mom sips her wine and cries
about the perfect little girl
she used to dress to the nines
in dresses and little matching hats
before she went off to work
and didn’t see the little girl again
until she was
some man’s flawed bride
the only things that
keep me sane in the
suburban limbo between
city and valley
are twilight drives to
coffee and frozen yogurt
franchises.
I think I know why Atonement touched me so deeply, and bothered me so much. I think I know why I feel so much hostility toward Briony. Cecilia and Robbie never got to be together the way they deserved all because of Briony…
Briony represents the expectations and the societal pressures and the reasons for all of the miles in between my love and me. Hot intense hearts torn to bits and spread out along the California coast. Months and months of waiting, and longing, and missing, and hurting just for a few stolen moments in a shared bedroom a bus ride away. Holding out so that one day, everyone else could go away so that we could be at peace, married in that townhouse in Long Island. I remember wanting these things more than life.
I know what it’s like to brush a hand deliberately and tenderly across a girl’s arm. watch as each hair rises as your fingers descend. what it’s like to sweep ugly multi-coloured hair out of her surrendering face, watch her swoon as you support her head. watch her consciousness vaporize into a cloud above her body as you place your hand on her hip, slide it behind her waist, and pull her closer, all the while moving in.
She’s let you in. And she wants it, so much that she may incrementally will herself to you: arch her back, slightly part the lips, sag the eyelids. It’s desperate and a little pathetic.
And I know what it’s like to dip out in that moment when she’s standing in your arms like a limp dummy, ready to take whatever you have to give, and let you have total control, and watch her face as her consciousness fades back into her body, and she’s momentarily humiliated by her desire and sexuality.
And I know the surge of power and delight as you laugh quietly but with the full genuine enjoyment support by the diaphragm, and make your way back to work, smiling the whole time. Wicked, lovely.
Ugly creatures women. Beautiful creatures women. Cradle their heads, pet their soft inviting skin. Crush their bones, pulverize their hearts.
Do men contrive this sort of power too? They must love the cruelty too.
her mind does not meander through one theology to another philosophy
nor does it explore the depths of human nature
or psychology
but rather
it spends its time
dancing and delighting
with foolish thoughts
of sensuality
and
indulges in
the absurd notion that she may find purity through impure means.
who can stir a sleeping angel?
that is not a task for the crude, rough hands of men.
let the sun slowly crawl toward her face,
and wake her gradually with warm kisses
none shall know
about the dark deeds
carried out in these grimy halls
or the earnest words whispered
between heavy heaves and sighs
none shall even acknowledge a shadow
of the past, crossing over, and replaying the deed
over, and over, for eternity.
Only we will see the shadows.
His dark lips, warm air on my cheek.
Her fingers, the cool wind that slowly prickles your hair.
None shall know that as they were
loudly laughing, howling, shouting as youth does
Behind the closed door
You and I had lived several lifetimes with each other.
None shall know of us, as we do.
And this is frightening and beautiful.
A day with unfamiliar people in an unfamiliar place
makes you wanna get the fuck out
and gets you itching for something familiar
but you can’t go home.
you ditched your ride
Wander aimlessly through the streets of Los Angeles
End up on the west side
Look at the Century City skyline and ease up a bit.
Go to Walgreens on the corner of Beverly Glen and Santa Monica.
Buy tampons there.
Walk by the old building you used to live in as a child.
Look up at your condo on the second floor.
The man who moved in plants flowers in the window box,
just like your mom did. Same kind too.
Nobody could probably tell that someone else lives there now.
Wonder what it would have been like if you never left.
Wonder what it would have been like if the baby wasn’t born.
Resign.
You look stupid walking around with tampons.
Make the three hour journey uphill.
Turn the key in the door.
Everybody’s asleep.
Feel lost for no reason.
I admire you.
How you haven’t let the interminable disappointments beat you down
How you haven’t let up the fight
How you let others call you foolish and naive while you hold on to
Your conviction, your faith, your unalterable hope.
Though I have to force myself to respect you
Yes I do admire you.
I never wish to be like you.
Shakespeare writes somewhat exclusively of the first love—
the first all-consuming love.
Before you were ever looking for it.
Before you learn to lock your heart away.
Before you learn to deal only small hands of it sparingly,
one bruised portion at a time.
Perhaps the first love is the only real one.
The rest are all a selfish sham.
An attempt to relive the glory days
To find something to live up to the first.
But you didn’t find the first love.
It found you.
And as you desperately chase it,
your wisdom will prevent you
from ever tasting it.
not again.
my words are venomous darts that i will fling from one fickle friend to the next; carefully selecting the sucker who succumbs to my mighty methods of manipulation. Pincers primly picking people to tactfully try, slowly sliding the syringe into their appendages. When will you scream, Subject?
I don’t care for courting or copulation. I fancy, rather, fucking furiously non-stop to Seattle. Stewing and simmering in my own sweat, sewage, hunger, longing, and lust, but never love for lingering ladies love to lick the loins of men like dirty dames made out to be damsels in dung-filled diapers. Its not much better to clunk cubes of caramel and creamer into your coffee. Its not an apple pie. Why caress the cheek of a trillion-timing, two-face trick-turner like yourself? No. No dine-ins and drive-in movie dates. Fuck on the furniture and screw her on the sofa. See if god gives a gorilla’s gonads. He doesn’t. And when you slip into her slimy snatch, smell the sweet soup that’s sliding down her leg. And then tell me why we wanted to put the circus in a tent in the first place? Why’d we have to go and ruin a perfectly viable vice like vigorous, vacuum-inspired slurping and sucking with fake fillers like romance.
Stupid Satan sending silly me to sin with spitting, furious faces, fangs exposed while hurling hotdogs on the sidewalk, singing of his sultry sermons that through the thawing winter keep my thoughts thumping like my bruised, bloody, boiling, breast.
Coughing, clearing my throat, toungue twisting, moistening the mouth and licking the lips, preparing to pounce. Ready to kill. Yet not lifting a limb, fiddling a finger, moving a muscle, batting a lash, scratching a scar, or even twitching a toe. Just a movement of the mouth, a twirling of the tongue, a wittiness of wording, a limberness of language, a variety of vocabulary, a cornucopia of chords, an ingenuity of insults, a cold cruelty, a tasteful tone, and you’re dead.
