Contempt is a fishhook.
Contempt is a fishhook and it pulls on the corner of my lover’s mouth. His uppermost lip is subjected to this tugging twitching that only I notice unblinkingly. And then down goes my heart through the gap between his lips, sinking to the bottom of his stomach. Attacked by acid, the threat of digestion scratches at the back of my neck. All I can seem to think is that I would like to kiss him...
The Reason For My Unhealthiness According To Your...
Practicality comes packaged Clear plastic wrappers with ribbons Unwrap it and it is not so clear Your glass half-full, half-empty Sit and peer and peer and peer I am without your measurers No scales, levels, or rulers Halves are plainly halves Occupied or vacant Yes, that is a glass I see through See you Bent over your table Like light through glass Calculating,...
sometimes, like you, I want to escape. I picture myself running. I am racing over places you have never seen. Some of them are fields like yours, Alice, but most of them are foreign streets with towering buildings that would have you bending your neck backwards. That aside, whatever ground my feet find themselves on, grass, paved sidewalks, or cobblestone, I am running. Running like madness...
Nostalgia Comes In Like A Nightmare
Tonight, sitting next to the lamp post nearest to my window, waiting, is the person I learned all my madness from. Crazy eyes and laughter that will put you at your wit’s end can be taught easily, but the shade of hysteria that he painted me with is another art in itself. To him, I am just another girl for another photo frame. He probably has me hanging up somewhere in that house of his...
Set me off like a firecracker. I don’t know what it is. All I know is that suddenly I am here with an exacto knife carving your face into all of my walls. I am frightened of what it will look like in the morning. When I wake up to your bleeding faces, will the windows be shut or will they be open? For some reason I ask myself that over and over.
Listen; there’s a hell of a good universe next door: let’s go.– E. E. Cummings
In 10 Years
I just want to live in your shadow and make 16 mm films.
I cannot sleep.
Arms folded fit for lying in a coffin. I lie in hopes of borrowing some silence, some peace from the resting dead.
I wish I could write to the effect of your jutting...
And I wish you reading my words would feel something like bones stretching out gossamer, begging to tear, begging to tear.
They are lined up so immaculate on silver trays on trolleys around my bed. Rows and rows of those injective columns. And it isn’t really the needles that bother me, their sparkling is a little comforting - light that is a reflection of a reflection of the sun. It is the fluids resting in the syringes that disturb me. All colours that I have ever seen, except in paler transparent shades. They...
A general unfairness of things.
My words are my only friends, and I keep them much like pets. As soon as the calendar turns to its last page, they begin to whimper and squirm for the very life of them. Unpicked and haphazardly meaningless are they until I arrange them, but even they know that this winter will not be good for them. For this past summer I let them roam every corner of everywhere and come raining back to fall...
Emptiness is your humming refrigerator.
I Am Delusional (And You Are My Delusion)
You, I imagine, are holding your head wondering why it is that you speak still the same as your last lover. You, I imagine, have just put that parcel in the mailbox and are sitting on the curb just holding your head and wishing that you were a FedEx delivery man. I have grown used to your brown paper parcels in the mail every month. Last month it was a hardcover; Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina....
It was such a lovely day I thought it a pity to get up.– W. Somerset Maugham (1874 - 1965) (via expression-k)
I've been entertaining the wrong kind of company.
So he said, “Are you in love?” And I told him, “Yes, I am.” “Madly?” “Yes, madly.” Then he looked at me, “Darling, we do shots when we’ve been shot down.” “No, I can’t.” “Too young to be drinking?” And I was, but I said, “I don’t drink.” He smiled, “Sweetheart, you’ll find...
Attend to sadness. Be alone. Rilke says. So I wrote it on my wrist and went the wrong way home.
My pessimism extends to the point of even suspecting the sincerity of the...– Jean Rostand (1894 - 1977), Journal of a Character, 1931 (via expression-k) It is nice to know that somebody shares somehow in my own paranoia.
is the anniversary of the day that he came into the world.
I am sixteen going on seventeen (and I am nothing like the musical). I am a lover (whether I want to be or not). I am infatuated with people (those who are here and those who were here). I am trying very hard to convince you that everything I write is purely fiction. Because you asked. Because I don’t have a sidebar.
This is what it all comes down to.
A collage of the words I have used most excessively up until now.
“Yesterday I woke up sucking on a lemon.” - Everything In Its Right...
When I was 15...
I met a man for the very first time. He used to make two-second paper roses and pin them to my back. His visit lasted only as long as my fleeting fifteen years. He was showing me an old vinyl record the night he disappeared. It played a scratchy tune on my borrowed record player and I danced with my face pressed so far into his chest that it almost sank to the other side through. And then we were...
"Sit in another type of darkness."
I tried very hard to, lover. But it would seem that I have run out of different darknesses to visit.