February 2011
15 posts
bald-head turned his back
“the bodies,” said he, “are what run these here foundries”
he spat in a grave and he scratched at his jowls
yellow sulphurous smoke draped itself around his suit like a mink scarf
he laughed/coughed abruptly and spun to me
“I’m joking Sonnie, get that hooked-cod look off your face”
But I could hear moaning in the dirge of...
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
– Ernest Hemingway
Love you grandpa
I’m going to play tennis more. Thanks for teaching me how.
I hope being dead is more fun than it looks.
House of Leaves
Definitely scratching the itch that This Side of Paradise left irritated.
l.l.l.l.l.l.l.l.l.l.l.l.l.l
Denial tastes like swallowing a light-bulb: coppery, gritty, and fatal.
Spring/Fall
I felt the prickles of sunlight for the first time in months
each one brought to life a dead cell or
reset aching bones
the only thing we will wear soon is our sweat
and at night
we will dig deep into the soil to feel that older coldness
but only for a short while.
Pt1
The birds did not sing so much as scream, like a squirrely preteen seeing the boy of her dreams. I woke up to their cries to each other from the countless branches of countless trees. I am in bed alone in a house that is not mine, but my lover’s.
She is nowhere in sight, and the only clothes on the floor are my own. Dirty discarded jeans and a turqouise shirt which carries an odor of...
UG Drug Thread
“If my parents knew I was part of a group who celebrated christmas by drinking cough syrup they would probably cry.”
second verse to a future corpse
If I could eat your heart and gain as much goodwill as you had your entire life I would do it.
If somehow my shouting stopped atoms from shifting and homes from closing down I would tear my larynx.
If every composite sketch and crumpled piece of sheet came alive and toppled upon me I would let myself be devoured by my abandoned ideas
We can paint our bodies with lead and hope the brain damage...
Who wants a foot massage?
Itinerary has been reduced to:
thinking, breathing, fucking, schemeing.
(and I think about fucking too
so thought doesn’t even count)
I have to focus on focusing on something abstract
and decoding it like a cryptogram;
a dinky puzzle inside a box of Crackerjacks
I can know my basest instincts
or I can’t know anything
I am a semi-pseudo-quasi-root of a-human being
and I can...
Can’t write at all today because I didn’t think at all today. I just rotted.
I dreamt about insects all night.
More Traditional
When chills blew in from the north east
you heard not from me a sputter
We shoveled coal and created heat
by huddling near eachother
But deep down we were Donner
and our teeth were not held back
our fleshy love was a sure goner
stifled by a cannibal attack
from your embrace I did acquit
your affection you did fritter
though we argued we both did admit
the once wild wind was now not...
Who needs relations
when you have a pharmacy in your bathroom?
when you have a fist and some chapstick?
when you have enough cheap-shit vodka to fill a bathtub?
when you have enough books to keep you sharp?
when you have enough noise to keep you angry?
Nobody
rty
I’m king of metallic taste and razor burn
got talent in getting what I do not earn
fucking that queen with the metal shoulder blades
icy sweet philosophy and junk pile ways
but those are the breaks
when life degrades to what you can and cannot take
(On nights like these I can’t feel my stomach when I sleep.)
