Full title (oddly enough it didn't fit, which is quite epic since I usually favour one-word titles :P): When Two People Come Together And Bash Their Brains and Genitals Until They Think They Know What Poetry Is, You Know There’s Nothing Left To Find In This World And You Should Start Looking For The Next One
She lies there, reclined, and says she doesn’t feel like moving, only fucking.
I sit in a chair across from her and feel the need to point out that fucking involves moving.
She says not if you don’t mean it. I ask if she didn’t mean it, and state that it felt very much like she did.
She shifts and looks at me with her razorblade eyes that make my wrists and throat feel wet with thickening life-fluid. The still-sticky silk shifts across her thighs. She smiles and tells me she didn’t know I felt that way. I feel the words racing up my veins.
I clear my throat and tell her she’s fucked up. She raises one eyebrow, the one she’s forgotten to pluck again in her daily-haste of creating simulations of her face. She tells me that no one would fuck someone like her unless they’re fucked up themselves.
We look at each other, her with the playful heat of self-hatred, me with a constricting throat trying to tell her that it’s not what she thinks, it’s never what she thinks, that I think I love her – or could love her if she wasn’t such a whore.
She laughs and tells me not to speak, that I’m like a goddamn church for fuck’s sake. She says she can’t stand what comes out of my mouth and if she wanted a preacher she’d’ve fucked her way to salvation by now.
She doesn’t know what the fuck she wants, and I tell her.
She says neither of us do, and calls me honeycakes. She winks and slinks to the side of the mattress. Her breasts heave over her lingerie and she closes her eyelids in boredom.
She sighs and says that now she’s moved anyway, we may as well screw before the sun goes out.
I look out the window into the unending blackness of a forfeited sky.
I tell her it’s dark.
So's her vagina, she tells me.
I crawl into the bed and we don’t move. We fuck.
Monday, November 30, 2009
[Excerpt from] The Glade, part V.
[...]
It was approximately a week ago when he decided it was time for a change in career path, and he signed up for night lessons at the local Adult Ed. He would be receiving, after all these years, his credits in the tumor-inducing subjects of calculus, physics and chemistry. A part of him decided that he would receive these credits in order to find a well-paying job and provide a better life for his children, but despite the greater motives, the other part of his shallow ambitions were always due to feelings of inferiority in comparison to his peers, as he felt like he was looked upon as the unintelligent, illogical one. It was rather unfortunate that he felt this way, as his grasp on intelligence besides these very few subjects were far beyond the intelligence of his peers. Ernest was too much of an introvert to prove this.
He walked into the classroom – decorated plainly by a Québec and Canadian flag, a brown aging podium and identical metallic desks set against the backdrop of a plain white painted room, overly lit by bright fluorescent lights – the class seemed lifeless and empty-faced. He thought it rather ironic to be in such a bright room when surrounded by the dullest of delinquents, by the utmost of uneducated and uninteresting people. This assumption decided based solely on their appearances. The drowned out faces of the has-beens, this was until Ernest realized that he could not fit in more appropriately with such a group.
After taking a seat in an appropriate grey seat in the back of the class, Ernest decided this would be the final class of Adult-Ed he would ever attend. He slowly tapped his fingers against the desk, staring around at his uncouth classmates. As he criticized, and convinced himself to be of superior intelligence, he was instantly attracted to a brunette woman sitting in the front-center of the class, wearing a tasteful yet revealing grey T-shirt and converse shoes. Ernest stood up and made his way toward her, taking a seat next to her in the front row. He leaned in toward her desk.
“Hi.”
“Hey,” she replied hesitantly.
“I’m Ernest, you can call me Ernie if you’d like.”
The brunette looked severely uninterested in making friends, as Ernest persisted, despite the age flaws of graying patches gloating from his beard.
“Is it just me or are we the only ones here with a little colour, you know, like a little life,” he asked under his breath.
The brunette stared at him blankly.
“Do you have any more pot on you?” she asked.
“Oh, uh, no. Sorry.”
Ernest turned back, sitting straight and staring at the blank chalkboard as he heard a slight giggling coming from behind him.
“But fuck, I wouldn’t mind having some right now.”
A burst of snorted laughter came from behind him and he turned around to see a small, mousy Asian woman with bright red glasses. Ernest felt instantly aroused by her innocence, her small seductive eyes hidden behind the glasses and her short plaid skirt, lifting above her thigh as she sat. Ernest smiled awkwardly at her. The teacher, a chubby man in his late twenties, entered the class and nervously began teaching as Ernest, sitting in the front row, respectably attempted to retain an air of interest.
