I don't edit these, ya know? They're not supposed to be pretty. They're supposed to be real. To capture a moment in time. That shit's elusive, you gotta nail that fucker down, before it slips away.
I was taking a piss when I thought it, so please forgive my cynicism. BUT When did a dick pic become the new love poem?
It used to be my phone that I carried around, in hopes that you'd call or, message, like or, comment - All that meaningless bullshit that we equate with love, affection, and respect. Now, it's this little book and the words have not stopped pouring forth; like lancing a boil, all the blood, and pus and pain are coming out.
Poetry is the spitting out, the blood letting of, the vomiting up of the poison before it kills the heart.
There's a spider web trailing along the fence, visible only because Light shines at the lowest points.
Battles for life happen in the desert; saints, demoniacs, madmen, Jesus. My desert was a shitty community pool, brimming with gallons of toddler piss and ruptured fart bubbles. I'd hopped the fence at 4 a.m. fearful I'd skewer my cunt and be stuck like that under the humid moonless Florida sky. I'd jumped in with my, No. His clothes on, like some pathetic Ophelia. Even my Chuck Taylor's which made me feel so Rock 'n Roll. I could hear my breathing, my heartbeat; In. Thump, thump. Out. Thump, thump. And I sent up a prayer to whatever God was listening. Even if it was nothing at all. Just let me die, in this piss filled pool and in the morning some poor slob can fish me out. Long handled skimmer; and me too dead to care about the burden.
I was tired. I wanted to crawl into bed and think of us fingers threaded together, limbs warm against each other, the weight of your head on my shoulder... And then I remembered; you said you loved me but we were a complication (and then you kissed me) in a long list of your complications. So I stayed awake.