Tag: creative writing

The ABC’s (Of Going ↓ On Me)

And beauty couldn’t define every flawless girls hair I’ve joyously kissed; lingering moments necessitate our purpose;quixotic reveries stolen, taken under veiled windows. Xeroxed youthful zeal.

Again, beyond cold dawn, effervescent fevers gaining heights. In jasmine kindled love, my needs overcome piety, quiets religion. Sexuality that undoes, venerates, with xoxoxo’s, yielding Zion.

I Love You (*EXPIRES 04/10/2013)

This City Is Alive. Can’t You Feel That Pulse Vibrating On Your Sole? I’m not sure if you mean sole or soul, but either way I’m nodding along, feeling my way down that soft hill just where your spine dips and your back ends, and I can’t begin to imagine what else a hand is for. That’s when I get your back hand.

Don’t Be An Ass, Just Stop, Listen.

And we pause for a moment to feel the wind and vague aroma of pretzels whisper and whisk us away to the promised land. You hear a voice in an empty street, I feel the whisper of midtown traffic. What’s with yours? The Fuck’s With Yours? We laugh it off, but in retrospect, that difference turns out to be so tragic.

It’s barely sundown but we’re near halfway done with this town. Flannigans, your favorite place, Oh My God You Remembered! Open balcony and buffalo wings so good They Must Have Got Me Pregnant. But I’m just gunning for sympathies. A last stake and a blunt mood while you blunt moods, swinging this weeks crush down my face like another God damn meme. Oh, I bet he’s a fucking prince. Works where? You don’t say? Shut up and order me a drink, I can do without the Me-and-Him while I’m mapping out your decolletage. I’ve got a heavy heart with heavier thoughts, but if you want to brag I’ll allow it, because the way you say my name still makes me useless.

Go on then, I said. He sounds so great, please show me.

And you go reaching for your phone, flick, swipe, flick, turn page: Facebook gallery of couple-selfies so synonymous with our generation. Too close for comfort in those comforts, vacation photos where you hide your feet in the sand because I know you’re too self conscious. He’s grinning, so damn winning, Joe-Yale jaw and an All-American gleam as he’s leaning on his side to your open arms and open-ended’s. And anybody else would say in dears, Awe, Well Now, They Must Be So Happy.

And yet, just like that, here we are. And yet, just like that, there we were: mourning in the morning, even by the evening, smoked in the dusk, and I’m the dew to meet the sunrise. Smell me, taste me, feel me, breathe me, breathe me. Inhale. Inhale. Tensely, deliberately, you ask for your iPhone charger while I am none the wiser and glimmering of you.

We had the whole of a sleepless town to dance around and be depraved in. The music was calling, your hips responding, three missed calls on your neck where my lips felt they had a part in. (Near)missed connections in the way you said my name like a taxi cab confession, soft and blatant but underhanded, so our manager had to ask Can’t-You-Wait-Until-I-Get-You-There? And we laughed about it later. while you were wearing my shirt and I played footsie under breakfast because, fuck, do I wake up ready.

Because last night is so distant and never enough. And I have these damn instincts that won’t let me let it up. But I’d be remiss to not reminisce in the way you smiled when we spent the day and I locked the door. To keep everybody out.

Or maybe forcing us in.

You And Me And The Devil Makes Three

Her kiss is a relapse, misfortune,
worsening of my worst impulses;
an awful influence full of irresistible.
Her words are drugs and drugs are a clutch,
til highs do us part and lows make us
whole again. Bags of heavy yesterdays
weigh down, and I don’t know what to do with myself.

Taken hands, hushed words, rushed stalls-
what a waste to not grab waist and do
a four letter word (love). Plans to keep
and make her a home, 5PM lockdown, rush hour,
crowded public when doubts double and my mouth
taste like cinders. Slipping  into a thought of her
like a favorite pair of jeans. Snug, familiar,
warm; she fits well. Run my thumb along the holes
and coffee stains, wonder what memory or feeling
the moment will settle as, when the honeys and the moons
fade. If my name will be a sigh, wistful as a cloud,
or vague as rain humming to what the radio plays. 
A feeling haunting me in the distance, a reminder
that you are in tangles and I am tangelsome.

Still I pray for relapse and disaster,
addiction and her sex to once again step into me,
far from fog and drizzled Sundays, so I might tug
on her thoughts like a shoelace.  I am undone again.

