So lately I’ve been doing fine— no; really
maybe I’ve been watching a bit too many
viral videos and staying up a wee late at night
(yeah, I’ve caught the bug)
but more importantly did you know how annoying
some cats can be? I love animals
BUT THESE CATS
no thank you. These cats are asses.
The dogs of the house are standing there crying
and the humans are laughing hysterically
which I find a little unnerving
a tiny bit disgusting but anyway
the dogs wanna get to the people
who are calling them, still laughing and
mocking them because oh, this crazy dog
is afraid of some little cat sitting blocking the way
not moving and the people keep on laughing
at their wussy dog keeps on crying and I might have
been yelling at the screen just a twinge
but these dogs— a dozen different ones —
take the bait, finally make a break
and these cats— these little shits,
these self-important little pricks —all
slash and claw at these poor dogs
and I’m a little bit furious that bullies
still rule the day and innocence is tossed
away like garbage, kindness is taken for granted
continually ‘cause obviously these dogs
could tear the cats to literal shreds but don’t
and everyone calls them chicken— are you kidding me?
They had a choice: they made it, but I guess
no one gives a fat cat’s smelly ass ‘cause humor
is just so intricate and infinitely better than justice and it’s
just this little thing, you see; we’re not hurting anybody
the dog is fine, the cat’s alive and something about Schrödinger—
even dogs are fond of herring, right?
It’s a cat-scratch dog
fever world; we’ve all got nine lives
and headlines streaming and everyone’s
cheering, grinning ear-to-ear so clearly
there’s nothing objectionable here.
This one goes back a few years.
(Desk phone rings. Guest’s name pops up on caller ID)
CONCIERGE: (answers phone) Thank you for calling the concierge desk at ___, this is __, how may I assist you?
GUEST: (on phone) So APPARENTLY you don’t have a bar anymore??
CONCIERGE: Yes, unfortunately it’s…
Dude, I think I’ve been to __. Great place.
(A guest calls.)
GUEST: You made us a reservation at a restaurant. We are here, but the restaurant is not!
CONCIERGE: What restaurant?
GUEST: I don’t know! You wrote down here 51st street and 9th Ave.
CONCIERGE: Ok. And I wrote down the name of the restaurant.
GUEST: VYNL. But we are here and…
I’m starting to get that whole tourist cliche…?
I change my hair as often as I change my partners. It was wavy and to my knees with him. He invited me into his bathtub after sex and rubbed lavender-scented shampoo into each ripple. I asked him why he owned something that smelled like flowers. That was when I learned about his girlfriend. I had him drive me to the nearest barber shop, and had eight inches snipped off while he drove away, wearing a look of disappointment.
It was hip-length and burnt straight when I caught his eye. He coaxed me to his car by boasting about his “kick-ass mixes.” We kissed listening to a CD with songs from Abbey Road and Revolver on it. The only original thing he did was tell me I’d look good with short hair. I tried my hardest not to listen to his carefully combed mustache and pressed plaid shirt, but it was to my shoulders the next morning.
She tried to plant kisses on my wound-up curls, said all the boys had kissed me wrong. I bit my lip in desperation and said I had to go. I didn’t have enough curls to cover the fear and hunger working my face into strange shapes. She told me I knew where to find her if I changed my mind.
I worked bleach into the ends of it that night, trying to burn her name from me. The next afternoon, I was eyed by a thirty year old with a beer belly he’d spent his twenties earning. I smelt nothing but middle-age bitterness on him, but still, let him press him against his motel sink out of pity. He huffed and puffed as I studied the afternoon light making shadows on the floor’s chipped tiles. When he was done, he tugged on my bleached ends, and said it was my hair that’d caught his eye. I smiled and said I had to, “do lady things”, as he scuffled off to watch the news. In his shady motel bathroom, I found a pair of rusted scissors, and left every piece of blonde for him to clean up. He was half-asleep when I walked out, his pants still unbuckled. On the television, a stern man informed me that the country I was living in was at risk of war.
At five p.m., I was the girl with a pixie cut, crying on the steps of a museum. A wrinkled old woman came up to me and said, “Don’t worry, sweetie. We all make bad decisions.” I think she was talking about my crudely chopped hair, but I tasted every morning regret when I nodded at her.
If you’re looking for me, I’m the girl with remnants of a haircut on her shoulders. Give me a wink, I could use a snip.
Though flesh lies and would steal
away your secrets to its grave
you cannot hide; I see you true
your eyes betray your age.
A thousand lifetimes I have spent
a thousandfold empty deaths
as many having loved but one
yet many more lay forfeit
to recover what is mine.
As the world burns cinders catastrophic collapsing
in on itself I feast
on the ashes of its filth and drink
the drying blood of what could-have
would-have-been once upon
another lie it catches
in my throat and clings
like rust to the bones and stings like wax
in the heavy veins of progress this
this is the process; an epitaph
an elegy to the starving wit of humanity
their stink weaves and clogs through
my sloughing skin ‘til I scream bleeding
with savage strength and concede my need; I’m
wishing this all were only a dream but instead
my nerves grow leaden distressed
and broken by all the fraying— curse the weight
of endless waiting now my stomach
curls and roils churning with acid coating and sinking
it’s bloating with rot and finally
— finally —
I give up.
I turn my face and walk away
return to the forest and roam
I slink and I lurk in the darkness
swift as the wind and driven with only one
quest; the ache of conquest tugs at my bones
and beckons me ever onward
my muscles coiling with expectation, my stomach
purged and ready
to claim new flesh from more challenging foes
to rip the sinew and shatter the bone or maybe
to let the chase go on and on but either way
I’ll gather my strength and wait for the day
when I can finally hunt
some worthy prey.
I’m hungry mate:
P.S. I heard Dan Bull’s voice in my head the entire time I was writing this.
The light bulb symbolizes our thoughts and how over-thinking can kill us.
This is actually genius.
One of my favorite pictures on tumblr
My thoughts are slowing killing me.
Each day my thoughts are killing me.
bringing my old post backkkkk
I can’t handle this because this is so fucking relevant right now