100

Jehovah, for the first time pink tasted pink. Pure blue based pink.

further holy visions

things just never fit together, its why i wouldnt have sex with you all those times, not with the moths that call your hair home watching me.

i sat, told him to act more irresponsibly
apparently he simply did not agree, because like any true gentleman, he stirred sugar into my coffee and said all the nightiming is making me look like hell.
but that conversation never happened
nor any other, ever
dark eyes restless with filthy mugs, waiting waiting
i thought you were coming over tonight.

to my dead right hands

lastnight i slept in the room you left to us when you decided too much was never enough and choked when your body pushed everything back out.
twenty bags of heroin and a childs stolen rattle
my eyes never acclimated to the lack of light, i couldnt tell shape from shadow, so i spoke to the arm of a chair instead of your ghost that lay next to me

with the same fever that drives us all

Ive been found between tight lipped archaic brownstone faces, lining my mind with untailored curtains. strummed their iron gates with twiggy fingers, forcing chaotic nondescript rhythms, like laughter in public places. familiarity is a vague point of interest that i have been careful to avoid,such as the n the l the w, dead lines which i now refuse no matter the convenience or destination. i stopped listening for the bicycle spokes hiss when you started calling it the city's cicada.
there's levels of comfort amassed with certain levels of not caring, neither of which i have come to understand or give a shit about when it comes to answering your drunken calls or forgetting your street name. always, the iron gates strum on, humming along with street lights that burst when i say your name. i guess this is a city for cicadas. your city, so much the same as your loafers, penniless and buffed, a metaphor wasted on your tactless humor.

reminders

i offically broke up with american apparel yesterday, picked up my stuff, made plans to go to the dog park, and very sadly peaced out on a years worth of wasted time.

no more poetry, i'm funemployed these days..

all i've done is cut everything up to make knots and braids and wear them around my neck
but it took a few dresses to do so
and i have not worn pants in over 2 years, so now i've got a lovely neck with a fabulously naked body. who wants to take me out tonight?!

i am an unaccomplished writer that enjoys nothing more than writing a post script on a seperate piece of paper.

no more and yet still so much

closing out a horrible summer with a much needed road trip and some new friends
a photo venture?
well
really, just accepting that 20 has been an age for not accepting the romanticized mess i am allowing myself to grow into. you know, the type to wear a 2 dollar slip from the salvation army and a gaggle of cheap costume jewelry that leaves behind green rings as an after thought.

i think my keyboard was switched because i am typing one key to the left and have to keep correcting myself.








oh! yes, before i forget-
why dont you call me when you drink too much anymore?
i've missed that part of you.

high above them celibate tides, at least until the geese get their migratory patterns down and stop drowning out the church bells ringing on the hour with tiers of wings floating over southern winds