avoid collection

i am wordy as fuck,

and you’re good to go, crouched between legs trembling as these high lips strive to say no, say something– but all that comes out is just wait, when what i mean is wait for me to feel something more than lost and more like lust or even simple longing. you press close but your eyes are just eyes. we weren’t pieces that fit we were just slightly sticky and in the heat we briefly melted into one another, our interiors not quite hot enough to make it all the way just warm enough to confuse the edges at a glance so we intertwined and refined our impulses with flesh but when it came to it our eyes were still just eyes when we wanted windows to what we wanted most

Posted August 30, 2010 at 8:34pm in prose poetry poetry angstpron

Text Post

He died in the end.

That’s what happened in the book I bought the day we met. If I’d have known maybe I’d have chose more carefully, with an eye toward the future, an ear out for irony, for coincidence. He died in the end. That’s what happened in the movie we saw the day we met. Maybe I’d have chosen more carefully, had I known how the book, and we, ended. With an eye on the prize or the prizefighter or whatever hearts are these days. Do we love or fight or love to fight or fight to love, it’s a little less clear on Wednesdays and days ending too soon or not soon enough. Love had nothing to do with it, but it’s a word I like to throw around too often, like confetti for ears and eyes and olfactory senses that make the bright lights show up. We’re factories churning out emotions like dogs churn out shit, equally shitty and both are waste. And waste not want not, we make use of the churned out bullshit to create lies upon lies, fabrications that can hold us over for years like the best of false feasts turned sour in the end. And in the end we all croak, whether it be book movie or ill-fated affair lacking in foundation. Walls without floor in the house without home and the love without feelings, the kind we create out of less than what we had when we were children, it’s just mud and false promises.

Posted August 30, 2010 at 8:25pm in poetry prose poetry angstpron