missalister

missalister

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scent

If you asked someone what the scent of failure is, what would they say? The smell of alcohol-and-ashtrays in bars, even in the mornings? The smell of piss on bridge walls in the underbelly of cities? Or is it just air in general, in the cleanest of homes, on the tallest of mountains, breathed by people who have only clean homes and physical fitness to show for themselves?

The subtlety of disease creeping into the tissues of Love and constructing a tumor of alienation there, like a grain of sand intrudes upon an oyster, an irritant, only one that does not become beauteous, but becomes The End, the rending of Sanity’s organs, the obliteration of perceived reality… This is an anatomy of Sorrow.

Don’t do the cliche thing, please don’t. Write something about a girl who got a full sleeve tattoo of the creepiest faces staring out of the LOTR dead marshes and they haunt her, traumatize her, until she hacks her own arm off. Or something about a sicko at a bar who slips his Blackberry into a sleeve that catches a chick’s eye and she asks about it: “It’s made from the skin of my latest conquest,” the sicko says and lays an ice-cold hand on her arm. Just don’t you dare mention tricks because everyone knows they are for kids…

How are you now with your lacy skirts hanging down like an ancient beaded curtain? Are you still towering above that beautiful, brave cottage on the lake; still dispensing peace, a veil of protection, of comfort in the form of wisdom and knowing? What would you say to me now, venerable willow tree, that Not Knowing holds within it Possibility? That it is a gift, my last vision of your grandeur, like a taste of immortality?

drag

I am practicing the art of drag with an eye toward fame and fortune. So far I've considered that the drag force of fortune equals half of the mass density of intelligence and the flow velocity of funds within the reference area of fame and that the only drag coefficient is love.

I'm an outskirts member of the Cult of Personality - I mean, look at me: I try to look good 'cause I want people to think I do, but when I get out, there's always doubt, I'm pulling on my clothes, putting that loose hair in place using my last look in the mirror as a guide, but I can't trust that, can I? so I have to excuse myself for a look in the ladies room and do I stink and does my perfume suit me and does my car say about me what I mean it to say? If I was a full-on member of the Cult, I’d be like Mussolini and Kennedy and there'd be no doubt I was a wolf in sheep's clothing.

Bleeding in his modest house - quick, stick a piece of tissue on it - push on, push on, your queen awaits, you could never be late - you think she’s gorgeous, but she makes most people nauseous - she is like low tide, leaves men stranded on a slick and stinking beach - you will always be a modest clone, allowed to scour her majesty’s cold and sacred stone, but never to walk as an equal upon it.

What’s the yank Daddy-O I ain't even halfway through my first drink - before you holler your head off, why don't you use it to think? Things not going according to your foot-stomping clock is insignificant compared to the world falling apart, and on those grounds, I could let it go, but I’m too stubborn to. I’ll just sit here ‘til you see the light, ‘cause I know, on principle, you’re too stubborn to leave here without me.

That thing we witnessed we won’t mention - we'll go along with a hitch in our hearts, talk about our mundane jobs, our white noise days, and how awful they are, the damage they do to our psyches - we'll tell each other what we'd like to do to the people who hurt us, and when we get to the killing, we'll look away, but we'll know what is meant and we'll suffer for it in our dreams.

God he looked so cool smoking that cigarette according to the movies - You should be an actor I said - 'cause I tried being sexy according to "9 ½ Weeks" but I could never quite get it – we were just juveniles then, awkward as hell, in need of a lifetime of knowledge that we could use right then, right then when it would matter the most – ain’t life a barrel of laughs...

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writing since 1969 · 173 entries · 171 days shown up

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on this day 16 years ago

Miss wrote about raise
“it was september and high time to raise the timeworn question. Candy knocked back her shot and slammed the empty glass down on the bar, lined it up with the other four. she sucked down the last of …”

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