who had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead. when she was good, she was very very good, and when she was bad she was horrid.
it was not enough for me to taste the acid, i had to bathe in it and then hold hands with those around me, blisters creeping up all over their bodies as well. miraculously, i am the drunk that walks away from the car accident i caused while every one goes up in flames. there aren't any witnesses who will talk, so i will get off.
the circle has nothing to do with this. no birth death mumbo jumbo. people like me are too selfish to consider the possibilities. we walk down a hundred dark alleys, speed down a thousand highways free from polyester restraints and remain intact while the innocent suffer freak accounts of spontaneous combustion and nuclear meltdown. we cannot possibly ruin our own good time sex-worker curves by procreating, either.
idiots believe it all to be for the best. we may not die instantly, but we will not live to see ourselves old and unlovely. meanwhile, we will pass our time fucking and fighting, painting a fraught portrait of wasted youthish tendencies and making up words like youthish. our legacy will be in all of the people who burn for us, shaking their fists while secretly longing for our embraces and kisses to be on the other side of perfunctory. It never happens as we have the ability to fuck with people and not believe that karma is a real monster under the bed just waiting to take a bite of an errant ankle.
there is indeed a little girl with a curl. she has a sweetness akin to apples, but she feels just like the razor blade those sick fucks put inside all that time ago.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Saturday, September 17, 2011
tip 2: do not blame your server if your food comes out shitty.
i waited on a couple of fat fucks. they ordered, in typical fat fuck fashion, a pitcher of miller lite (one of 3), two coca colas with cherry juice in them, cheese sticks, buffalo wings and french fries with ranch sauce to start, and a large double crust carnivore with some extra cheddar cheese on top. as fast as i could, i put their order in because i did not want them to start eating the imitation parmesan or the table or whatever. i was gone for roughly 37 seconds before the guy was shaking his empty diabetes-maker at me, rudely signalling his NEED for a refill. i obliged. and soon after, their appetizers were out as well.
i am not sure how either of them were able to detect temperature at that point, what with their jaws being unhinged to allow for more food to be crammed down their throats and everything, but she did.
Hey! hey waitress, hey! these cheese things are Cold! They are stone cold! we can't eat these Cold!
i am so sorry, ma'am. sometimes they pull them from the (gelatinous, oil filled fryer) oven too soon, and they do not get cooked all the way through. i will have them make a new batch which will be out in about two minutes.
Fine.
I sort of expect, being the rational person that i am, for them to continue eating the rest of the food mountain blocking their view of one another, but they don't. they instead mutinously push their plates away and commence staring at me, as if i should be personally "baking" their fried cheese logs, or at least begging for forgiveness.
maybe you can see where this is going. i couldn't.
the cheese sticks came out in two minutes, as promised. but in the meantime, everything else got cold, apparently.
We wanted to be able to eat everything together and now it's all cold except for the sticks. we need new wings and fries, too. (at this time i am gazing at the half eaten wings and nearly completely eaten fries and all that fucking ranch drizzled on the table).
Fine.
I had the foresight to take the cheese sticks back. into the fryer they went for a second time. please stay hot. please stay hot.
so, out all three new appetizers come. the pizza is now done, as well. without the fucking cheddar. damn it all to hell. so, i push the remake button. this button is fiction, so instead i beg the kitchen to start over again, knowing that if we just throw the cheddar on top, the evil obese sweating all over the vinyl booth will know and send it back.
i still think that i may be fine. they have to get through the second round of apps, after all. For a minute, I am right. more cherry coke and another pitcher and they actually seem to not be hexing my first born any longer.
one minute.
two minutes.
five minutes.
Um, where's are pizza? It's been awhile. we are hungry,you know.
Oh, it will be out in just a minute. Wanted to keep it warm while you had your appetizers.
Well, it better be. we want it now. and more beer.
