half full of.when my tongues are made of tongue and sit safely in mouths pooled with bitter-sweet (scrawny black boys, liquor, beer, liquor) and my nail polish matches my panties (but he will never know) i get flashes forward and backward, and my brain is cubed fractions of sweetness and joking and knee to knee forgetfulness.half full of.
most days it's just one of them,
and i forget breathing, and joy division, and the air is so much air that it is made of something else, liquid nitrogen or aborted fetuses or their almost-knots, full of hair, full of flies and dirt
suck. on. that.i like it. i do.suck. on. that.
getting calls about calling the police, and others, later, about brick-shitting and nay-saying.
i like name-calling and arm-twisting and yes, it makes me feel better about myself, because i'm sooooooooo naive.
i like it. i do. the same way you like fucking little girls.
happy orbriskly, wrongly, slowly, moving from one polar opposite to the other (and the other, and the other; we are not so alike as they thought) not-right¬-not busts&drips, holds, spins, drops.happy or
we sign on the elevator and smile at the women decorating the christmas tree in the lobby. i stick my tongue out at the sick boy and his girl across the street, they laugh and whisper of how they fucked me and then over and over.
quickly, loudly, i walk and listen to smile, happy or batshit crazy.
post-post-postblack lung-smell won't, can't reach me, naked and obedient, sick with it, swelling for it.post-post-post
fine white all the way from china
cold hands and dresses that don't fit anymore, that spin on their own.
these ones and those ones and you ignorant prick and you strong and terrible boy and you silly girl. schizophrenia and obsessive and ohmygoodness ugly and full up.
sometimes i forget to breathei have caught myself up in a very messy pile ofsometimes i forget to breathe
reconsidered affection
secondhand gently used slightly scratched in decent condition only worn twice
affection.
thursdays we will walk the traintracks of the not-quite 100 acre woods and saturday will consist of sleeping-ins on a pile of contorted pale flesh mondays, we will stay up early and watch the stars be replaced by
dull corporate rectangles.
but the modern world will grab back onto us and we will ride into the
waking nightmare.
the classical mu
The Village Gas BarIt was a dismal buildingThe Village Gas Bar
Which called for pity, Attracting spite. Tarnished metal railings and Steel steps to the door, Matching the rickety fire escape Which looped around the sides
Of gray shingled walls.
They called it the village gas bar.
At the end of a town filled with assorted, colorful houses (all falling apart) It had nothing to do with gas,
Or oil, Or alcohol, But in the 20th century it had been an Orphanage, Topped with a whorehouse on the 3rd floor. The age of adulthood was twenty-six for girls, Fourteen for
symphonies with your handsi. I want you when it snows, when fat, cold raindrops splash, making ripples in clear green lakes and scaring away obese goldfish who make a living off of bread crumbs in the summer And when they die, as sheets of ice appear over their manmade homes and the “don’t feed the animals” signs turn to gelid slates of makeshift glass, I will call you by crackling flames wrapped in finished wood and a new iron grate Because you alight / airsymphonies with your hands
| Imagine it's really cold, and you put your hands in your pockets. And you feel around in there, and it's kind of squishy. Or, if you like, it's skwishy, which is a lot cuter. And this squishy/skwishy feeling is very unsettling, but you're not going to take your hands out of your pockets because it's so cold. You get to wherever you're going, and everybody there is a huge asshole, because everybody everywhere is a huge asshole. And there's this nasty squishy/skwishy stuff all over your hands, only you can't really explain it because you don't know what it is either. And all these really awful people, who look like one of those girls on the Hills except that their teeth are the colour of teeth, are giving you the third degree about it. And you know that a year ago you would have freaked out and started crying, or maybe you'd have pissed yourself and left, but it's fucking cold outside and you're where you want to be, so you tell them to go fuck themselves and start licking the squishy/skwishy crap off your hands, and you remember that the last time you wore this coat, you left a peach in the pocket, and it's really not so bad. |
it's so cold in alaska!
Content
--
The last time I did acid;
I went
insane.
it was lovely.
I have the books + shirt ready for you.
--
We're so close to something better left unknown.
--
We're so close to something better left unknown.
you have my number, yes? call me next week, i think.
now you do.
and so does anybody creeping. hello, creepers. give us a call.
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