E A S Y G I R L S.

\\ if only, you'd made it as easy as plastering on red lips, polish, paint, tint, stain. to look as ideal as an accidental sun spot, 

in a black & white photograph.

BossaNova breasts, Hollywood hips. primed, prim and stunning.

simple, as divine, as, perfectly whipped meringue on lemon pie.

peaked, just right.

instead of appreciation through kissed teeth, wet whistling tongue, 

cat calls, howls,

men should fund women's education,

throw books in place of bills, 

to persist our effortless crawl, 

in vein of lacking flaws.

Vowing to wake up early every day from last-week-forward.  Assuming, that waking up early could also be another way of stating the return of insomnia.
Awake, stealing expensive toiletries, making sure to exfoliate.  The mice will keep company as Fitzgerald gleams the romanticized French Riviera, mockingly. 
The plot line of my sad evening.


He beams murder victim as the perpetrator holds him down gently and begs,
C L O S E  Y O U R  E Y E S.
Hitchcock's created a headache.


He's persistent and persists to hyperventilate, overreact, dehumanize, over-analyze.
Tense as a taut balloon, suffocating with helium, 
all his body's blood's in his cheeks.


We're screaming. The resonance of the collective WE.
We're toast. He sleeps to the soft hum of a dehumidifier,
exhausted from the fight he fight with himself, alone.
He's got too much to hide, 
& I can't seem to find, him, anymore.


liberated, soon enough, none-the-less
but still, I've yet to learn to sleep 
with or without, the mice.

FINDMEBIGLOVE.

leisurely rummaging through the options for existing,
but, one could care less.
a full belly that's been bleeding since Tuesday,
a list of things with not a single accomplished.
no work, no play. really, just
days in bed.
nights spent dawdling in shoes that make noise,
with Men who won't quit talking 
about building bass bins,
French Woman VS American,
nights spent high,
with children who paint themselves in ridiculous excrement,
eating each others faces in a two-stall, crammed washroom,
basement,
after 3 a.m.
mornings, at Twenty Two
dosing lines with an Eighteen year old,
or silently sipping paint thinner resembling liquor,
or pissing in a school yard , drunk, alone,
cold,
with no remorse,
for simply just, not thinking,
about the possible consequence of the option that is
almost, absolute, nothingness.


GET ME OUT OF HERE BEFORE I EAT MYSELF ALIVE.

nothing can stop me now,
I just don't care anymore.

hibernating.

slacking.
and it's already next month.


I've been trying to come up with a a new subject to focus on that does not consist of narcissism, feminist philosophy, smoking myself silly, any place in the United Kingdom, learning spanish, exploring text and leaving my lover.


I must quit sleeping in until 1:00 p.m and being a jealous, raging cunt to my Boyfriend.
waking from wanderlust at cash-out to find myself repaeting the same three phrases over and over.
direction, direction.
trying to learn what it's like to love the life you've got.


he's in because he's your best friend.
he's in because he's your blood.
and I'm left, stark & searching, because I'm the basis for the beginnings stages 
of the creation 
of a stupid broad.

men are the fuckin pits.

monolith.

This isn't a specific space, a particular place, an exact time.

It's the abyss that fills this indistinguishable cavity.

lackluster.

the lament can hardly be characterized as a cause

or as, causing,

the constant disillusionment

of the colour of the walls,

or the transaction of salutations.

the mechanical ploy of love.

the automated existence can be a cogent argument

for what, are, actual desires.

and what is,

actually, existing.

the meticulous procedure,

of the lid opening to expose the iris

is laborious enough

to make one give up.

the persistence.
the quest to fill the abyss, the cavity

with something, one could assume, 

is more then irresolute gesture,
in whichever direction.

hitting an all time low.

self educating, self medicating.
trying to teach myself to design, from a designers perspective.
in other words, his.
he's a vision, he's a talent.
he's a depressive.
too much David Bowie on vinyl,
too much howling at the moon.
break the bottle
& rye besmears the hardwood.
then,
I'm too tired to fuck
& feel.
The thick fur coats my lungs
christ, I think this place is killing us.
why should lovers compete with such divergent ideals?
I'm inspired.  My abhor is driving me to write,
to read,
to leave.
I've listen to Ashes to Ashes 9 times this morning.


Time and again I tell myself
I'll stay clean tonight
But the little green wheels are following me
Oh no, not again
I'm stuck with a valuable friend
"I'm happy, hope you're happy too"
One flash of light but no smoking pistol

I never done good things
I never done bad things
I never did anything out of the blue, woh-o-oh
Want an axe to break the ice
Wanna come down right now

Ashes to ashes, funk to funky
We know Major Tom's a junkie
Strung out in heaven's high
Hitting an all-time low

the snot.
I could never imagine ignoring the drip from your nostrils, coating your lips in a warm film of mucus.
the terror, the tin cans you bend.
the collection of walls you've shoved your head through.
the blood.
the indifference, the confusion.
the cats purring at your bedside.
the fur, the hair.
the unrequited itch.
the warm glow of 5:00 am on fake glass in your friends home.
the awake.
the sex I pretend not to feel.
coming in the sheets, washing the sheets, sleeping in the sheets, weeping in the sheets.
the stares I get for drinking J.D. and coffee with only a book for company.
the warmth I feel in empty, the warmth I feel in alone.
the girl at the table beside me with the awful hair and the awful boyfriend.
the pitty.
the sadness,
the sadness, my brother, my friends,
the sadness is lingering.
the unshaved legs.
the busted teeth.
the vacation.
the city.
"this city, is eating me, alive"
he screams.
and all I can do is watch.

saturday night.

SENTENCES MEAN NOTHING TO ME ON THIS machine.

czech mate.

please, monopolize me.
wishing I could stop reminiscing,
concentrating
thinking about, the mystery.


If I had the money, I'd visit a place as good as his.

face.

less can be, more.
hiding, from you,
what I'd rather not show,
this year.

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.

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"

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.

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.

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.

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.