What you want is muddy and unpure. Hands in hair or hands in fur. Contact requires sinking. You know that feeling. In the pit of your stomach, at the base of your spine – how finely your synapses are primed by the stimuli. Would you even recognize if we saw eye to eye. So many people look without seeing afraid of what they might find.
Waters
Everything seems so muddy now. I remember when it used to be clear, used to make sense, used to be so immediate that you always knew to run. And we (I) love a good dichotomy, love the smooth edges and the way they don’t catch going down your throat.
But this other stuff–the nuance, it just tastes like too much effort. Tastes like a mud pie made with broken bits of stick and jagged rocks, tastes exactly like it looks–disintegrates in your hand the harder you try to grasp it.
We (I) always loved to bite into the book of ethics, swallow the chunks whole and savor it. And Aristotle always loved to write that way too, regurgitate it flawlessly–clear as day.
I always loved to play house in the woods and come home to a dinner my mother made me, laid out on our checkered tablecloth.
Now I run through the trees, claw myself a ditch for defense, make my own mud pie feast with the dirt under my nails.
I (we) could learn to love the way it got caught going down, could learn to love the mud in our perfect proofs.
Its muddy here. Outside. the snow is melting and the ground is damp. it’s too early for the mud to be present here in northeast Ohio, where the snow usually piles up through spring. The tracks lead through the house, inevitable of the muddy truth. Truth always seems to be muddy – messy and unpredictable and dirty.
Abby
this is the end
i know it because
i cannot breathe
or see
or hear
or feel
i cannot move
or smell
or taste
and its all because
i slipped in the mud again
i slipped up again.
my world is made of mud.
im sloshing around in it looking for what i have lost.
but i will never find it
each step i take makes me sink further down.
Sometimes I try to remember what my earliest days were like, but the memories come out all muddy. I can’t remember whether what I’m thinking is real. Did that really happen or not?
Jenny Yacovissi
Her eyes were muddy. They were that brown color. They never changed, and they never relented. If you looked into them for too long, you got stuck, just like everything else. And she wouldn’t let go. She would stare until you drowned in that mud, until you tried to claw your way out. But you always failed.
Muddy could be something muddy like wet and dirty. I also think about things that are muddy or situations are things that don’t have an easy answer for a solution. A muddy situation .
kellie
I slipped on the muck that shot onto my jacket from the McAdam. The driver smiled his devilish grin as he neared the puddle next to my sidewalk. As the slush drenched me head to toe, I send him my warmest goodbyes.
she was incredibly
and so she shook the dog and he became
and they all went down this country road
sienna-tinted, like in an old-timey picture
with the picnic basket and checkard tablecloth
transformed
Britta Kallevang
She stepped into the mud, feeling it ooze around her shoe. She felt pretty useless, grossed out by the feeling of that mud around her foot, squelching as she tried to lift it. She would make it through this.
She was always unclear on her motives and mindset. You’ll never really know the stranger in your bed. That girl is poison, addictive and toxic. She sees right through me. I love her with everything I have. But, I can’t see through mud. And I never will.
Between what you say and what you really feel. Between where you are now and where you were then. A muddy scrim that doesn’t want to let you see. Maybe it protects you. Maybe it it protects something else. Hard to say with all that muck between here and there. What would it take to wash it all away?
everywhere is muddy because of the heavy rain last night.
victor samuel
ı felt muddy when ı ashamed of my real self. my mud was the shame theembrssment and th paın
Tanya Chinherera
A half an hour on make up. Forty five minutes on hair. Her designer boots were the last thing she put on before leaving. She opened the door, frowned, and slammed it shut. Chanel boots were not made for muddy puddles.
muddy through the field. the loose end of the dress gets caught, dragging in the dead flowers. the rain is long gone, but the smell of wetness permeates the air. looking up, the sky leaden, she wonders when the sun will be back.
What we are is muddy to other people and clear to me. Clearer than the sky on the day we stared out at the cross-hatched, hypnotic, calm Bay water, your sweaty hand cold in mine. When we kissed, there was no sensation, no feeling, but that numbness doesn’t eliminate all other feelings.
Ella Emma Em
I finish my hike with you with a smile, a bark-scratched jacket, torn jeans and muddy shoes. After I wash the leaves out of my hair with shampoo, I nestle my tired body down on the couch with you. My bones realign eventually, and I brew enough tea to put both you and me to sleep. The aphrodisiac comes when Mother Nature’s kiss is hard to beat, but I’ll take it – it’s perfect for me.
Belinda Roddie
She ran into the field, ignoring the way her boots sunk into the muddy ground.
She could hear the killer lumbering behind her, his heavy breathing a ever constant reminder to his presence. But for fuck’s sake, she was a track star. It’d be almost embarrassing if he caught her and turned her into minced meat.
No. Running was her territory. And if that meant running bloody circles around him the entire night, then so be it.
She was definitely not going down alone.
fox_face
it was just so muddy, the whole situation! i mean who walks in with a straight face and demands something so precocious and ridiculous? i mean, who has the nerve to ask something like that? the answer seemed to be, as it usually was, Jane Amsterdam. she was a woman of complexity and longing as well as full and entire attitude. she carried herself like a bronze trophy, not gold of course.
the rain slicked streets
the garden gone
the roses in bloom
footprint echoed in grassy ground
mudslide mushy muddy
half cocked
washed paws
ciggy in hand
exhale smoke
too cold for today
too warm for winter
What you want is muddy and unpure. Hands in hair or hands in fur. Contact requires sinking. You know that feeling. In the pit of your stomach, at the base of your spine – how finely your synapses are primed by the stimuli. Would you even recognize if we saw eye to eye. So many people look without seeing afraid of what they might find.
