some ooolllddd writings. circa 2004.
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I want you to be more focused
on poetry, my ass, eyes, smile, and lips,
on the fact that we don’t have serious conversations.
I’d like for you to rub my back, soft and hard,
and thank me for letting you do it,
wanting to envelope me afterward, kissing my naked back, bare shoulders.
What is it with us? Are we ok?
I can’t stop looking in the mirror and I feel that this is a problem.
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trying not to be loud by crying
trying not to cry loud while crying
desperately seeking someone to listen to me cry and not say a thing just
hold my entire body against theirs for a very
very long time.
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Free write....
The time you went to a drugstore wearing red and wanted a hat but you will never look good in hats. Instead buy fish so that you can be free when you look at them, they’re cheap anyway, and very pretty. Free. They’re free unlike you who are taken by a girl under your belt you are wet by her and you are not strong enough to leave the vulnerable thoughts behind and concentrate on life rather than love. It is night and I’m sitting across the table at the library with Gerard. I am stating the obvious while he draws lines with a ruler with a pencil on a white piece of paper. He is concentrating and busy. My back is out of line, again, I am too strange to care, I care but I’m lazy and without money to go to the doctor. I need a massage. Maybe I’ll get a massage. Get rid of all the bad in my muscles and bones, let it crack healthily instead of by me, a forced crack that kills and injures, doesn’t help.
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Sorry, sad Jeff Buckley music.
So sorrowful, so full
of words that most humans are afraid to speak
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a girl at the bar in white pants
sings it.
Sings the songs that make her feel neat,
in place.
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