the second time we ever ate together your new glasses stayed in place and my chopsticks did not embarrass me the nervousness was not in the objects it was in your eagerness to grab napkins, my eagerness to sit across from you and in how we ate carefully like museum curators dealing with valuables now we eat unaware of each other not uncaring, but not caring about how our mouths open, where our...
There is no guarantee that Frank Sinatra would have been a good lover. He just sounds like that in the songs. But you want to believe that he would have been magnificent. And you want to believe that all of the serial killers and dictators have no souls. It’s easier that way. It’s justified to hate them and hang them up that way — just as much as it is to love Frank Sinatra for...
remorse is my neighbour she leaves postcards in my mailbox with pictures of faraway places and the same set of scribbles on the back: i should have been more there is a pile on my windowsill it makes shadows in my bedroom thick with distant Italy and France and layers of an inky refrain: i should have been more i should have been more i should have been more
Anonymous asked: Why do you write? A fairly loaded question perhaps, but an interesting one for any artist.
My Formal Education
rakkan: Before I am able to make any marks in my agenda, it marks the end of my summer. My return to academia is an agenda that I will never use, a golden schedule that will fade to pale yellow, and a notebook that will contain more ridiculous rambling in the margins than anything else. Thrash as I may, I am only the flailing limbs of a drowning swimmer in an ocean too large for him to control....
My Other Project →
I write stories in three pieces of dialogue on my other blog. I’d love for you to check it out.
You want a lover that waits at the foot of the stairs. You should not care for one who pulls you up to the landing by the hand. He is racing ahead and bringing you along only as an accessory or afterthought. Nor should you long for one who is charging up the steps eagerly behind you. He is chasing you and he would have caught up to you by now if you wanted. You want a lover who waits at the foot...
The Thought of You
There were entire mornings that we spent in bed doing nothing but cutting the split ends out of your hair. You had vowed to let your hair grow long and last I saw you it was well past your hips. I remember the way it would sprawl out against the sheets and fill the space in between the two of us when we slept in the same bed. I remember how it began. You suggested that we stay in one evening and...
davidmarshall replied to your post: Arsonists Before Bedtime Now I have to go off and find out whether lollipops can really be set on fire. (Or if they only can figuratively.) Haha, you should let me know what you discover!
davidmarshall replied to your post: Advice for a Vicenarian Handsome women can be so gorgeous. It’s one of my go-to compliments. It’s one of those situations where reality breaks a binary and the brain starts flurrying to keep up with it. I can’t say that I disagree with any of that.
fresh-born replied to your post: Arsonists Before Bedtime That opening line is brilliant. Thank you. It’s really strange that people have liked this more than most of the other stuff I write. This was something that I wrote months ago and just left in my drafts because I didn’t think it was good enough to post. Maybe I just have bad taste when it comes to my own stuff.
Advice for a Vicenarian
Buy a black dress for the party. Somebody told you that you look handsome in black. Handsome is a strange word to compliment a woman with, and everyone looks good in black, but you should do it anyway. At the very least it’ll pair you with the darkness in someone’s living room at a listless house party, and you won’t have to say you brought a date. Dot your ‘i’s with...
Meet Jack →
If you haven’t already.
Arsonists Before Bedtime
I am on his shoulders, arms straight up like the number eleven — the same as the time of night. He says, “We probably look like we’ve lost it,” without a hint of remorse. My mouth is full of a cherry-flavoured lollipop so I respond only in laughter. I toss my head back and become the image of recklessness. It’s amazing what dressing up in a little leather will do to...
The moment your hand is against the nape of my neck, I know that it could have me by the hair too. You are a pendulum with comfort and terror on either end and I am swinging with you for the ride. You lag at the extremes of your cycle and never linger too long in the middle. Whenever you have my head in your hands looking at me like you have never loved anything more, you always have your thumb...
Soul-searcher, I saw you at the pool. You dove into the blue like a well-pointed arrow, so sure that you were going to find an answer. Your form was commendable — unrelentingly angular and sharp in the way that questions are meant to be. But you did not think as much about the place you went looking as you did about the way you would approach. Trying to get to the bottom of everything in...
| III |
You were sitting at a small round table with a red tablecloth over it. The colour was an expensive red. The kind they might use for a true red carpet or an Alexander McQueen dress. Your hands were in your lap and folded around your phone, which you checked periodically in the way that people do when they want to look important — the only difference was that it was believable when you did it....