Everything seems so muddy now. I remember when it used to be clear, used to make sense, used to be so immediate that you always knew to run. And we (I) love a good dichotomy, love the smooth edges and the way they don’t catch going down your throat.
But this other stuff–the nuance, it just tastes like too much effort. Tastes like a mud pie made with broken bits of stick and jagged rocks, tastes exactly like it looks–disintegrates in your hand the harder you try to grasp it.
We (I) always loved to bite into the book of ethics, swallow the chunks whole and savor it. And Aristotle always loved to write that way too, regurgitate it flawlessly–clear as day.
I always loved to play house in the woods and come home to a dinner my mother made me, laid out on our checkered tablecloth.
Now I run through the trees, claw myself a ditch for defense, make my own mud pie feast with the dirt under my nails.
I (we) could learn to love the way it got caught going down, could learn to love the mud in our perfect proofs.
Her old goals weren’t cutting it any more, her values were shifting and her dreams were muddy and tarnished by reality…
Its muddy here. Outside. the snow is melting and the ground is damp. it’s too early for the mud to be present here in northeast Ohio, where the snow usually piles up through spring. The tracks lead through the house, inevitable of the muddy truth. Truth always seems to be muddy – messy and unpredictable and dirty.
this is the end
i know it because
i cannot breathe
or see
or hear
or feel
i cannot move
or smell
or taste
and its all because
i slipped in the mud again
i slipped up again.
my world is made of mud.
im sloshing around in it looking for what i have lost.
but i will never find it
each step i take makes me sink further down.
Sometimes I try to remember what my earliest days were like, but the memories come out all muddy. I can’t remember whether what I’m thinking is real. Did that really happen or not?
Her eyes were muddy. They were that brown color. They never changed, and they never relented. If you looked into them for too long, you got stuck, just like everything else. And she wouldn’t let go. She would stare until you drowned in that mud, until you tried to claw your way out. But you always failed.
Muddy could be something muddy like wet and dirty. I also think about things that are muddy or situations are things that don’t have an easy answer for a solution. A muddy situation .
I slipped on the muck that shot onto my jacket from the McAdam. The driver smiled his devilish grin as he neared the puddle next to my sidewalk. As the slush drenched me head to toe, I send him my warmest goodbyes.
she was incredibly
and so she shook the dog and he became
and they all went down this country road
sienna-tinted, like in an old-timey picture
with the picnic basket and checkard tablecloth
transformed
She stepped into the mud, feeling it ooze around her shoe. She felt pretty useless, grossed out by the feeling of that mud around her foot, squelching as she tried to lift it. She would make it through this.
She was always unclear on her motives and mindset. You’ll never really know the stranger in your bed. That girl is poison, addictive and toxic. She sees right through me. I love her with everything I have. But, I can’t see through mud. And I never will.
Between what you say and what you really feel. Between where you are now and where you were then. A muddy scrim that doesn’t want to let you see. Maybe it protects you. Maybe it it protects something else. Hard to say with all that muck between here and there. What would it take to wash it all away?
everywhere is muddy because of the heavy rain last night.
ı felt muddy when ı ashamed of my real self. my mud was the shame theembrssment and th paın
A half an hour on make up. Forty five minutes on hair. Her designer boots were the last thing she put on before leaving. She opened the door, frowned, and slammed it shut. Chanel boots were not made for muddy puddles.
muddy through the field. the loose end of the dress gets caught, dragging in the dead flowers. the rain is long gone, but the smell of wetness permeates the air. looking up, the sky leaden, she wonders when the sun will be back.
What we are is muddy to other people and clear to me. Clearer than the sky on the day we stared out at the cross-hatched, hypnotic, calm Bay water, your sweaty hand cold in mine. When we kissed, there was no sensation, no feeling, but that numbness doesn’t eliminate all other feelings.
I finish my hike with you with a smile, a bark-scratched jacket, torn jeans and muddy shoes. After I wash the leaves out of my hair with shampoo, I nestle my tired body down on the couch with you. My bones realign eventually, and I brew enough tea to put both you and me to sleep. The aphrodisiac comes when Mother Nature’s kiss is hard to beat, but I’ll take it – it’s perfect for me.
She ran into the field, ignoring the way her boots sunk into the muddy ground.
She could hear the killer lumbering behind her, his heavy breathing a ever constant reminder to his presence. But for fuck’s sake, she was a track star. It’d be almost embarrassing if he caught her and turned her into minced meat.
No. Running was her territory. And if that meant running bloody circles around him the entire night, then so be it.
She was definitely not going down alone.
it was just so muddy, the whole situation! i mean who walks in with a straight face and demands something so precocious and ridiculous? i mean, who has the nerve to ask something like that? the answer seemed to be, as it usually was, Jane Amsterdam. she was a woman of complexity and longing as well as full and entire attitude. she carried herself like a bronze trophy, not gold of course.
the rain slicked streets
the garden gone
the roses in bloom
footprint echoed in grassy ground
mudslide mushy muddy
half cocked
washed paws
ciggy in hand
exhale smoke
too cold for today
too warm for winter