So, i fly through the kitchen. it is going to be another few minutes. I stare longingly at the first pizza, now being devoured by coworkers. I do not tend to eat a pound of flesh per slice, but i am starving and would gladly chew on a mad cow patty at the moment. no time, though, i have three other tables who have been politely neglected in favor of the carnies at 106.
so i tend to everyone else. more tables flood in. we are genuinely busy now. i get to add a blister, full bladder, and an errant bra strap to my growling stomach as i whirl dirvishly through the dining room. the couple sits and fumes, their table covered in buffalo sauce, ketchup, and ranch. funnily enough, though, the napkins remain untouched. i cannot go back there without that fucking pizza.
Finally, finally, it is ready and it is right. I bring it out, whisking away the chicken bone graveyard and kindergarten finger sauce paintings, and make a hasty retreat. After two minutes, the usual amount of time i give people to taste test their food, i check back and half the pie is gone. still, i politely enquire.
this doesn't taste good. It's too salty.
okay. what would you like me to do?
is there a way to make it less salty?
not really. it is all meat and extra cheese.
we want it remade. maybe without the cheddar.
okay. but i will have to charge you for both pizzas.
what the fuck? why? we didn't like it.
yeah, but it was made exactly how you ordered it. there is nothing wrong with it.
fuck that. no. we're done. give us the check.
okay.
and a box.
of course.
what happens next is no mystery. they paid in cash, attempting to short me five bucks. i called them on it as they were leaving and was given exact change. i just laughed.
what i learned from this experience, is that i should have known all along that they would be dicks and should not have neglected my other tables in favor of them.
what everyone else should learn: if something sucks about your meal, tell us, we want to help and we want you to come back. if you order something you do not ordinarily like and you don't turn out to like it, be cool. we will generally not charge you for the (your) mistake and will bring you whatever you want instead. be an ass, and you will pay for it. also, if your server seems slow or flustered, look around. you will probably be able to spot the idiots who are running them into the weeds.
i am not sure how either of them were able to detect temperature at that point, what with their jaws being unhinged to allow for more food to be crammed down their throats and everything, but she did.
Hey! hey waitress, hey! these cheese things are Cold! They are stone cold! we can't eat these Cold!
i am so sorry, ma'am. sometimes they pull them from the (gelatinous, oil filled fryer) oven too soon, and they do not get cooked all the way through. i will have them make a new batch which will be out in about two minutes.
Fine.
I sort of expect, being the rational person that i am, for them to continue eating the rest of the food mountain blocking their view of one another, but they don't. they instead mutinously push their plates away and commence staring at me, as if i should be personally "baking" their fried cheese logs, or at least begging for forgiveness.
maybe you can see where this is going. i couldn't.
the cheese sticks came out in two minutes, as promised. but in the meantime, everything else got cold, apparently.
We wanted to be able to eat everything together and now it's all cold except for the sticks. we need new wings and fries, too. (at this time i am gazing at the half eaten wings and nearly completely eaten fries and all that fucking ranch drizzled on the table).
Fine.
I had the foresight to take the cheese sticks back. into the fryer they went for a second time. please stay hot. please stay hot.
so, out all three new appetizers come. the pizza is now done, as well. without the fucking cheddar. damn it all to hell. so, i push the remake button. this button is fiction, so instead i beg the kitchen to start over again, knowing that if we just throw the cheddar on top, the evil obese sweating all over the vinyl booth will know and send it back.
i still think that i may be fine. they have to get through the second round of apps, after all. For a minute, I am right. more cherry coke and another pitcher and they actually seem to not be hexing my first born any longer.
one minute.
two minutes.
five minutes.
Um, where's are pizza? It's been awhile. we are hungry,you know.
Oh, it will be out in just a minute. Wanted to keep it warm while you had your appetizers.
Well, it better be. we want it now. and more beer.
