today the same shows would be considered unacceptable and cruel, or as one disability rights activist put it, "the pornography of disability." (http://www.disabilityhistory.org)

Watch her drop
each dark veil
shed that dress
like a snake’s skin grown
too tight to breathe in
an ominous membrane
stripped tissue
peeling petals off the rose
to reveal the worm curled round the bud.

The incredible ossifying girl
turning to nothing but dead skin and
warped bone,
meandering spine, spidery limbs
such a pretty face and then

this cruel deviation.

Beautiful or deformed, there’s a fortune
in the flesh.
Friday, December 10th, 2004
12:53 pm
let's do this freakshow baby yeah
another writing prompt...


For one hundred years (1840 - 1940) the freak show was one of America's most popular forms of entertainment. Today the same shows would be considered unacceptable and cruel, or as one disability rights activist put it, "the pornography of disability." (http://www.disabilityhistory.org)


The next thing he would be asking if I’d written a thank-you note to Nell for the appalling tie she always sends me for Christmas. I hadn’t even been able to hang myself with the bloody thing.
-In a Dark Wood by Amanda Craig


write a short story/poem/anything you want inspired by one of the quotes. or post another quote for inspiration.
4:22 am
Anne Sexton
We're a month old now, 70+ members, so an anniversary advert ;)

Everyone welcome - whether you're already an Anne Sexton fan or a newcomer and would like to know/read more about her and by her. Come on over and enjoy her work, share your knowledge, learn more about her...

Friday, December 3rd, 2004
1:11 pm
As per the writer's prompt of donthurtsailors.



I've said it so many other ways in efforts to rationalize it in my own head. I'll say, "We're all killing ourselves on different levels" and nod wisely, like the sage people seem to think I am. What I’m really saying is that he's killing himself. Slowly. That I don't want him to die. I'll say that he craves stimulants, which is my way of trying to add nicotine to a list of things he’s addicted to. Coffee, music, late nights, interesting conversations – I’m not sure he could live without them.

Fuck it. There's really no other way to say it. The man I'm in love with smokes a lot. My moods may cause me to try to explain it away or deal with it differently, but it doesn’t really change the fact. If I'm in a good mood, I'll laugh at him and tell him that I'm thinking of taking it up. I'll mime placing a cigarette at my lips and breathing out smoke. "It looks cool," I’ll say. Smoking is elegant in a way that only a girl obsessed with a smoker could understand.

"Don't ever smoke. It's bad for you." Sometimes I think he likes to keep me innocent, that he enjoys the way that I'm still wide-eyed at his fire-breathing. I don't smoke. I never have. I suppose I just don't have a reason to.

I took up flavored toothpicks awhile back. I must confess, I do like having something in my mouth. He says that I taste like cinnamon. "Do I taste like cigarettes?"

"Yes. That and espresso.” He doesn't know the truth. That he tastes like rain. Like autumn. He’s standing in the kitchenetter, half-naked, ashtray in hand. He never stops moving. Cigarette to mouth, breathe in, hold it, and exhale. I hand him a toothpick. "They're good for you. People use them to stop smoking, you know. They have menthol in them." I stand watching his expression change from thoughtful to mildly amused as I talk.

"Oh, yes. And menthol's great for you. If you smoke it, it makes your lungs bleed."

"Well, I'm not smoking it." I feel small. My arms are bruised from my clumsiness, my constant subconscious self-destructiveness, and I hold them closer to myself in effort to make myself even smaller. I’ve been told that those tender purple and blue spots are caused by blood. You’re not the only one bleeding internally, dear. (We’re all killing ourselves on different levels, you know.)

His hands shake sometimes when he reaches for me. I jump. "You're going to set me on fire, baby." He just grins at me.

"You didn't mean with the cigarette, did you?" To tell you the truth, I'm not sure I did. He breaths fire. It matters not whether he has a cigarette in his hand.

If I'm in a poor mood, I deal with his habit entirely differently. I make sarcastic comments and count the number of cigarettes he smokes. It's a vicious cycle, really. When I'm sad, he's sad. When he's sad, he smokes. When he smokes, it makes me sad. "That's seven. Gonna quit for tonight?"

"I would, but honestly, it's the only thing keeping me going right now." The only thing? I thought I kept him going. I'm reminded of an Alanis Morissette song I learned once. I’m tempted to sing it at him. I don't wanna be the substitute for the smoke you've been inhaling. What do you thank me for?

He may stop poisoning himself someday. I may stop slamming my arms on door knobs and car doors. Who knows? He might never give up what’s become his second breath. I may, as I’ve so often threatened to, take up smoking. I will become a fire-breather, and we will travel the streets together like quiet dragons, breathing streams of smoke and leaving scattered cigarette butts like wasted countryside in our wake.
Wednesday, December 1st, 2004
12:47 pm
* another writing prompt *
furiousmidnight came up with this idea & i thought i'd post it here where everyone could see it.

"write a story based on a conversation you've had with someone in the past or a comment that someone made about you that stuck in your mind. just a thought."

Current Mood: kind of sad
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