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September 25th, 2009 by Kyla Mollett Of The Retort Staff

Falling Off the Face of My Earth

Not much to say
Seems like hell is here to stay
I want to fly away
My thoughts are so astray
It’s a catastrophe

My dreams run wild
I am the demon child
Hell’s pit is quite mild
Compared to my burning desires
If only my life would compile

The days just fly along
There is something extremely wrong
I feel I do not belong
My will is much too strong
To let this problem be lifelong

The weight of the world is a ton
Something must be done
I lost the battle but the war will be won
The wrongs shall be undone
Life is going to be fun

Many Moons Ago

I’m going loco.
Starin’ out my window,
Lookin’ for my soul mate.
He can’t come in,
I can’t go out.
Not in the dark,
When the freaks should be out.
But in the day,
We’ll melt away,
When the sun is up,
Moon is down.
The lights are bright.
The dusk creeps in,
The dawn crawls out.
Trippin’ all around town,
Not sleepin’ around.
Kickin’ it wicked style.
All melted up in a heap, a pile,
of flesh and bone.
He can have my soul,
He already stole my heart.
Now it’s time to sleep,
No more dreams of death,
No more tears to be shed.
We’ll die together in the graveyard,
And be buried alive with a Smile.

Running in Square Circles

I should be driving to some random town smoking a cigarette in weather where I could wear a sweatshirt if I pleased but still have all the windows down and the wind blowing my hair into more craziness than it already possesses.

It should be bright outside and the scenery around me should be billowing past in a blur of color and nature.

I should be wearing aviators and a kind colored billowy top with funny colored pants and a bullet studded belt.

There should be nothing but road and adventure ahead of me and someone should be with me.

You should be with me and you should be singing along to my funky music with me.

We should pass through little nothing towns and sail past landmarks, and farms, and cows.

We should have one of those cameras that print the picture right out of the camera.

We should have our imaginations, and a guitar, and an inkling of an idea of where we are going, or at least what we are going to do.

We need to set out on one of those adventures that we come up with when we were out of our minds.

We should drop everything and just go.

We shouldn’t talk unless there are things to be discussed.

Pointless conversation isn’t needed.

We should be on the run and not even worry about it.

We should consider our future a never-ending mural filled with psychedelic color spiraling in and out of every dark crevice of which nothing and everything takes place at the same time.

We can stop and build a fire somewhere or we can roll into a town like we own the place.

If we take the first route, we can gaze at the stars and think.

We should lay sprawled out across the Earth and we should make love, & roast marshmallows, & fish, or if you are opposed to sleeping with me then we could just roast marshmallows and fish, or literally sleep.

We should be sporadic but not plan it.

It is our way.

Now, if we take the second path we should go to the bars, or the pubs, or the shows, or the malls, or anywhere were the people that would welcome us play.

There we will make new friends and we can celebrate and enjoy the night.

Then in the morning when we leave we leave them with our memories and stories and maybe if you’d like to look at it in this way, a part of ourselves, our legacies.

We can take a part of them with us, or if they promise not to mooch any worse than we, and can pitch in and not be dead weight, then can join our adventures.

And then we continue on the journey.

If the traveling gets old, we can just stop.

We can stop and get completely settled in and we can stay for as long as we like.

And we can live.

Or at least attempt.

Spinal Tap

It repeats itself over and over and over and over again.
Shakes her head and feels strange in her chest cavity because
It is fighting with itself.
It lapses because It wants to or because She thinks it wants to.
She can’t contain It’s mind, can’t let it seep through her fingers.
So much to say but it just thrashes around inside,
It gets lodged in the larynx, and burns away with the anxiety.
The answer to the world is lodged deep within the core of the brain.
Now she’s seeking.
She’s hunting down the beast inside her,
For the beast is beneath the mask of flesh and humanity.
It is perfection and it is understanding.
The beast is death.

This article originally appeared in The Retort, Volume 2 Issue 1.

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