So, i fly through the kitchen. it is going to be another few minutes. I stare longingly at the first pizza, now being devoured by coworkers. I do not tend to eat a pound of flesh per slice, but i am starving and would gladly chew on a mad cow patty at the moment. no time, though, i have three other tables who have been politely neglected in favor of the carnies at 106.
so i tend to everyone else. more tables flood in. we are genuinely busy now. i get to add a blister, full bladder, and an errant bra strap to my growling stomach as i whirl dirvishly through the dining room. the couple sits and fumes, their table covered in buffalo sauce, ketchup, and ranch. funnily enough, though, the napkins remain untouched. i cannot go back there without that fucking pizza.
Finally, finally, it is ready and it is right. I bring it out, whisking away the chicken bone graveyard and kindergarten finger sauce paintings, and make a hasty retreat. After two minutes, the usual amount of time i give people to taste test their food, i check back and half the pie is gone. still, i politely enquire.
this doesn't taste good. It's too salty.
okay. what would you like me to do?
is there a way to make it less salty?
not really. it is all meat and extra cheese.
we want it remade. maybe without the cheddar.
okay. but i will have to charge you for both pizzas.
what the fuck? why? we didn't like it.
yeah, but it was made exactly how you ordered it. there is nothing wrong with it.
fuck that. no. we're done. give us the check.
okay.
and a box.
of course.
what happens next is no mystery. they paid in cash, attempting to short me five bucks. i called them on it as they were leaving and was given exact change. i just laughed.
what i learned from this experience, is that i should have known all along that they would be dicks and should not have neglected my other tables in favor of them.
what everyone else should learn: if something sucks about your meal, tell us, we want to help and we want you to come back. if you order something you do not ordinarily like and you don't turn out to like it, be cool. we will generally not charge you for the (your) mistake and will bring you whatever you want instead. be an ass, and you will pay for it. also, if your server seems slow or flustered, look around. you will probably be able to spot the idiots who are running them into the weeds.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
evil thoughts.
life is too perfect, every once in awhile. i stare down at my own cleavage, breasts pushing out from the lowered neck of white cotton. i wore this dress out once. my head hurts in a hard to place way. like i am on the verge of a chainsaw. the tide ebbs and flows.
it is several hours later and i know what i did. opened up the door to prince charming in wolf's clothing. so now, the little girl has got to go. she is breakfast. i, the wandering hunter will be spared. the prince and i will eat her guts and then fuck in her bed.
i like her red hood. i will keep that for myself. later we will have to find that bitch snow white. she needs reviving so we can sell her virgin ass to those horny little men she has been cock teasing for the past while. were it not for that bullet proof glass case, i dare say we would have some necrophilia to deal with, as well.
i was on my own mission to push a couple of children into an oven and then make sweet love to a fellow cannibal, but i hate using strap ons, and that is way on the other side of town.
to be continued...
it is several hours later and i know what i did. opened up the door to prince charming in wolf's clothing. so now, the little girl has got to go. she is breakfast. i, the wandering hunter will be spared. the prince and i will eat her guts and then fuck in her bed.
i like her red hood. i will keep that for myself. later we will have to find that bitch snow white. she needs reviving so we can sell her virgin ass to those horny little men she has been cock teasing for the past while. were it not for that bullet proof glass case, i dare say we would have some necrophilia to deal with, as well.
i was on my own mission to push a couple of children into an oven and then make sweet love to a fellow cannibal, but i hate using strap ons, and that is way on the other side of town.
to be continued...
rock the hell on
what is the best way to manage the mass of contradictions you have found yourself ball and chained to? i would say that it is time to cut off your own foot to save the vessel. no one should ever find themselves attached to an aspect. i cannot blame him for trying to take me one corner of my personality at a time. critics covet what they cannot explain. our conversation went around, serpentine, but not shedding any layers. the garden snake turned into a python and all the life was choked out of what started out poisonous and volatile. death to that train of thought saved us for just a moment, though probably not forever. i would rather over consume and have it perish in a vile of venom than have to endure the slow panic of losing all of my breath, having it taken away.
