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postures of uneasy sex acts
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| Not of this world, of this tribe, of your kind |
[30 Jun 2008|06:09pm] |
Saturday was like the best day of my life. Caravan to PA and floated down a river on innertubes with wonderful people. All of us full of beer and burgers and hallucinogens. All of us laid out on rocks and smearing waxy paint on our faces like warriors. I'm the kind of woman who cannot resist touching a man's long wet hair. Took a dirt nap and then danced until 5 in the morning. Even though we were the only ones still awake. Even though we missed them.
I finally just fucking said I was sorry and I got a me too back. This I have learned, though it took me many years: men just want to be left alone.
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| Women in Love |
[29 May 2008|12:05am] |
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Just finished it. Crushed it under my body like a suffocated baby and wept.
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[30 Apr 2008|02:51am] |
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They tried for years to get back inside that photograph.
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[23 Apr 2008|08:07pm] |
America's Next "Top Models" are in Rome. I love walking home from the bus with the sun still shining. I said hello to everyone I passed.
This is so much easier when it's warm.
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| What are you doing alone in your room? I'm in the living room waiting for you to come out. |
[17 Apr 2008|10:29pm] |
Everyone was fighting today. A couple on the bus and random people across the street and behind the bodega. The clacking of my stupid sandals echoing off of buildings plus the smell of the magnolia tree and I was floored. I could have just gone to sleep right there in the middle of the street. I always cry on the goddamn bus.
An hour ago I was just staring blankly at the wall eating vanilla yogurt so s l o w l y.
Two years ago. I can't even believe it's been that long. Arms interlocked and walking through some April showers. I was singing Aretha Franklin and a security guard said, "I love that song." Two years ago. It's getting warm out, but damn girl, you cold as ice.
The highlight of my day was eating a soft-serve cone in front of the bookstore in the sunlight.
Spring rules, I just wish it would let me stick my dick in something already.
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[17 Apr 2008|02:18am] |
What. Insanity. ?Vomit and vomit and vo--and all of my possessions wrapped up in a black bodega bag and tossed into the river. FUCK. MY. ___ugh, I'm too lazy to even say it____ (life).
I suck.
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| Outside/ |
[14 Apr 2008|09:20pm] |
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There's really nothing to say until it gets good and hot.
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| I remember |
[07 Apr 2008|05:03am] |
| [ |
mood |
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3 times, that's bad |
] |
I remember this. Being delirious at five in the morning, all of the sudden birds start chirping, and FUCK! smashing my face into a pillow because it's sort of what I want to do but easier. Another secret rendezvous tomorrow that's as reliable as a bag of water with holes in it. And then swoosh! splat! off to that lover of yours in California. And I keep thinking, HEY! this is my fucking city, get outta here! Stop haunting me, phantom! But then again I want that city too and the whole damn state and all the heartbreak and scum encapsulated there because, seriously, I'll never get that thing I want. And I'll be miserable until I (never) get it. "I'm dying to know what's going to happen," he says, because he knows I'm just talking shit. I want a head that lights up on fire and I just wanna burn right through everything, even the bridges. Especially the bridges.
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[07 Apr 2008|04:58am] |
sQ
Your little hard drive
and my great big big one:
sunken treasure beneath the boats.
Sunk like a heavy, cracked stone.
A stone I called ugly and petulant
and ugly just like you. A real sinker.
Either of us would settle to just be
small, or smaller, and rocked back
and forth. Or merely slid across the
surface: a canoe, a library card, a
note labeled withdrawal.
And just get wet like a left, leaving thing.
Over the gravel, over the oars, the skipjack
shivering as if it could do such a thing.
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[07 Apr 2008|04:56am] |
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Satan, both a puppet and a master, in a room full of felt, yarn, thread, fabric. He puts a silver charm in my hand, a round dog tag or something. I'm dressed like an asshole in some Dorothy/Alice in wonderland thing. Even curls. I pin it to a wall along with various other charms which I can only assume were gifts from him. My main man. (Before this he was chainsawing through grocery store employees in order to prove his love for me; I was the only survivor, blood-soaked and lying at his feet). All of the sudden I realize I'm about to be killed. I run, in slow motion, down to the front door. For some reason I just decide, fuck it, let him go at it and I slip down to the bottom of the stairs. He throws the charm and it burns through my body. He's posing as a wolf and I'm dead and I love it.
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| This fucking game again |
[21 Jan 2008|09:37pm] |
Note: go to your calendar and find the first entry for each month of 2007. Post the first line [or so] of it in your journal, and that's your "year in review".
2007, you evil, evil beast. 2008, more honest; 200H8.
January+
Not a new year because you fucked (up).
February+
I'd rather live a wrong-doin' life.
March+
I'm cutting a jar out of a cigarette pack. White tin can. White-out pillow, Wonderbook, HIDDIN ROOM.
April+
Being a free woman is weird. But god, I love it.
May+
It got so quiet, I let it get quiet.
June+
Potato cheese soup from scratch at 2 in the morning and of course the cap falls off the salt shaker just minutes before its completion. MY LIFE I HATE.
July+
0
August+
0
September+
I tried to write about the abundance of burning bridges, the mornings that started at 7, 8 a.m. with sunlight streaming in and cold air, Guns & Roses dancing underwear music video in the living room, champagne for breakfast, a black eye, a black eye and a dog bite on my cheek, a wedding, wedding bells and crowbars, dirty feet, getting hyphy, trying not to fall in love with everyone, trying not to save myself, rubbing and humping and fucking and pulling and kicking and screaming and screaming and screaming.
October+
0
November+
0
December+
Until the killer in me has not just gotten out, but until that is all I am.
++
It did, and I am.
Who needs another fucking drink?
