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

only when i say yes,
admit you fucked it up

the party bitches with their post modern hair (naturally)
its all so tired
i'm tired of my post modern hair (naturally)

rough times at the ruff club

we talked alot of shit, tired bruises from an hour or so before were speckled red where capilaries burst with no room for oxygen to smooth the colors into hues of blue and yellow.
down down stairs, i said it all
"i'm at my worst and i love you with your shirt full of spitup"
thirty something layers of grafitti on the bathroom stall, close, careful letters spun tight around my hips
how secure i am with being this offensive
how cavelier you've been about helping me wreck your lies, invade your home, pick at your lips
we talked alot of shit, bent over some dirty sink, put myself in a whiskey headlock and melted through the drain
you stood tall,a silent devil stroking a landmine

i had this dream where i was a a nazi controlling bitch in an aquarium
i woke up and think it might be backwards symbolism for just how ruined i've let things get
but reverse psychology does not work in sleep or consciousness
the dogs need food and i havent checked my voicemail yet
..i hope i remembered to take anything viscose out of the wash before i threw it into the dryer, i simply cannot have another armful of shrunken shirts


i burnt the coffee again, i am giving up the french press for a while.

wake up Basquiat!