what am i saying? what did i say? what have i said? nothing. the above is trite bullshit. who the fuck writes about snakes anymore? it's all so biblical. i like poison, but not venom. if a python was choking me out, it would be real death, not some poetical word vomit. hate that word, but regurgitation does not work in this context. what really happened was i got pissed off and saw a side of someone i knew was there but hoped i would not be affected by. this pull at my skirt kind of gentle sense of entitlement. an invite into my bedroom and there lies the key to my brain, yes? sure. on that day, but my mind shifts and there you are, holding a wig scented with my perfume.
so i am gone and the end of the night is not so promising that i will be rolling over and going to sleep while beads of perspiration dry into my thick curls, thighs aching, back unable to forget it's arch. i think about being pulled up effortlessly. strong hands at my waist, being guided toward ecstasy, and then having the tables turned. giggling at my ankles in the air, that intense look right into my eyes. i could never ever look away from him for long.
the sun is cool, my curtains fell down sometime in the night. i was hoping to sleep in, but the all of this bright keeps me awake. so i write, on a sharp point,gentle blade all but breaking the skin. for that i am not sorry. when i started, i felt like plunging the damn thing in and walking away. it is frustrating, all of this nudity. these lips, arms, legs, this face. this big empty bed. maybe i just need to be clubbed over the head and dragged into the cave. either way, the bed needs to move from one end of the room to the other and all of the people within shouting distance should be blushing.
what am i saying? what did i say? what have i said? nothing. the above is trite bullshit. who the fuck writes about snakes anymore? it's all so biblical. i like poison, but not venom. if a python was choking me out, it would be real death, not some poetical word vomit. hate that word, but regurgitation does not work in this context. what really happened was i got pissed off and saw a side of someone i knew was there but hoped i would not be affected by. this pull at my skirt kind of gentle sense of entitlement. an invite into my bedroom and there lies the key to my brain, yes? sure. on that day, but my mind shifts and there you are, holding a wig scented with my perfume.
so i am gone and the end of the night is not so promising that i will be rolling over and going to sleep while beads of perspiration dry into my thick curls, thighs aching, back unable to forget it's arch. i think about being pulled up effortlessly. strong hands at my waist, being guided toward ecstasy, and then having the tables turned. giggling at my ankles in the air, that intense look right into my eyes. i could never ever look away from him for long.
the sun is cool, my curtains fell down sometime in the night. i was hoping to sleep in, but the all of this bright keeps me awake. so i write, on a sharp point,gentle blade all but breaking the skin. for that i am not sorry. when i started, i felt like plunging the damn thing in and walking away. it is frustrating, all of this nudity. these lips, arms, legs, this face. this big empty bed. maybe i just need to be clubbed over the head and dragged into the cave. either way, the bed needs to move from one end of the room to the other and all of the people within shouting distance should be blushing.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
death to the hippos.
this spoon will not be useful for scooping out my brain. it has become necessary for me to consider this procedure, as i am very tired of being conscious and aware.
i remember the last night we were filled to the gills with jameson and melting ice cubes. had to force that last one down, right before i told him where to put his incommunicado. not for the courage, but because i paid for it. the first went down fine. honey. and now my dreams and my reality forget that night ever took place because this shit keeps coming up.
my past, my love is usually jack in his frilly box. pops when he has had too much to drink or has been wound too tightly. with a garish smile and wide open puppet paws, he shocks every time with keen accuracy.
recently jack has amputated his lower body and gotten himself a fancy new car. bleeding and half dead, he bombs each bridge as he passes. the one up ahead, well, pray my memories have sea legs among all the gore and guts ruining the new car smell, because this bridge is already burning, and jack has not quite mastered reverse.
a good friend of mine wonders at a new lovely in his life. she does not understand his brain. he fears this, like she should. as if being like us, there being more like us, would be a good thing. and send in the serial killers, while you're at it.