During break, Ernest went out for a cigarette, unknowingly tailgated by the mousy woman. The day had been rainy, and as night came in, dampness filled under the cloudy sky of night, blocking out the stars and the moon. It had only been drizzling.
Eileen leaned against the rail of the stairway of the Adult Ed community building, quietly looking through her cell phone as a group of students in the class lit a joint at the bottom of the steps. Ernest approached her.
“Cigarette?”
“No, that’s fine. I don’t smoke.”
Ernest placed his box of Peter Jackson’s back into his jacket pocket.
“But if you wanted to get high, now would be the ideal time,” the woman added, motioning toward to group of men at the bottom of the steps, smoking a joint casually.
“Oh I was joking about that.”
“Okay.”
There was a silence.
“I’m Eileen by the way. I think you’re funny.”
She jerked her right hand in between the space between them. Ernest shook it.
“Ernest, nice to meet you,” he replied.
“What brings you out to Adult Ed, Ernest?”
“I just thought I’d finally receive my credits in math and stuff. You know, re-think my career. Go back to university and get a productive degree. I haven’t been productive lately.”
“What do you do now?”
“I write. Well. I used to be a writer. One book published. Thought I would continue with them, but it wasn’t as easy as I thought.”
“Oh. That’s sad.”
Ernest finished his cigarette and put it out under his shoe.
“I guess. And you?”
“Oh… well,” Eileen began to squirm and looked uncomfortable as her cheeks reddened. “I’m an accountant.”
“An accountant? Why the fuck are you here then! No offence, I mean, are you just visiting the low-lives of this glamorous institution or something?” Ernest asked as he laughed, Eileen following but rather uncomfortably.
“I don’t know. I’ve been bored lately.”
After his first session of basic calculus, Ernest joined Eileen on her bed as they shoved their tongues into each others mouths, breathing heavily and slowly caressing each other’s bodies. The songs of chirping grasshoppers resonated through Eileen’s open window as her air purifier slowly hummed and distracted Ernest from the task at hand. Despite the warmth, Ernest could not help but feel lonely, a feeling which had been far from rare in his life lately, especially when in the company of others.
“I want you so bad, baby,” Eileen barely whispered as he continued to rub her clitoris.
Ernest suddenly stopped and turned on the lamp next to her bed.
“Sorry.”
“What’s wrong?”
“No, nothing. Sorry.”
“Did I do anything?”
“No no, not at all honey. You’re perfect. I… I just forgot to tell you that I’m fucked up, I haven’t, you know, in a while.”
“It’s okay. Can I do anything to help?” she persisted.
“No, nothing. Incurable. I’m, I’m sorry. I’m just going through so much shit right now,” he said, followed by a deep breath. “I just feel that right now, the last thing I need is sex. I need, I don’t know, some inspiration.”
At this point, Eileen roughly began re-adjusting her bra and pants, and put her hair back into place.
“So, sex doesn’t inspire you?” she asked with sharpness in her voice.
“Not anymore.”
“Okay. Well I mean it’s getting late anyway.”
“Yeah I should probably be getting home, the kids are in bed.”
“Wow. Kids.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Mhm, you should probably leave.That sounds best. Responsible.”
“I hope you know it’s nothing personal, I’m just really alone… And the kids, and, you know.”
“Of course.”
They sat up, sitting side to side on the edge of Eileen’s bed, as the crickets continued to sing at their same hypnotic tone. They avoided looking at each other’s faces.
“You know, I’m writing a book now,” Ernest said.
“Oh yeah? What’s it about.”
He hesitated, embarrassed.
“It’s… well. I don’t know yet.”
“Okay.”
“Hey Eileen.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m a mess.”
It was approximately a week ago when he decided it was time for a change in career path, and he signed up for night lessons at the local Adult Ed. He would be receiving, after all these years, his credits in the tumor-inducing subjects of calculus, physics and chemistry. A part of him decided that he would receive these credits in order to find a well-paying job and provide a better life for his children, but despite the greater motives, the other part of his shallow ambitions were always due to feelings of inferiority in comparison to his peers, as he felt like he was looked upon as the unintelligent, illogical one. It was rather unfortunate that he felt this way, as his grasp on intelligence besides these very few subjects were far beyond the intelligence of his peers. Ernest was too much of an introvert to prove this.
