I’m selling four prints here.
- 3 weeks ago
- 3 weeks ago
I met most of the family last night, both near and far, sans their physical presence, and mine. I sat at the foot of a bed, on the hood of a car, window shopped for televisions as I eavesdropped.
She told me her body had sung and I needed to hear it’s song, and like a siren I heard her. I heard her and nothing else in those moments. The only sound in the world which did nothing but freeze as it bled away. It didn’t exist outside the walls we were in.
Our hands were the heat of the room and our lips closed a circuit. Our chests hard pressed together for as much contact as possible. Muscles tightened and loosened and writhed and we were two arches that hummed with electricity colliding with the sweat of our backs, shooting sparks that could stop a heart. We each other were consumed though stayed whole in spite of devouring one another completely, but we shared it all and gave everything that we had taken back with no inconsideration, not a wasted movement or thoughtless touch.
And I swear had you thrown water on us that night it would have turned straight to steam and hissed at the same pitch we were breathing - sharp and harsh, desperate to refill our lungs with some cold air to cool our bodies down, but it was useless, and we didn’t mind.
Later the sun would rise over my shoulders, it’s beam silently flowing from her middle, to her chest and finally her hair like a golden vail pulled up from the ground. I thought to turn around and see it for myself, but for only a second having realised the most fetching sight my eyes could indulge had been facing me all the night and most of the day before.
And she was better than the sun, for she could laugh and talk, kiss and love, hold and be held, and she would do all of those things better than the sun could, but I daren’t tell another, for I’d like to keep her mine until I’m told otherwise.
The nightly storm starts small
Like it always does
Starts with a half, like sometimes
Imbibe all the darkness
I tap my heel against the chair
Around a hundred and twenty times a minute
This isn’t the anxious tap
This isn’t the twitch
This is the momentum
The ball is rolling and it’s gaining speed
And then the little glasses come
Filled to the top with agave game changer
Eight or nine of them
Some for those I don’t know
I don’t know their names
I don’t want to
I don’t want a thank you
Shut up and drink
Slam the glass down
I just don’t want to drink alone
More momentum now
We peruse toward the eye of the storm
Testosterone and beer. The place is rife with it, and it stinks
Speyside this time. No ice.
Down in one.
Now the twitch starts
This is the level I’m at home
Because I can’t remember
The real me
The intolerance and the ignorance
The hatred for those around me
Nothing but discontent
And I lash out because I’m better than you all
I’ve seen more than you
I had the hard life before this.
You were given this all on a plate
I know it
I fucking know it
I irritate for a reaction
Roll up roll up
Free hits all around
And she tries to stop you and I
She gets between us
We put our fists down and roll our eyes
Nothing wrong with a good fists up
I fucking pray it’s a king hit
But instead I manage to stumble the four miles back to the cave I call home
Dirty thoughts and dirty time spent here
Then I remember the piece of shit that I am
Sweet to the untrained eye. Bitter on the inside.
I rub my eyes and take the pain killers before I yet again, make the apology phone calls to one and all
I promise I’ll never do it again
Until next week
Until I convince myself that I’m fixed and tonight will be different
I’ll make them and keep making them
I can get away with it
Because I am a writer
I am a great literary contributor
To no one
I’m the twenty first century Bukowski
I’m Hunter S without the acid and mescaline
I blame them for letting me think I can get away with it
I’ve got finger tips like lightening
Fire in my belly
A storm in my head
An ego to match
Hey look at me
Look at me
Look at me
I can write three pages a day
I can come up with ideas
I’ve got a pile of note books
I’m a real writer
I gather material with a whisky in hand
Then I black out
I’ve got a coffee stained desk
I’ve got a worn out keyboard
I’ve got an ash tray full of old butts
I’ve got bad posture i write so much
I’ve got a section on the floor worn out from pacing
Just like a real writer
Aren’t you fucking impressed?
All this work I’ve done that’s never read
I can get away with this because I write
I’m not just some ignorant asshole that can’t hold his drink
I don’t want to hold my drink
This is important
“More beer” - good advice Charlie
- 1 month ago
We should’ve had bloodied knuckles,
But we parted with yours burned,
Blistered out on waking,
Left behind more sourness than I’d have preferred.
Blue ribbons on the graffitied lid,
Nothing but soaked wife beaters and jeans in the rain,
Got so lost in tunnels as we hid,
Waded a new river before I caught the L Train.
Friendship lost in paradise,
All because I found the dram too nice,
Behaviour quickly became shameful,
As I mistook gross disrespect,
For only being playful.
That week I lost not one, but two,
As my actions became sadistic and aloof,
Two kind souls who shared their homes,
Two buildings too precious for my filthy bones.
Two too many fires started,
Through no fault but my own, we parted,
Two mouths left with bitter tastes,
All the efforts to be welcoming gone to waste.
Two whom I adore,
Two who deserved more,
Two who’ll never forgive,
As long as we three shall live.