Listen, there’s nothing to it and let’s not get into this again having been down one road too many and too many roads too short in temper, I mean, like a fuse on dynamite that’s set and ready or chutes and ladders laid down u n st e a dy against the fire-painted siding of a burning house.
Something about us seems damned— to repeat myself, walk half a city block and scream at traffic, pedestrian crossings line up so parallel, so perfect, all meanderings dismissed to other times, in other places where grass grows up between old wheel ruts, wrought iron gates unlocked and secret doors cracked open.
Up on the lonely mountain and down in the wet valleys filling up like a tin cup beneath rain gutters all rusted a-plenty, my dear you haven’t seen a scene like this all summer and take heart, raise your humdrum glass to catch the drops before they pass.
“What can I do with my happiness? How can I keep it, conceal it, bury it where I may never lose it? I want to kneel as it falls over me like rain, gather it up with lace and silk, and press it over myself again.”—Anaïs Nin. (via theburnthatkeepseverything)
Drum beat hums in a hive, he found her sitting with a locket on a chain mail delivered through a slot machine said don’t be in a hurry as the windfall won’t be coming, took a turn a chapter back in fear of motorcades and mausoleums, no one says just what they’re thinking, but standard issue grief is pretty if you dress it up in black.
A business formality, I am not so put away your briefcase and save the stationary for someone who doesn’t know every contrived hope and materialistic dream that ripples through your overtaxed and underwhelming brain at intervals that would shock your mother and leave your wife wondering whether the price of the white dress and the perpetual (though lackluster) date was worth it.
Matches strike with inevitable brilliance and I hike my skirt up to my knees in the heat of a Northeastern summer and the droughted landscape dies a little more as I sip poorly mixed lemonade from a coffee cup with too many useless and unremarkable memories and try to look on the bright side.
“They spoke very little of their mutual feelings: pretty phrases and warm attentions being probably unnecessary between such tried friends.”—Thomas Hardy, Far From the Madding Crowd (via inspiringserendipity)
Saw a pearls-draped woman two-faced mess of curls and fifty dollars in snake oil spilled for the fun of it. Little wait here, little dogs there, wine all red, white and blueberries make a nice vintage as long as you cork it tight but with mange, old age and hookworms to worry about— how do you sleep at night?
Set this scene and knotted heard a sound like a mouse scratching nibble, dribble, feet so fast across the attic and up spread unrested feathers of pigeons nesting in pineapple-upside-down bowler hats, all brocaded and dusty, wide and filled to the crusted brim with straw broom bristles and yellowed paper flowers.
He spoke mangled, ghetto French and she was a borderland beauty
He was smiling and smoking a cigarette while hailing a taxi at ten after two on St. Catherine’s Street. She was wild-child drunk and recently barefoot, dancing on a street bench to the bi-national anthem she improvised (and improved) in under three minutes.
Tripping in a copse one forget-me-not colored Wednesday I drew faith from the flowers like poison from a vein and made a chain of yellow-eyed loveliness in a meadow doused in rain and all pain, doubt and indifference made a crow’s nest of hair, twine and needle-work pine, from which I sprouted wings and flew away.
/ Irreverence and sass forever, baby/ My god would that make a cool t-shirt. Your work is a pleasure to read. It's like being passed a beer on a sandy beach right before a volleyball hits you in the head and I mean that as a compliment. Best Regards, King Stimie
This description of my work is too fantastic not to publish. The image made my day :) Thank you!
I wish it would storm,
pounding rain against the pavement and
lightning white hot and sprawling across
a mid-summer sky. The ground
is parched and so am I.
I’m thirsty for violence of a natural kind,
a howling wind against these brick walls,
a clap of thunder overhead. Hail and snow
and rain at once; it’s not omens or signs
I’m seeking, just a passionate declaration
that rocks my very soul.
Never held, never wept set aflamed the lachrymose set as a cask of aging wine no better for its use set root, winding twist that grew up through my hands and feet, purple, throbbing, bursting vein of blood and meat carried weak and wanton thoughts of time we weren’t apart in the cockles, in the chambers of my setting heart.
The weather is a red herring. Don’t be fooled by white-washed windows— when the lights go out, you’ll know. Clutter in the darkness, subway ticket stub says pearly gates built a bridge from froth and foam city bogs are muddied trash cans country dates are raisins too acid face on marble statues, tacky test a polar ice cap, Regents math, French phonetics. Cost of oil by (buy) (bye-bye) the hundredweight.