So I think that red is red
who cares if the shade is a little off
or if it's constrained
by simple twists of shape or fate
So if red is red, 
What is it that I really see
When I look deep into you
I know I know
I'm beyond all of that
But I'm not above it
I feel it coming on
And antibiotics won't do the trick
This disease of infectious morallity
It's got to have its way
So what if red is red
If you choose not to believe

24 responses total.

red is the deep of the oncomming rush of occurence... the sickly 
feeling we twitch and squirm of...

twitch or twist
to avoid the impact
but a glancing blow
is still a blow
when it knock you realing and falling
stumbling until it's far too late
and you can't believe that red is red
even as it comes bleeding out of you

You are trapped beneath your skin and bone.
I can free you with this balled-up fist,
break the dam and let fly 
a cloudburst of red that roils inside
the paper-thin dragonfly wings 
that you've wrapped around yourself.

..unfurling in red streamers, thick blizzards of red string,
red confetti clogging the storm drains

running haphazzard 
down dusty deserted streets
bumping curbs and trash cans
barreling full force
through forgotten alleys and byways
`til it's full head of steam
finally boils out
and it comes rolling bumping grinding to a halt
and the red is another red
burned and broken
but red all the same

Sift through the wreckage.
You hands gather the soot of searching
and you burn your hands on the ember that still glows there.
IT is not my fist like a meteorite embedded inside you --
it is YOU and always has been you,
a star that lives quietly wrapped up
in soft, pulsing muscle and warm red blood.
It is *your* heartbeat that still rings in your ears.

        (and your footfalls echo,
        footprints in the soft red clay
        of my memory
                     each strand 
        of your remembered hair
        reddened by the rusting soil)

A song, once dead, long remembered,
drifts back into my vision,
the streaks and streams of a lost and torrid insomnia
creasing its impression
upon my outstretched hand and,
softly chided,
wisping away again.

All that remains is the pulse of you.
The movements of All That Is engulfs your theme.
Red is red, even in the dark of the womb.
May you return there, return to here
return to me

one day
with star in hand,
and a smile free of pain.

The melody remains, but the words have changed:
Red is red, I want my baby dead.
Lunacy into madness,
darkness into light.

Well, *thank you* brighn for making you opinion of this item known with such
wit and grace.  But, if you 'll excuse my french, you may take that
self-satisfied smirk of amusement at how "cliche" we're all being and give
it a nice, warm home up your ass.

well, that would appear to be the end of that....it was fun while it lasted

IF anyone is interested, maybe we could start another one, perhaps something
circulated via email?

not a bad idea

What was *that* for, Erinn?
My post was serious, and intended as part of the thread.
It was a turn on an old song:
"Black is black, I want my baby back."

I think I deserve an apology.

 ...
Sorry, it's just the way it sounded, I hought you were making fun of the
item...
I really am sorry... it's been an aweful week, I've been very moody and upset
since Mike died; it's made mea bit touchy and weird.

'sok. I know I'm difficult to interpret at times.

Red is red, because it's in the blood.
I know you all think I'm asking for disappointment,
smashing my head against a wall of towering odds,
trying pathetically to express myself
in aesthetic dimensions
and reveal the things of myself most folks
wouldn't eat raw
face to face in mundane life.
I've cut myself for my work
and let melancholia bleed all over it--
a sort of masochistic release, I suppose.
But even I sometimes couldn't understand
how crimson sorrow was such fertile ground
for such inspired art.

Sometimes, when stumbling westward
on a summer evening, the light reflected 
from the puddles, sewer-bound, demands attention.
A sun of blood, falling from the seat of grace,
the colour of my mood.  And yet I know 
that resurrection waits; that when the 
time is come, the only red the morning's 
light will show will be my true love's hair.

<jessi pokes erinn-rar and says "pudd-le">

(I don't mean to diminsh the beauty of your lines, Greg, its just that 
puddles are an old, old joke between Erinn and I... sorry.)

resp:18 I should put this in another item.. comments?

