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SubscriptionsSites I Read
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| flavors of life.
fruit punch mixes with the taste of mentholated cigarette, and the result is a strawberry ice cream cone melting with cancer. the machine hops over sections of pressed fabric so my prom dress looks like shit.
it doesn't stop the men from staring.
society mandates we can't play sports and you are not to sing in public no matter the circumstance. teaches young girls to be afraid at night, makes men panic when their last "performance" was apparently inadequate. we tell ourselves we are experiencing deja vu when our brains are just skipping like an old record, scratched, and corroding in dust.
i lick the last traces of flavor from my lips, a hinted aftertaste of a thousand burning photographs. i turn my head and cough out a hundred melodies never written down, and twice the unwanted lovers, the unmade beds, the understanding of nothing.
you pay for dinner. i'll let this kiss goodnight go farther than i'd like. | | |
|  | Currently Mix Tape incandescent lightbulbs, and other things that can set you on fire. see related |
how i feel about vegetables. there is very little left to say you old couch potato; sit and smile and mostly smoke in saran wrapped microwave foiling. artificial butter, it runs through your veins, but you take more than a sycophantic sip-- it’s all that keeps you alive and appealing to the corn stalk society. cigarette holes in lettuce carpeting, and spilled eggplant, who has a straw? celery and asparagus do algebra and physics in an odd fluctuation between logarithms and temptation, and someday they will own the local alphabet soup company where you sit salting your damaged ego with self pity. what can you do to keep from getting mashed through your flimsy, calloused cloaking? the pumpkin and rhubarb keep low-down tragic profiles, stealing cars and free grandiose delusions at the local meat market. the beets are overburdened, choking on raw, untapered euphemisms. spinach, aberrant, alone at the lunch table, how long before we hear about your suicide in the morning paper? | | |
| it's a fucking time box set with rustic plastic padlocks that break and bend like chains of toothpick and you don't know what you're complaining about.
in the big whatever you've got what ever and ever and you never talk about the elephant. whatever to the loss of the argument and the hiding hole of your rejected slingshot swinging both ways with no appropriate target. you may never remember that you're not fine, the greatest of one-word lies, you say whatever like it's imprinted there forever, for godssakes life is not a giant gothic battle of wits. and i clap and stomp and get loud i snap back the receiver and say you're bullshitting through your ears.
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| Spasmodia. A murmur of incapacitation-- This trite, digestive feeling Has gone too far. You sigh, a wave Of memories, irreturnable events, “Try to sleep,” I whisper In admittedly depressive, Desperate tone. The stance, amiable, But the eyes are cold. You are a new doll-- Pretty, with sharply carved features. Roll back glass into the socket head, Searing, pointed, thread bites At the seams. It’s a sick convolution, But I cannot take the stare.
In media res, a convulsion in the land Of Spasmodia. March, one foot follows another Straight out of my frenzied arteries These broken-down capillaries Refuse to hold you anymore. What is with the sad conviction That this silence is providential? I fear someday a truce must occur. And what will you do then? You will talk pretty, singsong Like a bird with wings clipped. A paroxysm, the great disease You’ve ripped my life a gaping hole When I built yours a bridge.
The rooftops are tinged in white, I see Atop the hangman’s knotted tree I cling to my mistake. My dear, my darling daring-do Be glad for the escape. | | |
| lost.
it was a cold hallway white walls and empty food court chairs the bathroom was a papered mess what did i care? i feel sick to my stomach surrounded by people i barely know we stared, absentminded at kiddy movies. Pokemon. sean, thank god for his direction or i never could have found the place he led me back to the sleeper, charcoal marks around the face i sighed a groggy sigh, knowing we made it but barely, and not happily we'll hang around, sit tight, sleep well. we are all forlorn but we refuse to leave you here huddled and lost in the middle of an unforgiving waiting room. | | |
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