He walked into the classroom – decorated plainly by a Québec and Canadian flag, a brown aging podium and identical metallic desks set against the backdrop of a plain white painted room, overly lit by bright fluorescent lights – the class seemed lifeless and empty-faced. He thought it rather ironic to be in such a bright room when surrounded by the dullest of delinquents, by the utmost of uneducated and uninteresting people. This assumption decided based solely on their appearances. The drowned out faces of the has-beens, this was until Ernest realized that he could not fit in more appropriately with such a group.
After taking a seat in an appropriate grey seat in the back of the class, Ernest decided this would be the final class of Adult-Ed he would ever attend. He slowly tapped his fingers against the desk, staring around at his uncouth classmates. As he criticized, and convinced himself to be of superior intelligence, he was instantly attracted to a brunette woman sitting in the front-center of the class, wearing a tasteful yet revealing grey T-shirt and converse shoes. Ernest stood up and made his way toward her, taking a seat next to her in the front row. He leaned in toward her desk.
“Hi.”
“Hey,” she replied hesitantly.
“I’m Ernest, you can call me Ernie if you’d like.”
The brunette looked severely uninterested in making friends, as Ernest persisted, despite the age flaws of graying patches gloating from his beard.
“Is it just me or are we the only ones here with a little colour, you know, like a little life,” he asked under his breath.
The brunette stared at him blankly.
“Do you have any more pot on you?” she asked.
“Oh, uh, no. Sorry.”
Ernest turned back, sitting straight and staring at the blank chalkboard as he heard a slight giggling coming from behind him.
“But fuck, I wouldn’t mind having some right now.”
A burst of snorted laughter came from behind him and he turned around to see a small, mousy Asian woman with bright red glasses. Ernest felt instantly aroused by her innocence, her small seductive eyes hidden behind the glasses and her short plaid skirt, lifting above her thigh as she sat. Ernest smiled awkwardly at her. The teacher, a chubby man in his late twenties, entered the class and nervously began teaching as Ernest, sitting in the front row, respectably attempted to retain an air of interest.
During break, Ernest went out for a cigarette, unknowingly tailgated by the mousy woman. The day had been rainy, and as night came in, dampness filled under the cloudy sky of night, blocking out the stars and the moon. It had only been drizzling.
Eileen leaned against the rail of the stairway of the Adult Ed community building, quietly looking through her cell phone as a group of students in the class lit a joint at the bottom of the steps. Ernest approached her.
“Cigarette?”
“No, that’s fine. I don’t smoke.”
Ernest placed his box of Peter Jackson’s back into his jacket pocket.
“But if you wanted to get high, now would be the ideal time,” the woman added, motioning toward to group of men at the bottom of the steps, smoking a joint casually.
“Oh I was joking about that.”
“Okay.”
There was a silence.
“I’m Eileen by the way. I think you’re funny.”
She jerked her right hand in between the space between them. Ernest shook it.
“Ernest, nice to meet you,” he replied.
“What brings you out to Adult Ed, Ernest?”
“I just thought I’d finally receive my credits in math and stuff. You know, re-think my career. Go back to university and get a productive degree. I haven’t been productive lately.”
“What do you do now?”
“I write. Well. I used to be a writer. One book published. Thought I would continue with them, but it wasn’t as easy as I thought.”
“Oh. That’s sad.”
Ernest finished his cigarette and put it out under his shoe.
“I guess. And you?”
“Oh… well,” Eileen began to squirm and looked uncomfortable as her cheeks reddened. “I’m an accountant.”
“An accountant? Why the fuck are you here then! No offence, I mean, are you just visiting the low-lives of this glamorous institution or something?” Ernest asked as he laughed, Eileen following but rather uncomfortably.
“I don’t know. I’ve been bored lately.”
After his first session of basic calculus, Ernest joined Eileen on her bed as they shoved their tongues into each others mouths, breathing heavily and slowly caressing each other’s bodies. The songs of chirping grasshoppers resonated through Eileen’s open window as her air purifier slowly hummed and distracted Ernest from the task at hand. Despite the warmth, Ernest could not help but feel lonely, a feeling which had been far from rare in his life lately, especially when in the company of others.
“I want you so bad, baby,” Eileen barely whispered as he continued to rub her clitoris.
Ernest suddenly stopped and turned on the lamp next to her bed.
“Sorry.”
“What’s wrong?”
“No, nothing. Sorry.”
“Did I do anything?”
“No no, not at all honey. You’re perfect. I… I just forgot to tell you that I’m fucked up, I haven’t, you know, in a while.”
“It’s okay. Can I do anything to help?” she persisted.
