I could tell some stories were I so inclined. Vomiting imagery at every comma. The only stories there really are of people dousing each other in lighter fluid. Tormenting dead lovers a with the spittle of sparks. There are an encyclopedia of characters in every sip of the drug. The less they do the more interesting their stories are.
Sunburned beds peeling away the prostitutes of loneliness. In wet hundred dollar bills. In wallets lost. And stolen. From husbands. Fathers. Friends.
They wake me up and ask me to tell them the stories I've only ever shared with the pillow. They set the alarm and pretend nothing's in the oven.
I have the stories. And the words give in. The sizzle of fresh fat in the frying pan as I fret the greasy knob. Numb to the temperature of forgiveness. The meat in the oven drawing its fractures in winces of melted butter. Blackboard thighs and chalk penises. Draw our lessons in bouts of arithmetic. The moment subtracts. The lie adds. The story tells itself in staunch equations that sober the thickest skins.
Wednesday
7/04/2007 01:08:00 AM
This is great, from beginning to end.
"Vomiting imagery at every comma."
speaks to me - in terms of writing, living, and being disgusted
"sizzle of fresh fat in the frying pan as I fret the greasy knob." is just wonderful, something about the alliteration strengthens the image.
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