I hate everything I've written. Mostly because it is mine. I hate the curls in my hair and the green in my eyes. I despise the music I want to hear and the way the smoke from my cigarettes accuses me to write. In furtive gulps of god's watered down kisses I create a memory of a life that never existed.
With the help of my Cain my Abel draws a perfect portrait of things we've never seen. With a sewer on my tongue and a landfill in my stomach I torment the silence with words I've never spoken. Each moment measured in sips. In how long it takes to compose the next paragraph. Rid my thoughts of that fiction they injected me with.
A quivering dartboard of questions. Answers piercing. Sticking rough into the soft. A smile of blood from between her legs. As she shifts her buttocks to let him enter her again. Act as the plunger to keep the emptiness from escaping.
Monday
7/02/2007 12:55:00 AM
Sad Labels:
happiness
,
lovers
,
manic
,
philosophy
,
sex
there was a gorgeous sense of menace in this one. you could have written it in snapped-off insect legs and it would have had the same effect on me.
whatever you say about your writing, it's not the case - you are one of the few, and I count those on my thumbs, who I read in this dreadfully named 'blogosphere' and am amazed everytime.
wow the last two lines are intensely graphic.
glad to have you back again ruk. especially good to have you writing again. quite enjoyed part two of the fucking.
maybe i'll head on over to your place and elaborate on that.
brian, that's just how i write when i'm on the rag.
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