you were my god, in high school.

galvanize.

l o v e

missing my bike, missing my russ, missing peamale bacon, missing education, missing warmth, missing a decent place to dance, missing 
a lack of christmas.

It's, not even Christmas.

at least I've got a home, the wife & child down below, cooking three square meals that always seem to smell similar.
she must use the same spices each time she prepares a dish.
I dine with the walls, I get crumbs in the bed.
I dress.


They're pushing her to have children.
She appears to be accustom to the pressure.
It seems especially heavy around Christmas, and as the youngest in the room, with no thoughts of family in mind,
I can empathize.

Everyone is in a festive sweater.  I am in my usual black, my usual dress.

I cast my usual wide gaze and keep my usually closed mouth, closed.

They veer away from baring children and switch to a lighter conversation piece.  Avant-Garde galleries through out Chelsea, artists I wouldn't know, places I've never been.

Warm and inviting as these strangers seem, I am odd.

I sip Pumpkin Ale and steal Salmon Maki while they speak of things I couldn't bother to be concerned with, though I should take interest,

I am treated as family.

They know nothing of me, I am content with aloof.

I drink with the walls, heat from these bodies keeping me aware that I am surrounded by personalities in this room,

stories I'll hear, opinions I'll argue,

but unresponsive, comatose with a sappy smile, I'll stay.

Like this, as the evening wears on,

and some snob devours my pretzel,

I wonder, if I'm even clever enough for these walls.

I can hear them snicker.

scrimmage

'I can only feel the blood in my veins when I'm drinking, and the air in my lungs when it's below freezing'

Typical, as the lonely hearted, extraverted, twenty something, lost-cause, could cry, simply to explain herself.  

All this information she's been trying to digest, obtained from the daily bread she's pretending to feed on, is just there to sop up the wine she'll drink at night.

If she could reference a film she'd watched, made in the early 40's, innovative for it's style, directed by Hitchcock, then she'd be set, without education.

lack of focus on the New York Times Headlines, reading every other sentence in every other article to highlight interest, except she won't retain blatant connotation.

she'll exist in coffee hubs and solid black leather boots through the winter, as though she were you, or her, or even the girl of his dreams.

she isn't sexy. but she'll devour all the sexual implication you toss in her direction.

as cold as her heart seems, she'll rock your cradle to sleep.

then wonder, ponder, how her brain could possibly retain, any additional information,

when all she worries about is how she'll sleep.

Although all can be accomplished in a day, all can be desired in a week,

she can't pick a year to be satisfied with what's current, existing.

 She'll pretend to suffer, pretending, she knows what life could offer,

even, when, this could be,  just fine.

hash key

we'd lay there for hours, and december would roll on by.

after months of the dreaded overhaul, the psychoanalysis,

my co worker deems me as "bipolar"

I drift off, yet again, in a strangers bed, living vicariously through someone I've never even met.

How does one afford equipment, space and sound like this?

This month is more like the movies then anything, to me.

I'm sitting back, attempting to relax, letting the dialogue reign.

he sleeps, soundly.

from open concept kitchen walls to wood shafts and the, on site, laundry.

the million dollar mixer.

this place is a prison.

stay still.

Removing the mug from my lips, I think about how delightful it would look to have a stain strewn across the cylinders side.

I write "Purchase Lipstick " in my agenda, knowing I will not buy it otherwise.

Or, at all, really.

Lipstick, has always seemed a hassle to me.  I would never want my mark brightly pasted on the cheek of the man I slept beside the previous night. Nor, would I want it smudged across my incredibly large smile.

Oddly enough, I continue to contemplate the thought of me with cherry lips, on a daily basis.

As if, there is nothing else to think about.

So, I jot it down, while staring out the window at this gloomy December, two a.m, 

the rain patting my decision on the back.

Then, the faintest sound of a fire engine is drown out by incessant screams from howling woman.

