riding their bicycles, breaking backyard fences.
drinking stolen beer from the corner store.
writing obscenities in bathroom stalls.
Honeycomb sweetness dripping from bee-stung lips ; the sensuality of your proximity ; your finger in my mouth ; cider-built rêveries.
Your oneness, all-encompassing
My self, imaginary.
sew my body to the night-time,
lacerations and smoke coiling the open wounds.
but i am unwell and
pill-time makes me beautiful.
I feel very 'world-sick' today and unbeautiful
And upset about...
the way that our society is and i wish that we could just stop it all
and fucking "pop culture" and "death culture"
i hate the fact that we only get one lifestyle shown to us in the media
and one kind of body to be seen as beautiful
i hate how everything is so controlled by money
i hate how almost every human interaction and longing has been monetized
even platonic friendship has been ruined by facebook and such
i hate that we base our cultural identity on consumer products
I liked this lazy sunday, half-spent between bedsheets,
the other gazing sluggishly at the sky,
more than anything in an awful while.
I liked that cider, those soft kisses,
the quiet music, the joy in discovery.
Thank-you very much.
Cacographic exegesis bearing three words :
First, "I" ; Last "you".
The second, too difficult to decipher.
the truth about march :
abandoning frozen soil for
broken grass and dirty boots,
backlit dust, new infatuation.
a new promise for the boy who always says goodbye
but never quite knows how to leave.
i am feeling better i think but
feeling at all is difficult for
everyone i think.
i am just uneasy and i just want calm,
i am just so tired yet sleepless
'i love you' is such a complicated phrase.
because nothing before it counts.
knowing that the last person you said it to
said it to someone else
i mean i have shared feelings and experiences with people since
i've been in bed with other men and felt close to other men
and felt compassion and intimacy and empathy
and had beautiful moments
You couldn't believe how still I could lie,
Mooning over the sea and its salty breeze.
"Hold me, again!", I fumbled,
My friend the rose smiles,
"But I am filled with thorns, and
you have your own hand, now."
for without the fable of every eyelash,
every tear, i cannot exist.
(mon amie la rose me dit que je suis intelligent, sensible et rare
je lui répond "merci")
"Oh, nothing really,
you know how i can be"
Come one and all,
and you'll find :
The frozen faunlet, the snake-boy,
A floraphile, a marble statue.
And if you're observant, you'll find
a quiet boy, sitting on his own
staring back out at you.
"On le sent, chez toi,
tu n'es pas içi par plaisir d'éjaculer,
Mais simplement car tu cherche l'excuse
de toucher l'autre.
Ton incertitude te rend parfait,
une statue de marbre mi-ruinée.
Que je suis chanceux."
Hobbies : looking like a tired virgin,
Interests : Kahlo,
The algorithm of my being dictates a gravel-fill heart,
the bitterness of lime pith.
Sipping raspberry lemonade, tasting non-existant lips.
"What if it never gets better?", they asked.