30/10/07
Your neck
Bent back that way
It's a complicated way to feel
At the risk of remembering it most
I jerk off to poetry
Sentimentally, of course.
|
Bent back that way
It's a complicated way to feel
At the risk of remembering it most
I jerk off to poetry
Sentimentally, of course.
|
27/10/07
I fucked a girl. I loved a girl. I left a girl alone.
Most often I've meant one and done another, or sometimes two resulting in an exclusive third. I wonder if there are correct dosages of these things.
My first kiss. My only broken bone. My derelict interior. Things add up in threes. Perhaps I am a cube. Cross-crosshatched into a delirium my insides are an ancient architecture. Witnessing is the real perversity.
No, I don't like that. Can I be a poet now?
|
Most often I've meant one and done another, or sometimes two resulting in an exclusive third. I wonder if there are correct dosages of these things.
My first kiss. My only broken bone. My derelict interior. Things add up in threes. Perhaps I am a cube. Cross-crosshatched into a delirium my insides are an ancient architecture. Witnessing is the real perversity.
No, I don't like that. Can I be a poet now?
|
23/10/07
I woke up with tears for a bygone era in my eyes. It was the last of my moisture and I crumbled like a dessicated spleen. Now, in bits upon the floor, I try to gather my thoughts, but their dissemination has become literal and they are no longer my own. That is to say that I am no longer capable of being occupied by them, for I have crumbled and am now just a bunch of shit on the floor, and all that all the little bits can agree upon is that we feel like such a fucking poseur for having entertained the idea of being disassembled before.
|
|
04/10/07
My stomach and my brain are curling up into knuckles. The thing about knuckles and fists is that they are taut, succinct, both sharp and blunt, but always effective if swung properly.
My stomach and brain are flailing wildly. I don't know how to remove myself from this internal tantrum. It's tearing me apart.
|
My stomach and brain are flailing wildly. I don't know how to remove myself from this internal tantrum. It's tearing me apart.
|
01/10/07
I woke up with it written on the back of my hand. Desperate, loathsome scrawl. I felt like I needed to puke, like I'd been kicked repeatedly in the balls, like my eyes were sacs of pus, like my hands were moist steakmittens. It was difficult to make out.
It was carved there in meat and bone and weeping tissue, but through that gore I understood again. A desperate, loathsome screed. I took my dick in my hands and wept. Jerking off is a violent tremor. Or, perhaps more accurately, one in a neverending series. One shard of glass out of a million broken mirrors. I pulled up and down with both fight and flight and clung so tightly to my one last true representation, the one true reciprocal love of my life, skin so taut that it ripped and bled further into my meatfist, reflective of my broken interior tension. The highwire snapped.
I started to gag. I folded in half and fucked myself in the mouth and I barfed the ocean. I barfed a million worlds into being, all dribbling out my mouth and down the shaft of my cock. Spittle and froth and barf and this is what made you. This is your creation. I could feel my back breaking (because I'm not a fucking contortionist), and when I began losing feeling in my lower extremities I wished upon a shooting star and was for once and only granted.
Chunks and gristle of my brain slide down the final broken mirror. Greasy slug trails and broken glass to chew. It's in your mouth now. My dick is a gun. My dead nose is running jizz.
|
It was carved there in meat and bone and weeping tissue, but through that gore I understood again. A desperate, loathsome screed. I took my dick in my hands and wept. Jerking off is a violent tremor. Or, perhaps more accurately, one in a neverending series. One shard of glass out of a million broken mirrors. I pulled up and down with both fight and flight and clung so tightly to my one last true representation, the one true reciprocal love of my life, skin so taut that it ripped and bled further into my meatfist, reflective of my broken interior tension. The highwire snapped.
I started to gag. I folded in half and fucked myself in the mouth and I barfed the ocean. I barfed a million worlds into being, all dribbling out my mouth and down the shaft of my cock. Spittle and froth and barf and this is what made you. This is your creation. I could feel my back breaking (because I'm not a fucking contortionist), and when I began losing feeling in my lower extremities I wished upon a shooting star and was for once and only granted.
Chunks and gristle of my brain slide down the final broken mirror. Greasy slug trails and broken glass to chew. It's in your mouth now. My dick is a gun. My dead nose is running jizz.
|