Will I be too painted with a coat of red disguising my otherwise pale pout?

I think of these whores, barking at the moon, suffocating the loudest sounds of the city, with their sloppy seconds mouths covered in caked on colour.

I close the window motionlessly, and the rain has stopped encouraging me.

I feel if I am deliberating a product this closely, I've been awake too long.

Shut the screen, close the critics tight.

I could be reading about London in the Sixties or Unknown species of Iguanas.

I could be, somewhere, very, different.

please her if you please.

Oh i see how his life resembles
Yours and you somehow are like him.
I see i know i've been too good for you
You know you know that he is just like me
Pleasing you and now,and now all
You do is wish i was more and more like him
If so would you consider keeping me
Closer if so, i know if i was more and more like him
If so would you consider keeping me closer
I know i know if i was more and more like him if so.


-a cure.

no one belongs here more then you

waiting for the days thoughtless, tactless ideologies to drain 

along with my dead hairs & that which i shave,

starving for an extra minute under water,

to physically rinse the film that outside 

has left upon my skin.

drowning in the street filled with heavy heads, hearts and bad,

bodies that brawl, contend, & speak with discretion

I am only at home, under the shower head

where warmth is a lover and everything just appears 

prettier

for only, about, fifteen minutes.

the razor-blade-way is far too cliche so I towel dry,

usually.

won't cook in this kitchen.

constantly hindered by what I could be, when I could be learning to cook in a kitchen I'd rather pose for photos in.

letting small talk dig into my sides like a stitch when you're not in shape.

I'm cooler then him, I'm bigger then her.

I'm stuck here, behind the jewelry counter, being hit on by security 

selling three-thousand dollar necklaces to rich white woman who comment on the size of my eyes,

the cut of my hair,

jiving until I shut my lids in public's view, to ponder why I'm no longer creating,

writing,

critically thinking, 

I let the noise flood over me, just drowning in the midst of an art piece

cryptic & cynical, these are too crucial traits for a spot in this Gallery,

for a spot in the heart of this man

for a mind like mine.

delicious sound.

people are strange.

otherwordly, abnormal, eldritch, unusual, peculiar, odd, puzzling, outlandish, zany, offbeat, unconventional, different, bizarre, anomalous. 

i like you.

stranger than loving the strangest of the strange.

decay.

                    

Miny molecules fell light like lightening from her cupped hands, only, I noticed them and without thinking, began to ask questions.

Her, the stranger, held her withered skin out to show him, and I, We, continued to eat our ramen and edamame with slight disdain. Then, she parted her lips, and

her guts began to cover the floor with filth. After hours of quiet tidying to keep everything neat, it'd be a mess, yet again.

Her, the stranger, distraught, preformed for us by the making of a bed she would later lie in.

Grizzly Man mumbled at us, majestic and true to a form he was certain he belonged to.  I could not decide which way to place my gaze,

this whole evening had been erie, 

I had an ex alcoholic mad man screaming from a collapsed tent, an ex meth addict holding my hand and a suicidal HER ripping up the floorboards while screeching.

The scene was like finding the feet of a dead body and being thankful you didn't find the face, first.

"why do i dream so often

 of his body when

 his body will decay

 his flesh will be fluorescent grey"

*p-o-p*

MJ custom made Velo-Couture 
http://wiptclothing.blogspot.com/
<3

VS

man VS beast
women VS men
predator VS prey
stealth VS sharp
will VS won't
love VS hate




come, home, please.
sweet birdy.
my darling,
i promise, i won't bite.

half of me.

I listen closely to the faint call of a train from my balcony, I'm sure the tracks are closer then I'm aware.  Karen O and the kids are humming through the soft whistle of it's horn.   I'm preoccupied, cutting an over-ripe avocado and watching it fade to dusk with the door just slightly cracked.
Today, I've spent reflecting.


