There was once these two kids ...







He taught her about how to speak pig latin before she even know how to speak the proper english when they were 8. She never understood and he never understood her and they both thought the whole thing was pointless but funny, still she wanted to fit in. He told her he liked how she stood out and the fact that she wasn't generic and that she didn't need to try and impress anyone. She was only trying to impress him and she already had but she just didn't know that. They created their own language that everyone else would want to learn but they wouldn't let them and they called it complete because their words together were all they need.

She taught him about sunset when they were 10. His parents let him spend the night at her house once and they snuck out and crawled onto the roof. She told him she went up there to think and but she wouldn't tell him when he asked her what about, because she thought it was silly and pathetic. He was hoping she the thought about him because he thought about her every night before bed, so he just looked back at her and smiled. She grabbed his hand and traced the line on his palm, telling him he was beautiful, he should be a constellation in the sky. Then she would look at the stars every night.

He taught her how to kiss when they were 13. He was experienced and had already kissed more girls than he could count with his two hand and more than she cared to know about. She had never kissed a boy because she was waiting for the right moment and the right one and didn't want to tell him that she believed he was the one worth waiting for. on the roof where she taught him about sunset for the very first time, he slid her bangs out of her eyes so he could stare into them as their lips set out on a collision course for one another. He had never realized her eyes were dark brown and not black and that she has always seen them together like this. She claims that was the day they started seeing eye-to-eye.

They taught each other how to be in love when they were 17. He thought he had been in love once but he learned that lust isn't the same as love and love doesn't lose it's meaning once you start having sex. He had his heart broken and she was there for ohm to clean up the mess that was him and taught him how to put his (her) heart back together. She was always there even though he might not have always cared. She had learned to deal with being the duct tape and the Neosporin to medicate his cuts and scrapes. She had learned to speak in run-ons and his mind left out punctuation and grammar rules and together they formed a complete sentence.

Too many times


Just being silly… I tried several verses to see if it was possible by any stretch of the imagination. I found a few words in each one that worked and then stumbled upon that one. Now the words meant and were no longer sound right in my head. I said them too many times.

The Other Woman



I like the way the words sound when they're moving between her lips. There is a quite rhythm in the way they buzz between the muscle and soft feather-filled flesh. I'd like to think all energy revolves this way, like a melodic hum, separating two individual keys of flesh. These notes are carnal and alive, like small flower petals that prefer to mix and mesh into pollinated lavish bloom.
I am not to lead you ashtray from my initial thought, tender reader, hopeless writer. I just ponder upon how perfect her lips kiss and the perpetual thoughts that pour over like milk and silk.
I am writing in a string of love letters tied by the end of this vacant finger fitted for bands and rings. I think I'd like to tie her on, try her on. We've got so much left to look forward to, and all our world is hanging by the end of this string.

Cigarette






She took a long drag off her cigarette, fighting back the cough that clawed at her throat. It was never a habit she felt truly accustomed to, but she was addicted, for a more fear-inspired reason than why most people find comfort in them. Cigarettes never changed. People changed. Relationships changed. Love, the one feeling she was so certain of one moment, changed the next. She fucking hated change. She hated the way it disrupted her pattern of life when she had only just grown used to it. Cigarettes never said goodbye. She could quit them, but they would never quit her. They were always waiting for her to use them. They would always be there, perfectly poised between her index and middle finger, the end lit like a fuse, burning and blazing passionately; the only thing that would smolder in response to her lips, to the way she breathed. They acknowledged her with a puff of smoke, curling and winding delicately around her face, caressing her cheek when no one else would. They allowed her to take and take and take and never made her feel guilty about her inability to give something in return. And this was the way she preferred things. She never had the gnawing anxiety that at any moment, she would be abandoned, tossed aside, rendered worthless and devoid of value .. all the things she knew, deep down, she deserved.

Thoughts #13


Writing good poetry is like having sex with a blindfold and ear plugs. Bereft of those things that would typically provide you with the data necessary to determine wether things are going well, you are required, at the end of the day to rely on your instincts.Trusting one partner is nothing more frustrating than when, despite all your efforts and the risks you've undertaken, you don't get off.

Chopin

Frédéric François Chopin
There is only one real way to listen Chopin: earphones, the best ones money can buy, with the volume jacked the shit up. Sometimes when the breeze trickles in and the harmonics are buzzing, I swear to god I can taste his spit. Yea, I know, I have no idea what his spit tasted like, but I imagine it tasted a bit like old booze, cheese and chocolate. I would have liked to make out with Chopin. Not like "full-on almost-have-sex-with-him" make out, but like nibble on his lips, have his laughter curl up into my neck like the smell of old parchment. Or perhaps I would have fucked him. There's something instinctive about wrapping one's leg around something so tragically singular, like the native belief that one can inherit the wisdom/power/virility  of one's enemies by eating their vital organs. My thighs shaken from their hunger, my vagina  drools at the anticipation. There was something lost when he died. Not that kind of loss that you regret with an "oh shit, I liked that shoes," not even the kind of loss over which you cry and cry and cry for 10 years and refuse to leave your house. Nope, it was like losing one memories, so that you are cheated out of even nostalgia, the ethereal  residue of vibrato and tears that reminds us we are perfectly frail, exquisitely susceptible; that we are never alone.




No matter how many times I play it, whether I’m happy, mad or on the verge of having a bath with the toaster, Nocturne Op.9 no1 is just brilliant.


Un-Inspired



Lately whenever I sit down to write
4 things dive into my head
And befriend my neurons -
1. I need sex.
2. Having a bottom is living with the enemy. They follow us around our entire lives, right behind us and constantly growing. I'm sure mine's back there secretly snacking.
3. The prettiest people do the ugliest thing.
4. I DEFINITELY NEED SEX !
And that's about it.