we are that bad. feeding frenziedly on love, never full. this empty need to fill a ruptured bicycle tube that is wrapped around the heart. that is as close as anyone can get. never to the blood pumping organ. because it has already been lent out in a gesture of kindness. the last we ever gave. the one that meant everything and ruined us forever, ruined everyone for us. now we thrive on what we see reflected in their arms. the devotion, the admiration.the curiosity into how beautiful we well up in another's eyes never sated.
can we get back what we have given? was it ever ours if we set it free and it headed for the fucking hills? all that makes me who i have been up til now is having it's flames put out by the monster in the loch over the smoking bridge where turning back ran out of options.
without a heart, i need that clown, jack. the proof that once i could feel things not being thrust inside of me. that i gave flowers and brought cheesecake. that i called and cried and came.
am i grown up. not a question. that fluttery-filled-to my eyes with the back of my throat is a lump of tears feeling. that is the one that tells me who is real and who is trying to close the lid to that frilly box, trying to make that monster crave the remaining flesh. trying to douse the flames in gasoline.
the door is always open.
the window, broken.
the attic not obscured.
it's the basement i fear.
all those stairs.
traveling lower, still.
our clowns,
they all float down here.
i remember the last night we were filled to the gills with jameson and melting ice cubes. had to force that last one down, right before i told him where to put his incommunicado. not for the courage, but because i paid for it. the first went down fine. honey. and now my dreams and my reality forget that night ever took place because this shit keeps coming up.
my past, my love is usually jack in his frilly box. pops when he has had too much to drink or has been wound too tightly. with a garish smile and wide open puppet paws, he shocks every time with keen accuracy.
recently jack has amputated his lower body and gotten himself a fancy new car. bleeding and half dead, he bombs each bridge as he passes. the one up ahead, well, pray my memories have sea legs among all the gore and guts ruining the new car smell, because this bridge is already burning, and jack has not quite mastered reverse.
a good friend of mine wonders at a new lovely in his life. she does not understand his brain. he fears this, like she should. as if being like us, there being more like us, would be a good thing. and send in the serial killers, while you're at it.
we are that bad. feeding frenziedly on love, never full. this empty need to fill a ruptured bicycle tube that is wrapped around the heart. that is as close as anyone can get. never to the blood pumping organ. because it has already been lent out in a gesture of kindness. the last we ever gave. the one that meant everything and ruined us forever, ruined everyone for us. now we thrive on what we see reflected in their arms. the devotion, the admiration.the curiosity into how beautiful we well up in another's eyes never sated.
can we get back what we have given? was it ever ours if we set it free and it headed for the fucking hills? all that makes me who i have been up til now is having it's flames put out by the monster in the loch over the smoking bridge where turning back ran out of options.
without a heart, i need that clown, jack. the proof that once i could feel things not being thrust inside of me. that i gave flowers and brought cheesecake. that i called and cried and came.
am i grown up. not a question. that fluttery-filled-to my eyes with the back of my throat is a lump of tears feeling. that is the one that tells me who is real and who is trying to close the lid to that frilly box, trying to make that monster crave the remaining flesh. trying to douse the flames in gasoline.
the door is always open.
the window, broken.
the attic not obscured.
it's the basement i fear.
all those stairs.
traveling lower, still.
our clowns,
they all float down here.
things weren't meant to be. left unsaid.
the clasp broke. this class does not work.
terrible need to flee from this ten minute break into the rest of my night.
start drinking heavily inspite of the/my cold.
i will be blinded tomorrow, but for now prose and passion are painfully obvious.
my mind flips from stopping to change, changing in the mirror.
what do i have time for? 5 voicemails, seven missed calls. one whiskey?
i call a familiar face. he never answers but is always there.
tonight he is inside out. i can hear his voice for once, but it is a million miles away.
he tells me, like all the others, not to go to that bar.
i tell him i am not going for that. he does not believe me.
part of me is trapped there with that acrid stench of bottles and bodies and my neat little corner.