Unbelievably warm November afternoon, I perched myself with a coffee and Sagan admits this autumns dying, blade-like leaves. In front of four boys walking tightrope, I lost myself in the wit and humor of an eighteen year old virtuoso and her seventeen year old protagonist.  I find it difficult to admire those younger than me,  I read on, admirably so.   It was unusually dreary.  Around this time of year it can become impossible to tell the hour of day, so one could not recall how long I sat there.  I rarely looked up from the novel, finding absolute parallels in Sagan's words and my thoughts over the course of these last seven sundowns.


Dissecting the mechanisms of human emotion and involvement in one another's lives has been the focus of almost all thought lately.  I have become so baffled with the concept of both love, and desire.   Poisoned and ridden by the ideas of inadequacy, disbelief and inability to ever love or involve myself with another person truly.  I float around more content to be alone then with anyone I know.
But, I know I love, and am loved, greatly and deeply.
I have become enchanted with the idea that all love is purely fleeting, that co-existing is temporarily amusing and that I am capably of neither.  
I have found love to be treacherous, and distracting.  I constantly envelop myself in my love and forget the outside world.  It drives me to be impulsive and hasty.
My conflict comes from a deep place, self destructive one would say.  I have all that I want and feel the need to over-analyze and underwhelm.  I can't say my love is perfection, I can't say it's close to normal, it's stable or comfortable.  I have never loved a man who could be my protecter, as I usually take on this role.
Why, in these low points, should I agree to be monogamous and linear.  Why shouldn't I revolt and allow myself to be free of something I am constantly coddling?
Contradictory as this may seem, I have only been reflecting.


I made an incredibly large salad.  Instead of finishing it while I wrote, I became nauseated with the idea of eating dinner alone.  These things, take time.

drunk at home.

seeking:

today: 

the perpetual fly
rub eye
pumpkin chai
a conversation for lunatics
fish & chips, but I've had better
awkward encounters
yogurt-covered pretzels
stoned speak
screaming girl Indian screams, nonsense
bike cops all-a-glow in yellow
hail storm
gutted floor
afternoon smoke
transit aches
hat box breaks
slimy salsa & cream cheese
struggling steps
home before sunset
crying onions while cutting
lentil soup & gin drinks
delicious things
bad dreams
continuously, seeking.

a lady named bunny.

There are generally two sides to every story: 


Overdressed or Underdressed.
Overwhelmed or Underwhelmed.
Overexposed or Underexposed.


  All parties were present in the unraveling of events that occurred this halloween.
Dressed clad as my biggest fear, my face mocked itself every time I came across a mirror.  I was doomed, I thought, licking MDMA off a plate which I used to eat on every other weekday. Anxiety would ensue as I came across whiskers, a pointed pink nose and the distinctive ears that a rabbit holds.
Alex painted his face thick with white, immediately washing it off,  then proceeded to offer me a Klonopin. A drug to wash the former drug down with.
Russ paraded around pant-less, attempting to imitate Tom Cruise's moves in his prime.  
We all agreed they both looked adorably prepubescent.


Carrying the Champagne bottle, Jackie O and I hobbled, Russ lit his cigarette indoors and we screamed to a taxi without knowing the address of the Ghost Dance.
Nestled on Cheery Street, we gathered our accessories and frolicked into a room filled to the brim with Jellyfish, Monsters, Marionettes, Bloody Battered Women and an ancient Chinese Dragon, who later attempted to devour Jonathan.


Spinning through self-pity, drunken haze and full blown energy, I danced to my hearts content floating over the channel. High, staring coyly into the eyes of my very own Yip Yip, as he hid his headphones beneath the felt.
A backsplash of white canvas's, reflecting perfectly selected beams of light gleaming coquettishly.  Another bunny, with blood covering his face, haunted me for the rest of the evening.
With my partners in crime off to bed, I was on my lonesome once again.  Running into an enemy I call friend who's eyebrows were thicker then Cool Whip on cake.  I greeted her with glee which I always blame on the E. 
"Please, stop trying to steal my boyfriend, he wants me" 
When my monster returned, we kissed silently beneath his fur and cooed, in love with the things we could become, thus, became. 