“No, nothing. Incurable. I’m, I’m sorry. I’m just going through so much shit right now,” he said, followed by a deep breath. “I just feel that right now, the last thing I need is sex. I need, I don’t know, some inspiration.”
At this point, Eileen roughly began re-adjusting her bra and pants, and put her hair back into place.
“So, sex doesn’t inspire you?” she asked with sharpness in her voice.
“Not anymore.”
“Okay. Well I mean it’s getting late anyway.”
“Yeah I should probably be getting home, the kids are in bed.”
“Wow. Kids.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Mhm, you should probably leave.That sounds best. Responsible.”
“I hope you know it’s nothing personal, I’m just really alone… And the kids, and, you know.”
“Of course.”
They sat up, sitting side to side on the edge of Eileen’s bed, as the crickets continued to sing at their same hypnotic tone. They avoided looking at each other’s faces.
“You know, I’m writing a book now,” Ernest said.
“Oh yeah? What’s it about.”
He hesitated, embarrassed.
“It’s… well. I don’t know yet.”
“Okay.”
“Hey Eileen.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m a mess.”
Sunday, November 29, 2009
There's a place I know.
I cannot go there anymore.
There was a time I knew,
How to tie my shoes off the floor.
Please come to me now.
Please come teach me how
to grow old. Older anyways.
There's a boy I knew.
He simply he grew over time.
I once owned dog.
Quiet as log, but mine, all mine.
Please come to me now.
Please come teach me how
to grow old. Older anyways.
I cannot go there anymore.
There was a time I knew,
How to tie my shoes off the floor.
Please come to me now.
Please come teach me how
to grow old. Older anyways.
There's a boy I knew.
He simply he grew over time.
I once owned dog.
Quiet as log, but mine, all mine.
Please come to me now.
Please come teach me how
to grow old. Older anyways.
Sexy Numbers
Unable to create without some conceptual framework, I centered my counts around sex. The numbers were picked appropriately. 2: you need at least two people, 5: number of books Ovid wrote on Love, 6: Sounds like sex, 14: Valentine's Day, 69: Obvious, 157: Number of sonnets in Shakespeare's sequence.
2. Almost hurts.
5. First do this. Now, harder. or First, like this. Now, switch.
6. Fuck "stir", I want it shaken.
14. Sweat smears and slips, wet thighs dip and quiver. The flesh grinds, then simmers.
69. Love. That hot, hateful bitch. It grabbed me by the balls, then pulled. Hard. Cupid shoots thorny arrows, not harmless roses. And he's blind, the fucker. (But he pays good money -- or so I thought.) I sucked and fucked. I opened up, I swallowed. I dropped, and gagged, and got stuck. It's just not love anymore if all you do is pant and grunt like an animal.
157. Pleasure is a slow descent, punctuated by awkward removals and unsure insertions: his fingers fumble as they unhook her bra, their stomachs tap tap -- warm and sticky -- to the quickening rhythm of their breathing, tangy fluid smells emanate from the sheets when they are both naked and ready. It is just sex but it means so much more to them, just then.
Desire is a physical force that wrenches at your gut, blinds you with want, and inflames you nerves like the fuses of a firework: the curve of a firm, well formed ass; black lace over shaded skin, taunt with temptation; the brush of a finely haired arm, haloed in gold in the morning light. Simple instinct, pure need.
Longing is a memory in flesh, a boiling in the blood, a numbing erection that holds you awake in pain: a pounding, tightening necessity to have and feel, to rise and fall -- then expiate onto the sheets.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Count v.1.5
I did a Count on my blog and I'm adding my favorites from Count v.1 to Count v. 1.5
42: "Stay," she said "at least until the fire burns out." I, a man who can't help himself, who can't stay firm and strong in her presence agreed and sat back in the dirt next to her with my knees to my chest.
14: I rescued a toothpick and flicked it into the forest and said "You're home."
- Mitch Hedberg
12: Sometimes, I rest my head in my hands to pretend I'm invisible.
24: "We've made you who you are today" is what everyone else could say, but all I've done is embrace you for who you are.
3: This is Sparta.
- 300
10: I can tell she's thinking about me because she's breathing.
19: He bravely raised his hand timidly, boldly putting himself out there and finally letting the spotlight shine on him.
1: Push (props to you for remembering)
37: This was never what I wanted, to be taken for granted, even though it does not take a mind reader to understand that I clearly am granted. I am for you all to toss aside and ignore.
21: Deserve. The word rattles my spine and makes me cringe. It digusts me as much as the concept of "deserving" itself.