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[04 Dec 2007|11:58pm] |
I wish I was talking about things like swamps and ponds and lost rings rushing down the miniature waterfall and into the depths of the shallow, but difficult to navigate, swimming hole where girls young enough to be shirtless fling there arms out as if trying to bust out of something. But they are too short and small and so am I. Busy having mensturation-induced anxiety on the train, anxiety that makes me think, Fuck I'm such a fucking girl, crying while exiting the subway at the wrong stop on the wrong night in this godforsaken week. My face scrunched up and wet and crying while watching someone knit and someone in all gray and some Asian girl I always see on the way home from work at 10:30 who always wears these stupid moccasins that I love (they always look brand new though she always wears them).
Overhearing, "She always tries to embarass me in front of that girl."
Having to walk to the bar a million blocks instead of just three. WHAT A GIRL! Carrying around this stupid book that will never reach you, but ALAS! tonight or maybe tomorrow or the next day it will. Carrying around two coats - TWO! One from the fence across from my apartment smelling like a little black boys laundry. One from Salvation Army, crying, YES! YES! as I slipped it on in the way of the man who was trying to re-hang jackets and coats that all of us women were flinging onto the ground as we rejected them.
Not sending the package but spending hours working intensely on it - even spending an entire afternoon on it and the one before that just thinking about it. Avoiding pronouns which would give me up, expose me, leak like blood out of a cracked skull, out of my mouth, draining into the toilet cloudy and wrong and there's that word again. WRONG. Avoiding names even more because you all know that name and don't want to hear it, never did. Naming no names. Or we (I) could take them, take names, make another black list, but still you would be coded. YOU.
The cats are lesbians and I'm sick of them and I never liked cats and I feel like a teenager who got knocked up and has not enough fingers or toes to count her regrets.
In ten days I will be watching things recede in side-view mirrors. I am a perpetual passenger and this is a good excuse. It's not up to me, I'm just the passenger. And I love you I love you I love you til I poison everything, poison your wine, my cats, our mothers, and myself. Until the killer in me has not just gotten out, but until that is all I am.
This is why a second look is useful. So I don't reveal too much. So you don't get bored.
And that's the only reason we never got sick of each other: because I don't even remember what you look like.
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[26 Sep 2007|01:33pm] |
I am not looking forward. I am not looking forward to this. I want I want I want it so bad.
My fingers look blood soaked, hair crusted with Gwar jism, a tin plate full of spaghetti guts and cigarette butt.
Vows folded up and stashed. A cup full of fucking pennies. Last night I dreamt I woke up at 45 and couldn't remember the last 23 years of my life. I tried to go on MySpace to catch up. It was devastating.
Everyone is married or a fucking dickhole.
I need
a bath.
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| But it didn't work. |
[20 Sep 2007|12:19pm] |
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I tried to write about the abundance of burning bridges, the mornings that started at 7, 8 a.m. with sunlight streaming in and cold air, Guns & Roses dancing underwear music video in the living room, champagne for breakfast, a black eye, a black eye and a dog bite on my cheek, a wedding, wedding bells and crowbars, dirty feet, getting hyphy, trying not to fall in love with everyone, trying not to save myself, rubbing and humping and fucking and pulling and kicking and screaming and screaming and screaming.
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[14 Jun 2007|04:31pm] |
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I think I had an orgasm in my sleep.
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[04 Jun 2007|01:49am] |
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Potato cheese soup from scratch at 2 in the morning and of course the cap falls off the salt shaker just minutes before its completion. MY LIFE I HATE. I'm trying to eat it anyway. Thin LineBetween Love and Hate. I feel like I'm dumping salt into my mouth. Poke more smot.
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[31 May 2007|06:04pm] |
Woke up at three. Immediately took my sweaty body into the shower. Jackhammers or something, glass being swept up [still]. In a bikini on the couch with two kittens draped over me reading a Stuff magazine I drunkenly picked up off the street last night. Then cigarettes and, jesus I'm a bum, terry cloth romper. Red OtterPop hanging out of my mouth, Salter's Dusk; out of print. Alice Coltraine: Lord, help me to be.
One year ago:
God, let me sleep in your face.
Let me eat your bones.
Let me finger your nostril some more.
Instead I buy you pizza and watch you,
hungrily,
eat it.
Two:
the end of an era
is my favorite phrase/ it runs through my little brainy constantly.
Three:
a tiny altar like a fingernail
my fingers are swelling at their joints. the tips are browned from the chocolate and i'm all slippery like chlorine. i sat with my knees up watching for nymphets. i slid in carefully. the water was warm and tasted like sweat. i can't breathe underwater anymore, sister.
Four:
bunches from the roadside for the nympho
tuber roses& freesia in purpurate and white
ribbon laces for ankles; smelling the paper pages
knees together and peeking through the sun
over the edge, fold fold, newspapercranes
saturday morning in bows
I love this game
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[28 May 2007|03:46pm] |
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But what's more devastating is losing that little scrap of paper covered in little notes, quotes. Ugh. My love is not a shield, it is a sword. WTC stop on the E has the strongest urine scent of all the stops I've been to. I wasn't lying when I said everything about you turns me on. I don't think you were either. Drunk and sweat. Dirty Jerz shore. Fishing on the rocks. White feather stuck in the sand, stuck in the end of my braid. Toothpick bookmark in Collected Sade. Carver's Cathedral & Salter's Last Night breaking my heart with the last sentence, over and over again. All you can do is just stare out the window and think about how every hour is another 80 miles is me getting further and further away from you and consequently our entire past together. Give me a novel this time; I can't deal. I keep losing things: that necklace/purse strap in the grass in New Orleans, a stupid beloved tassel in Fort Greene Park, a bathing suit left to dry on the front porch in Texas. I've got meat and mushrooms marinating in the refrigerator and now I gotta skewer them. COCK.
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