swept clean of blood and bones. trace hairs and perfume betray me.
i walk in. the room tilts. tonight, i do not know yet, the room will not tilt.
the disembodied family voice guides me down three blocked roads.
construction is painful obvious-ity number one.
i sail merrily in the next direction i am given, only to bypass the mark completely. this is number two.
i toil on, fevered and wretched, sweating through my hair and makeup. sick and lovely.
i reach the middle. and stop.a large truck obscures my view. number three.
i know without seeing that parking will be non existent. it is. home run.
i glance into a gaze at his long black car. he is in there somewhere, operating his wheelbarrow in hell.
he might have even known i was coming, been warned. watching the door.
i drove back to other bar. where we met. where i feel like i live.
hey beautiful.
that's me. despite my wrinkled t shirt and virus.
two smile in my direction, one smirks. we share a secret.
that i am broken.
i have a feeling more know than not.
he gives me a way back to that other bar. and i sip my drink. in my mind, i go with him and everything turns out different.
i do not think of what i should. only of turning back the clocks and changing things.
terrible need to flee from this ten minute break into the rest of my night.
start drinking heavily inspite of the/my cold.
i will be blinded tomorrow, but for now prose and passion are painfully obvious.
my mind flips from stopping to change, changing in the mirror.
what do i have time for? 5 voicemails, seven missed calls. one whiskey?
i call a familiar face. he never answers but is always there.
tonight he is inside out. i can hear his voice for once, but it is a million miles away.
he tells me, like all the others, not to go to that bar.
i tell him i am not going for that. he does not believe me.
part of me is trapped there with that acrid stench of bottles and bodies and my neat little corner.
swept clean of blood and bones. trace hairs and perfume betray me.
i walk in. the room tilts. tonight, i do not know yet, the room will not tilt.
the disembodied family voice guides me down three blocked roads.
construction is painful obvious-ity number one.
i sail merrily in the next direction i am given, only to bypass the mark completely. this is number two.
i toil on, fevered and wretched, sweating through my hair and makeup. sick and lovely.
i reach the middle. and stop.a large truck obscures my view. number three.
i know without seeing that parking will be non existent. it is. home run.
i glance into a gaze at his long black car. he is in there somewhere, operating his wheelbarrow in hell.
he might have even known i was coming, been warned. watching the door.
i drove back to other bar. where we met. where i feel like i live.
hey beautiful.
that's me. despite my wrinkled t shirt and virus.
two smile in my direction, one smirks. we share a secret.
that i am broken.
i have a feeling more know than not.
he gives me a way back to that other bar. and i sip my drink. in my mind, i go with him and everything turns out different.
i do not think of what i should. only of turning back the clocks and changing things.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
if i were him...
i would look me in the eye.
i would smile back.
my eyes would not linger on my breasts.
i would still watch me retreat. i do have great hair. and a nice ass.
if i were her...
i wouldn't bother watching his every move.
i wouldn't order beer plus cheese bread plus a meatball hoagie.
i would grow my hair waist length and dye it mahogany.
i would leave him to his (fat) chances with the waitress.
if i were them...
i wouldn't ask for a round of waters to start. they aren't going to finish with anything else, right?
i wouldn't make such a mess.
i wouldn't be so rude.
i wouldn't try to walk out on my tab.
if i were you...
i would visit me whenever you feel like because i always want to see your face.
i would ravage me without hesitation.
i would pat myself on the back for being so fucking sweet.
i wouldn't change a thing.
because i am me...
i will politely ignore the him who keeps leering at me even though he is with his girlfriend.
i will discreetly let her know she has sauce on her face.
i will chase them out and make them feel so guilty they will include a 30 percent tip.
i will love you, probably for as long as it's possible.
i would smile back.
my eyes would not linger on my breasts.
i would still watch me retreat. i do have great hair. and a nice ass.
if i were her...
i wouldn't bother watching his every move.