5: I don't hate you, yet...
4: ... But give it time.
(5 and 4 can be combined to make 9)
9: I don't hate you, yet, but give it time.
42: "Stay," she said "at least until the fire burns out." I, a man who can't help himself, who can't stay firm and strong in her presence agreed and sat back in the dirt next to her with my knees to my chest.
14: I rescued a toothpick and flicked it into the forest and said "You're home."
- Mitch Hedberg
12: Sometimes, I rest my head in my hands to pretend I'm invisible.
24: "We've made you who you are today" is what everyone else could say, but all I've done is embrace you for who you are.
3: This is Sparta.
- 300
10: I can tell she's thinking about me because she's breathing.
19: He bravely raised his hand timidly, boldly putting himself out there and finally letting the spotlight shine on him.
1: Push (props to you for remembering)
37: This was never what I wanted, to be taken for granted, even though it does not take a mind reader to understand that I clearly am granted. I am for you all to toss aside and ignore.
21: Deserve. The word rattles my spine and makes me cringe. It digusts me as much as the concept of "deserving" itself.
5: I don't hate you, yet...
4: ... But give it time.
(5 and 4 can be combined to make 9)
9: I don't hate you, yet, but give it time.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Yes! Yes! More! (another count)
6 Lipstick on his collar; isn't hers...
6(alternate) Not her lipstick on his collar.
7 No. Not you. Not now. Not ever.
7 Still a child, yet not so innocent.
15 The look in his eyes is lust and all she wants is to satisfy it.
16 I am so lucky; to have found you, to have loved you, to have lost you.
17 You walked away and never looked back but your footsteps echo through the hallways of my mind.
19 The music washes over me like an ocean wave, crashing into me, leaving me shaken and gasping for air.
45 She sparkles like snow in the sun, glittering like ice, she is my personal star but she does not light my way, rather she highlights my mistakes and her very brightness rubs it in my face: how I will never live up to her perfection.
6(alternate) Not her lipstick on his collar.
7 No. Not you. Not now. Not ever.
7 Still a child, yet not so innocent.
15 The look in his eyes is lust and all she wants is to satisfy it.
16 I am so lucky; to have found you, to have loved you, to have lost you.
17 You walked away and never looked back but your footsteps echo through the hallways of my mind.
19 The music washes over me like an ocean wave, crashing into me, leaving me shaken and gasping for air.
45 She sparkles like snow in the sun, glittering like ice, she is my personal star but she does not light my way, rather she highlights my mistakes and her very brightness rubs it in my face: how I will never live up to her perfection.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
OH YES PLEASE MORE MORE
6: Not if it kills me first.
8: It's better if you mix it with vodka.
14: Don’t know. Maybe it was the way the sky was falling: So slowly, like a deflating balloon. You, the child, pulling it down faster.
25: I realize I have never heard actually heard Yes, only No, and assumed in a drunken stupor that Stop and No meant Yes and Faster.
30: I know I’m red. Turning my head away, I mumble unintelligible things; wishing and praying and hoping. And hating, most of all, hating that I get weird around pretty people.
40: She realizes her life isn’t what she wanted. This house not the one she loved. These children not the ones she loved. This job not one she loved. This husband, actually, not quite the one she wanted to dance with.
50: ...that when she finally does get around to batting, she is only a rookie, pulled out of the batting cages two weeks too early to be playing with the big boys that until that moment, she had only watched from afar, staring with starry eyes as they hurled heartbreak forward.
60: If you ever fortuitously exhale the tiniest gust of carbon dioxide in the general direction of my body, I will make you eat your thumbs. Rip them off and shove them down your throat. One by one. So that you can hear your bones cracking. Can tell me, in a five hundred word essay, exactly what your blood tastes like.
8: It's better if you mix it with vodka.
14: Don’t know. Maybe it was the way the sky was falling: So slowly, like a deflating balloon. You, the child, pulling it down faster.
25: I realize I have never heard actually heard Yes, only No, and assumed in a drunken stupor that Stop and No meant Yes and Faster.
30: I know I’m red. Turning my head away, I mumble unintelligible things; wishing and praying and hoping. And hating, most of all, hating that I get weird around pretty people.
40: She realizes her life isn’t what she wanted. This house not the one she loved. These children not the ones she loved. This job not one she loved. This husband, actually, not quite the one she wanted to dance with.
50: ...that when she finally does get around to batting, she is only a rookie, pulled out of the batting cages two weeks too early to be playing with the big boys that until that moment, she had only watched from afar, staring with starry eyes as they hurled heartbreak forward.