<pounces on jessi rar and snuggles her to pieces>  

Greg, that's awesome, and Jon, that's awesome -- damn -- this is a good item
after all -- I thnk we shoul dstart another one!

Red is red, or is red read?
If I open my veins and show my soul,
Bleeding on paper
So that people can share in the coppery sweetness
Of spilled emotion,
Will people drink and appreciate the crimson flow
Or will they smear the hard spilled redness
In careless misunderstanding of the donor?

(compiling all entrys thus far..........................done)
(insering addition..........done)


So I think that red is red
who cares if the shade is a little off
or if it's constrained
by simple twists of shape or fate
So if red is red, 
What is it that I really see
When I look deep into you
I know I know
I'm beyond all of that
But I'm not above it
I feel it coming on
And antibiotics won't do the trick
This disease of infectious morallity
It's got to have its way
So what if red is red
If you choose not to believe

red is the deep 
of the oncomming rush 
of occurence... 
that sickly feeling 
we twitch and squirm for...

twitch or twist
to avoid the impact
but a glancing blow
is still a blow
when it knocks you reeling and falling
stumbling until it's far too late
and you can't believe that red is red
even as it comes bleeding out of you

You are trapped beneath your skin and bone.
I can free you with this balled-up fist,
break the dam and let fly 
a cloudburst of red that roils inside
the paper-thin dragonfly wings 
that you've wrapped around yourself.

..unfurling in red streamers, 
thick blizzards of red string,
red confetti clogging the storm drains

running haphazzard 
down dusty deserted streets
bumping curbs and trash cans
barreling full force
through forgotten alleys and byways
`til it's full head of steam
finally boils out
and it comes rolling 
bumping 
grinding to a halt
and the red is another red
burned and broken
but red all the same

Sift through the wreckage.
You hands gather the soot of searching
and you burn your hands on the ember that still glows there.
IT is not my fist like a meteorite embedded inside you --
it is YOU and always has been you,
a star that lives quietly wrapped up
in soft, pulsing muscle and warm red blood.
It is *your* heartbeat that still rings in your ears.


        (and your footfalls echo,
        footprints in the soft red clay
        of my memory
                     each strand 
        of your remembered hair
        reddened by the rusting soil)
        
A song, once dead, long remembered,
drifts back into my vision,
the streaks and streams of a lost and torrid insomnia
creasing its impression
upon my outstretched hand and,
softly chided,
wisping away again.

All that remains is the pulse of you.
The movements of All That Is engulfs your theme.
Red is red, even in the dark of the womb.
May you return there, return to here
return to me

one day
with star in hand,
and a smile free of pain.

The melody remains, but the words have changed:
Red is red, I want my baby dead.
Lunacy into madness,
darkness into light.

Red is red, because it's in the blood.
I know you all think I'm asking for disappointment,
smashing my head against a wall of towering odds,
trying pathetically to express myself
in aesthetic dimensions
and reveal the things of myself most folks
wouldn't eat raw
face to face in mundane life.
I've cut myself for my work
and let melancholia bleed all over me--
a sort of masochistic release, I suppose.
But even I sometimes couldn't understand
how crimson sorrow was such fertile ground
for such inspired art.

Sometimes, when stumbling westward
on a summer evening, the light reflected 
from the puddles, sewer-bound, demands attention.
A sun of blood, falling from the seat of grace,
the colour of my mood.  And yet I know 
that resurrection waits; that when the 
time is come, the only red the morning's 
light will show will be my true love's hair.

Red is red, or is red read?
If I open my veins and show my soul,
Bleeding on paper
So that people can share in the coppery sweetness
Of spilled emotion,
Will people drink and appreciate the crimson flow
Or will they smear the hard spilled redness
In careless misunderstanding of the donor?

Feel the red
And feed the red
And take it to your heart
Touch and taste
And linger here
Until the red is one with you
And escape is just a dream

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