Viewing entries tagged
free write

dirty hair

blonde strands as venetian blind,

one eye looked out over past the covers,

placed deeply under her chin, almost to a light choke.

decidedly, she opened

 

both eyes into halo admitting slits.

the brown skinned body angled slightly

toward the window made the first moment

of waking sight accosting—

 

intriguing. a tinge of guilt for being voyeuristic

tried to bubble up, as in the way societally trained

people perform manners

with plasticine precision.

 

large and full—deceptively fantastic

bent over, tightened in

accentuated to noteworthy;

all can be plastic when eyes aren't open.

 

‘she’s right, when she has a guy fucking her from behind

they really are in luck,’ she recounts,

closing shut and scoots her own ass

a few inches,

 

her bed to herself

stretches stretches

alarm reset, most likely to be ignored

to set her into a purposeful lazy sense of panic.

 

‘i only feel this way after...’

 

snooze...baggy black dress, deodorant

in sedimentary layers, as too the mascara,

bobby pins, red pens, whatever, showers

have been optional this week.

 

twenty minutes late,

unabashedly related to humidity

and heavyish platforms;

a different dirty monday.

 

meditation on a smile in adrienne rich

“’[t]he only real love [i] have ever felt

was for children and other women.

[e]verything else was lust, pity,

self-hatred, pity, lust.’“

the phenomenology of anger, part 9

 

***

 

there’s something: you should know,

there’s something i just found

in the bottom of my backpack

in worn-out maggot threads

sprinkled in harsher textures,

crinkled memories

faded deposits

to be shaken out

in a hurry

preflight

one day soon

 

maybe they’ll wash away

in a monsoon

while i’m gone

and my pack can feel light with the worry,

and you’re done; and i’m gone

 

—redemption is only the slime

barely discernible, hidden in smiles

how do you swim in a paradox?

keen for a floss with contempt?

 

not at all aboard—

you buoyant—

stop feeling absurd

get off the phone

try another finger

 

you’ve been in that pack a few thousand years

in the waterproof

hands we keep forcing

to sew

 

in the under

of a filth

on which she was first

slapped to air

 

now i see you in your dirty abode, my dirty abode

musty in yellow

deformed as only you could

 

and i know, i fucking finally know:

i ran out of the pity

set special aside

for the sounds you make

the vernacular you climb and slide along

not large enough to hide beneath

 

there’s no lust on chapped memories,

and a smile is all i can plug.

 

just as self-hatred realizes itself in the bloodstains

 

gauze and gaze, gauze and gaze

 

thinly decorate the cycle:

the mirror, the only,

we know.