60: If you ever fortuitously exhale the tiniest gust of carbon dioxide in the general direction of my body, I will make you eat your thumbs. Rip them off and shove them down your throat. One by one. So that you can hear your bones cracking. Can tell me, in a five hundred word essay, exactly what your blood tastes like.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Win
“The sweetest revenge for heartbreak like that,”
She said with a guileful grin,
“Is to be flat-out stunning and flirt...
But certainly NOT with him.”
I thought for a moment and swallowed a smile;
We started to plot your demise.
The first step? She said, “This part you can do –
You be easy on his eyes.”
We plotted and planned a fanciful do
Of just-perfect wardrobe and hair;
Imagined a label to slap on my face:
“Of this let the buyer beware!”
And I flirted and laughed and tossed back my hair,
And days they stretched out into weeks.
I don’t know what effect it’s having on you
But it’s not the one that I seek.
Revenge is a dish that is best served cold
And I let it simmer and boil.
Although in this silly scheme, I’ll admit,
I got something out of my toil:
When I set my sights on vengeance for you
I tried to your jealousies sway,
That didn’t work, but you lost me for good -
So I win, at the end of the day.
This is absolutely fictional. And I absolutely had fun writing it.
I promise, I'm working on actual narrative stuff with an actual plot.
AND! I'm totally down for Mike's plan. Oh yes, don't stop believing, etc.
She said with a guileful grin,
“Is to be flat-out stunning and flirt...
But certainly NOT with him.”
I thought for a moment and swallowed a smile;
We started to plot your demise.
The first step? She said, “This part you can do –
You be easy on his eyes.”
We plotted and planned a fanciful do
Of just-perfect wardrobe and hair;
Imagined a label to slap on my face:
“Of this let the buyer beware!”
And I flirted and laughed and tossed back my hair,
And days they stretched out into weeks.
I don’t know what effect it’s having on you
But it’s not the one that I seek.
Revenge is a dish that is best served cold
And I let it simmer and boil.
Although in this silly scheme, I’ll admit,
I got something out of my toil:
When I set my sights on vengeance for you
I tried to your jealousies sway,
That didn’t work, but you lost me for good -
So I win, at the end of the day.
This is absolutely fictional. And I absolutely had fun writing it.
I promise, I'm working on actual narrative stuff with an actual plot.
AND! I'm totally down for Mike's plan. Oh yes, don't stop believing, etc.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Ah! Ah! Ah! That's TWO! TWO Count Posts!
Following the rules, because I don't know how else to do it.
27: I watch those stalking children of the night fish through latent ashes of the dawn for old , broken suns, wondering why they cannot bear to sing.
8: Is it still heartbreak if she likes it?
7: I thought of you—and thought again.
30: Beware the wind, the whispers that it breaks; beware the sea, the sentences it drowns; beware the soil, the darkness that entombs the hopeful words you sent to empty rooms.
34: The god-beads come undone in our hands—wood and cord and the roughness of the skin that wears them down like the sea on the rocks, like letters from forgotten lovers that we throw away.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Count 2.0
In following with Jess' post and Mike's suggestion, here are some short pre-determined-word-count pieces!
24: We feel the stars and suns leaking out of our eyes as soon as the moment punctures itself on the sharp edges of acknowledgement.
42: The sea sways as lovers would, dancing, tripping, twirling, to the song they promise-whispered to each other in their tenderest moments that they’d never forget, and as I look across it I wish I’d taken the time to learn how to dance.
10: When you smile, it makes me never want to again.
19: “Love is all you need,” pronounces the song, and I want to believe because it sounds better that way.
37: Simple settled insects click across the flowers you brought for me, chewing, spitting, fornicating all over them, and I fight the urge to throw the bouquet away, because it isn’t its fault it attracts such repugnant violators.
24: We feel the stars and suns leaking out of our eyes as soon as the moment punctures itself on the sharp edges of acknowledgement.
42: The sea sways as lovers would, dancing, tripping, twirling, to the song they promise-whispered to each other in their tenderest moments that they’d never forget, and as I look across it I wish I’d taken the time to learn how to dance.
10: When you smile, it makes me never want to again.
19: “Love is all you need,” pronounces the song, and I want to believe because it sounds better that way.
37: Simple settled insects click across the flowers you brought for me, chewing, spitting, fornicating all over them, and I fight the urge to throw the bouquet away, because it isn’t its fault it attracts such repugnant violators.
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