The magic of the evening wore off after swallowing it in the bathroom.
I kindly removed my mask, soaking in the last of the water ripples, wobbling to the bass.
We headed home to a new space, as new beginnings began yesterday,
and continues to both confuse and excite today.




photo credit: Russless.

the devil's in the details.

Everyone kept calling us a fuckin Pollock, which I finally began to ignore by the end of the evening.
A Russian Whore cried, two Yip-Yips yipped, there was a young Priest, an old Priest and a girl with a bloody vagina. 
We destroyed public property, walls of homes, cars, other costumes and one very angry boys cardigan.
Devil's night was quite the treat.

bukowski & me.

baby, you're worse then bad T.V.

She’d like to think she’s the destroyer, with bitch at her fingertips and blood on her hands.  I’ve cowered, hidden and hurled myself towards the ground in fear that she’ll find me yet again.  In avoidance, of avoiding, contracting an S.T.I or being instilled as a drug crazed, glazed over, easy target in the eyes of men.

The Slut VS The Pacifist

The Narcissist VS The Heartbroken

a fight worth witnessing.

I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, “CUNT” but she can hardly hear me; I’m buried beneath the bullshit.  I dug my grave, but I’m refusing to lie without cramming my fits between her lips.  

Shutting her mouth once and for all with one tender movement.

One giant metaphor for a fight with a whore.

they feared for their lives.

well, you're a prince in someone's world
just not in mine.

knife slits water.

since I've stopped being able to orgasm, the pool seems to be the only place, close enough.
well, not even, quite.
it's unfortunately, the only solace I've got.

We.

I sent two links, both with blatant clues as to what my surprise was.

Both were blatantly ignored.

Back to picking up pieces after hurling a brick at your teeth.

We all fall down.

Your smile isn't much, fading, like me.

Currently, in a state of perpetual mess.

the bbq.

bbq squash & sweet potato, stewed pears, garlic brussels sprout, portobello mushrooms with maple syrup, asparagus basted in curry powder, guacamole, giant buns, salsa sausage, hummus & pita, sprinkle donuts.

I was very hesitant to attend the BBQ.  Even though I have been squatting at this home for almost 2 months now, I hardly knew my way around.  We only lived on two floors of a three-story house, though I never felt well acquainted with the space.  It has always seemed fleeting.  Eventually, I assumed free food and drink was better then trying to scout the city for entertainment I’d have to spend money on.  Out, hoping to come home after everyone had vacated.

So, I stayed instead.

We prepped, him with intense passion, and me, passing my only tasks onto the only friend I had in attendance.  I minced garlic as though I knew how to mince, I boiled and peeled, I stewed my sprouts only to impress the masses.  I always had two left hands in the kitchen. 

I could hardly hold a conversation.  I spent 10 minutes trying to remember the profession that C.S.I centered around.  When I finally figured it out, the conversation was long over and I spoke to the wall about it.  I laughed at everything, most topics did spark my interest, but I couldn’t think of a thing to stay.  I don’t know if I could describe my demeanor as fear, or plain stubbornness.  I drank 60 proof vodka with an elderly Scottish man, as he passed the joint in rotation.  I acted as though I were meant to be in this exact place at this exact moment, even though I didn’t believe I was.  I rambled and giggled and tried to let a man down easily.  I sipped my beer and shivered.

I had mentioned in brief to him “It finally hit me yesterday, that I’m back for good”

He shrugged it off, as per usual. 

We had fought about the BBQ, and after attending I concluded that I agreed with Jonathan.  We all huddled around this grilling meat and stewing vegetable, but by the end of the evening, all I knew were the food.

I could hardly remember the names of the people. I could never be a housewife.

it's all gone grey.

I lost you to the sea, or something, along those lines.