Monday, August 29, 2011
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
take the trash flying upwards
like gutter birds touching
such beautiful places
rubbed and rubbing raw
across nubile foreheads
making them
look foreign under city sun
sewers glowing softly
with secrets of sound
of days sifting
and machinery eating
these unimportant
fossils.
Carefully carving up
my identity
until street and strength
and eyes big enough
and kind enough
to swallow sadness
digested and birthing
the sweetest molasses
pour out
like gutter birds touching
such beautiful places
rubbed and rubbing raw
across nubile foreheads
making them
look foreign under city sun
sewers glowing softly
with secrets of sound
of days sifting
and machinery eating
these unimportant
fossils.
Carefully carving up
my identity
until street and strength
and eyes big enough
and kind enough
to swallow sadness
digested and birthing
the sweetest molasses
pour out
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Friday, August 19, 2011
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Sussed Out : 3 Minute Warning
kind of a cute song. Never heard of them before. Videos a little cheezy, tho.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
What Do I Want?
It's simple.
I want the love of a good man.
I want to have a few scripts make it to the big screen.
I want two children.
I want to have a book of poetry published.
I want to have a show or two of my artwork.
I want a life that is earthy and juicy.
Rich.
Rich with passion, and laughter, and foggy morning with warm sweet coffee and the smell of my man still lingering on my skin as dawn breaks.
I want dinner just coming from the oven and seeing him walk in the door, exhausted, relieved, and content.
And I want to put my hands on him and work out the labor across his back, neck, and shoulders, put hot food down for him, and
know all these things are treasured.
I want the good life.
I want the love of a good man.
I want to have a few scripts make it to the big screen.
I want two children.
I want to have a book of poetry published.
I want to have a show or two of my artwork.
I want a life that is earthy and juicy.
Rich.
Rich with passion, and laughter, and foggy morning with warm sweet coffee and the smell of my man still lingering on my skin as dawn breaks.
I want dinner just coming from the oven and seeing him walk in the door, exhausted, relieved, and content.
And I want to put my hands on him and work out the labor across his back, neck, and shoulders, put hot food down for him, and
know all these things are treasured.
I want the good life.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
hungry with a poison cock
tentacle testicle
blue and draining
cracks collecting sludge
where little men live
and wear
little women
with woven textile faces
crushing, they'll say
squeezing
like bad dope.
like momma momma marijuana.
skeleton skin with angry smoking smears
of vibrations
of revolt
of myths and mumbles of class war
an apex
meeting in the folds of flesh
where the rich whisper literature
and fuck proper
the maid
Monday, August 8, 2011
Job interviews, multiple housing options (hoping on the Haight-one) all in works.
--------and the most craziest anxiety I have experienced in a very, very long time.
-mind numbing social anxiety-
upwards of panic.
I just keep talking myself down and breathing deep.
There can only be good things in the works to be walking through this level of fear.
It always works out for the best when I stretch my brain outside my comfort zone.
And I certainly have been in a little well-traversed box, here in SC.
I ate an entire pizza today.
In bed.
I guess I'm counting on that boxing gym to cut me back into shape, er, something...
....................
Patchy floorboard, whore wall walking
minds in states flung like coke cans, coke bags
hags to thick fingers
Daddy beats walls
no calls
shrivel body steel leg coated in sour cream
cream
cream in legs twats money maker
pristine chalk boards erasing my
femininity
fucking. touch. me.
lesbian moustache hiding in couples therapy
cut off.
driving
like Jesus nails
casts of towers jumping
suicide saftey
drill bits in crumbling teeth
grinding my humanity
sloth boxes of silence
shaking like a Vet into the darkness
heart attack feet feedback
the violence-the violence-the violence
glory gory gushing red over
paint coated maniacal woman faces into skyward bound
safety.
I. Love. Violence.
Sexy slamming with a fist.
Touch.
Me.
Dancing
over out of reach
where gossamer and ballet toes and soft caress
orgasm in shell ears and no breath and
twirling princess snear
back with knives of steel
cutting limbs and dreams
and obscene lips
like sugar draining in
black coffee.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Saturday, August 6, 2011
I Have All My Fingers And Toes Crossed
I just applied for the most amazing position.
And I am praying I get it.
And I have been custom cut for this job it's not even funny.
I just hope they see it.
Back into social work I go- I hope.
Pray for me you lovely, amazing, blog-reading fools!
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Monday, August 1, 2011
Revisit
I was here before,
But now day and future
Speak.
Once I had a promise
Receded.
I never thought, then
That I could unknow you
Unlove you
Having tasted your flesh and tears
But here I am
Time pushing me through new keyholes
To new places in myself.
The third floor still squeaks
But no cat mouths balk
At Pablo Neruda
But now day and future
Speak.
Once I had a promise
Receded.
I never thought, then
That I could unknow you
Unlove you
Having tasted your flesh and tears
But here I am
Time pushing me through new keyholes
To new places in myself.
The third floor still squeaks
But no cat mouths balk
At Pablo Neruda
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