There’s a typhoon coming up the coast; George feels it in his knuckles. High water. Fish out of breath, up in trees. She counts the hours until his knuckles tell him when, and then she boils the water for tea and adds sugar, lots of sugar.
I’ve derived such pleasure from seeing you like this… I imagine you can’t understand, so wrapped up in your pain. You can’t see what you look like right now, the beauty that lies in the field beneath your pain. I am here to unearth it. To show it to the sun. To bring you into the light.
I’m closing the night. Many people have laughed and played throughout the day and are now feeling the heavy weight of the stars fall into their mind. Soon the mysterious streams of imagination will be ferried by the light into a sleeping reality, creating from their laughter and play a marvelous dream for us all to live. #ferry #oneword
I’m closing the night. Many people have laughed and played throughout the day and are now feeling the heavy weight of the stars fall into their mind. Soon the mysterious streams of imagination will be ferried by the light into a sleeping reality, creating from their laughter and play a marvelous dream for us all to live.
I am sure. Tiny dots of light begin to flow into my vision, dancing with the golden rivers of light. I am sure someone is selling me. Last thing I remember was being at a risqué party on the edge of downtown.
Noble actions are nothing more than sins just being born in thought. Selling the mind a trusting illusion to become while the true reality fades away, into the darkened desires of the corrupted heart. I’ve never known myself to be once dead of mind. I’ve never realized how alive humanity is.
william puts cigarettes out on the back of his palm;
forearm tattoo that reads ‘grace’ and bicep that says ‘forever’,
his step-father was a minister.
in grade ten he set the janitor’s car on fire
for molesting the freshman girls,
he talks about ultimate respect
and his own inadequacies.
we both know he thinks too much
and the hours between 5pm when we first meet
and 2am when i become too cold
are spent looking in mirrors of each other,
testing sentences, saying ‘me too.’
i think every person i’ve kissed is the one,
this idea of homecoming:
that after the long end has passed
you will come to me
as though i am an identifiable place that can be found, and static, and claimable;
i would love to map the movement of people
if your morning route left traces
i could see from the sky
i have been less romantic than this
but one day we’ll be old
and think of all the stories we could’ve told
and even loving you will be finite
he could make my body new in white cloth;
but i will not stand before a minister for anything, not even for his bearing of witness
(and so they say, lord, for everything a reason –)
autumn was for whiskey
and every shot i took was aimed at your rocky mountain spine,
shit, didn’t anybody tell you not to look over your shoulder
(the devil makes you do it)
so you took the side mirrors off your sedan
and drove til the cops pulled you over;
tugged down your blouse and cried,
you’d be born again in hollywood
if we could find the highway signs
wearing a july skirt to a september date,
sweetheart david holds your hand under the table
until he slides it onto your inner thigh
and you choose your stage-name then
and you don’t look back
(some days will be easier than this)
Baby birds in nests of lunacy; a breach of peace in the walls behind the castle. She tears her hair and makes heart-shaped brooches for all to wear. Red and wiry and singing of the days when she was an egg, blue-speckled and all. They wear them to the councilor’s meeting and ask with silent eyes when this time will be over.
She’d spent her days mothering them, coddling them with gems and bits of meat. When they reached maturity, around day 91, she waited for the hour in which her reward would arrive.
A thousand hungry mouths opened up to her. She almost thought she could hear the word “mother” in the whisper of their millions of little legs scrambling up her.
and something good must’ve happened to him, along the way,
to pick up the habit of kissing my temple;
after he’s pushed me onto my knees,
dreaming of the girl i forgot i loved
topless, running around in her sister’s room
and her sister, in a blue mandala tattoo, looking at me;
teaching me about unattainably;
and i know i am in a fever, and she knows the pills i’ve taken to get here
(and the sight of her will carry me through –)
On the shores, it had all turned biblical: brother versus brother, each with scissors and a single wife between them. When the last sand had been thrown, the last words and last look over the shoulder given, the story was writ anew.
‘all wrapped up in blooms’
is a phrase derived from the warping of the red yucca
that occurs when each of its leaves voluntarily starve to send the season’s remaining energy into the stalk, the tepals and the stamen and the anther, all different pleadings for sex; winding around and higher,
so that the wind might catch the seeds during the remaining death of the plant;
(after the rest has already gone; and decay back into the soil, the way our eventual children will suck at the umbilical cord, –)
and in the same way moving to the city
where there is no allocated space for weathervanes on the top of buildings
i think i may have lost my way
The food is black and dirty
We’re still chasing the whine
empty now in the wind between our agonies
Hell is pink and golden, just chew at the edges
Wag your tail, the ball, the glorious ball is over there
If anything had served me well, it had been timidity. For how long had he survived, when others perished? He listened to their scuffling steps, their frightened breaths–their last, each time. And as dawn grew closer, he huddled in his father’s coat, its arms nearly falling apart, and counted the dwindling cans on the shelf. Bravery would come at the last can, he decided. Not sooner.
F**k my car. I just want to throw bottles at it. Bottles filled with gasoline, with sparklers packed at the neck, lit. Yeah. Imma light light that bitch on fire and have a damn good night doing it!
They are savages. The least of our demons is more civilized, more erudite, more sophisticated. In nine circles of hell, you will not find a natural inhabitant so crass. But we accept them with open arms. We look past their flaws, their genetic backwardness. We welcome them with hooks and flame, with teeth and saws.