i wouldn't order beer plus cheese bread plus a meatball hoagie.
i would grow my hair waist length and dye it mahogany.
i would leave him to his (fat) chances with the waitress.
if i were them...
i wouldn't ask for a round of waters to start. they aren't going to finish with anything else, right?
i wouldn't make such a mess.
i wouldn't be so rude.
i wouldn't try to walk out on my tab.
if i were you...
i would visit me whenever you feel like because i always want to see your face.
i would ravage me without hesitation.
i would pat myself on the back for being so fucking sweet.
i wouldn't change a thing.
because i am me...
i will politely ignore the him who keeps leering at me even though he is with his girlfriend.
i will discreetly let her know she has sauce on her face.
i will chase them out and make them feel so guilty they will include a 30 percent tip.
i will love you, probably for as long as it's possible.
bogart the butterfly
rip the fucking thing wing from wing. use up all of that beauty. pass it on empty, dead, a husk. then haunt my thoughts after i regrow transparent moth appendages. keep my daydreams pedaling your old bullshit. my eyes on the rear view, never to my left. the past will rewrite itself so you will always be my hero, instead of the evil slain by my kick in the teeth.
i woke up this morning in pain, in fever, regretting ever having fallen asleep. burst from this stupid closed eye mind fuck in tears, clutching madly at my phone, wondering if the conversation had actually taken place, if we could really go back to normal. felt reality spiralling into me. i missed just the one call, and it was not from you.
a man can live his life going to work, paying bills, bringing his work home, and finish up his days not choking on smooth grey goose. He will not be sad or empty because he can stare at the painting on the wall, the one from the girl standing in for the other girl, can open the refrigerator and see the take out containers from a night on the town, can walk by the garbage and note the used condoms mixed with the empty toilet paper rolls and dirty q tips.
he can go days without love, for he has so many boxes to tick off, so many people to piss off, so many images with which to get off. He is used to solitude, and believes he is enlightened here, as he was up in his formidable tower, away from the noise of me pounding on the keys.
substance. we abuse you. we are sorry, but you are so obsequious. so malleable. so attainable. could you try to be more aloof?
my thoughts during slumber lead me to one cold truth. i am afraid that the past will repeat itself and that my summer of debauchery will end and his will go on and on. that i will be shaking a rag doll, trying to find a more important meaning to love than one i have ever experienced. something more pure, with actual lines, not just suggestions. my thoughts will go places he cannot follow because the pain of living not chemically induced is one i am am used to, one i prefer to the mellow float because we are not floating. we are staying still while life quietly passes us by.
i woke up this morning in pain, in fever, regretting ever having fallen asleep. burst from this stupid closed eye mind fuck in tears, clutching madly at my phone, wondering if the conversation had actually taken place, if we could really go back to normal. felt reality spiralling into me. i missed just the one call, and it was not from you.
a man can live his life going to work, paying bills, bringing his work home, and finish up his days not choking on smooth grey goose. He will not be sad or empty because he can stare at the painting on the wall, the one from the girl standing in for the other girl, can open the refrigerator and see the take out containers from a night on the town, can walk by the garbage and note the used condoms mixed with the empty toilet paper rolls and dirty q tips.
he can go days without love, for he has so many boxes to tick off, so many people to piss off, so many images with which to get off. He is used to solitude, and believes he is enlightened here, as he was up in his formidable tower, away from the noise of me pounding on the keys.
substance. we abuse you. we are sorry, but you are so obsequious. so malleable. so attainable. could you try to be more aloof?
my thoughts during slumber lead me to one cold truth. i am afraid that the past will repeat itself and that my summer of debauchery will end and his will go on and on. that i will be shaking a rag doll, trying to find a more important meaning to love than one i have ever experienced. something more pure, with actual lines, not just suggestions. my thoughts will go places he cannot follow because the pain of living not chemically induced is one i am am used to, one i prefer to the mellow float because we are not floating. we are staying still while life quietly passes us by.
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