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unbeing dead isn’t being alive

September 18, 2011

The shortest distance between two points is a line, a lead, a leash. And there you are with them sad fucking eyes waiting to be led. And here I am, aching to take the reins, the crop, the bit and put them all to good use. I am a fan of accoutrements and aesthetics, making order out of chaos before letting it all go to ground.

You know what your problem is. I don’t need to tell you. I need to knead you, make you pliant, break you apart so I can get my hands deep inside.

unfinished thoughts:

There goes all the charm, siphoned out like petrol in a third world country. There he goes, making for the horizon, leaving you, her, everyone behind beginning a new chapter with the outline you gave him. Lipstick clinging to his collar, his brain half-full of your favorite quotes. Throat burned with the whiskey you brought over to loosen his tongue, his belt. There he goes braking for greener pastures, leaving you in his wake, taste of tequila clinging to your lips, the memory of fucking strangers (how tedious, how tiring) flashing behind your lids, leaving your eyes, your thighs more tired than you would like. Leaving you clinging to dirt, to dust, to granite in Washington Square sitting by the light of a half-broken lamppost, wishing you could rub your face against his, tell him how you feel (like buttermilk and silk, right there, like tragedy, like an ill-used muse) but you can’t.


2 Comments leave one →
  1. September 19, 2011 12:34 am

    It’s too bad, really, how lonely we all are.

  2. September 19, 2011 12:51 am

    Requesting more kneading and breaking apart. I think you have more to say on that? šŸ™‚ “like tragedy, like an ill-used muse”–yes.

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