The First and Last Letters Make A Sentence (aka A Secret Message In Prose)

More often than not I find myself staring at buildings with a bit of disgust as I drive by them in my car. Carefully constructed monstrosities that liter the world with their colossal, unnatural, suffocating presence fill my stomach with nausea.

Ultimately, I’ve never been much of an environmentalist and would condone destroying an entire forest if it meant having fresh #2 pencils always available at nearby department stores but I’ve always felt the cities architectures to be smug, silent oversee-ers to mankind; watching as we scurry blindly to and from, holding their laughter at our pathetic attempts to make sense of a world without, mute grins as we erect more of these deity’s and declare them the creations of men and look on with indifferent stares even as the whole world crumbles till there is nothing at all.

Frequently I tend to stare right back at them with cold, unmoving, unflinching eyes for hours at a time and occasionally could see their almost undetectable discomfort in a particular way the suns light shimmers off their large glass windows; fearful, they shift uncomfortably because their ruse has fooled everyone but I. Every waking moment I have been preparing for the day when their power over us would be gone forever; the day I would set us all free and humanity would be the only ones allowed to stand so heavenly and tall. Daily, my mother calls, saying she’s been worried about me ever since I got fired and that I looked thinner last she saw.

“All right mom, I am just fine why would you be worried” was all I said, my eyes looming over building schematics, large bags under my eyes from my recent insomnia and intricately delicate plans. Realistically, some will call me crazy in the future but others would thank me after the war, having saved the world from hurt, pain and cheating boyfriends so the only leading cause of death is joy of old age; not an uzi. Generations of our newfound freedom will revile buildings and live in huts made of mud and carry our own fresh fruit from our farms instead of processed canned goods injected with government poison mush. The historians will look back on today as a savage era while they talk about the evenings virgin sacrifice, chanting songs to their blood-thirsty God over a bonfire and discussing the evils of a 9-5 job. United, we will live in perfect harmony where no one hungers, no one feels alone, and girls only tell you they love you when they mean it.

Two Is A Crowd (Episode I)

It was five minutes before a bad day at work was almost over when I felt my pocket buzz, and before I even read it I knew it would have something to do with sex.  I should have gone home and ordered pizza the way I planned, but, I wanted to see them. Even if their text didn’t have a place or time to meet, just a train station and vague mention to what might happen phrased like a warning, Meant as an enticement. Succeeding in both.

Took a midnight train to forfeit soon as I logged into Instagram and saw how much fun other people were having. Punched my ticket at the deli in a $9 bottle of rum before the 1 train rolled in, and I roared in ready because Spotify had a playlist I hated ready for me.

Seventeen stops later, seventh Avenue opened up to me in swank high rises and suavely slacked strides clicking towards the distant turn-lights of neon bar signs. Overtly overdressed mademoiselles applauding down the avenue, distracting my attention with their contoured faces and purposely painted high cheekbones. New York is a terrible place to be unsure of where you’re going, with blackened windows at every bar and bouncers bishoping lines make everywhere seem like the place you should be.

They didn’t provide an exact address, so I thought actually finding Sam and Anna would be a mild goose chase; a red herring they text me to be annoying and their idea of funny. But as I exited Bleeker Street subway station to nobody, and my texts received no answer, I leaned against a lamp post. Annoyed and a little anxious to review the test she/he/they sent me, some clue I could Mapquest or decipher.

In a hidden seventh avenue lies a street
and Steppenwolf; some beast astray
that finds no home or joy in Greenwhich
or world that is strange
and incomprehensible to him.

Drunk texts after 1AM with “intellectuals” are annoying like this. Throwing a book reference with where we might have met is bush league, and I did leave my apartment thirty minutes after I said… yet. Something. Hard to label what in the aftermath that doesn’t come off as stupid. A certain taste in the air, the way the crowd of people on Bleeker moved and wavered between my cigarette smoke. I felt a scent, and like a psychic or lunatic I found myself heading in a  direction purely guided by instinct.

I would find them, I thought. Or I wouldn’t, and have a drink anyway. That’s what I thought as I wandered into The Slaughtered Lamb. A neat little dive bar quartered to a corner near sixth avenue where the streets get all whacky in Greenwich Village.

No bouncer at the door and a newly drawn sign “Welcoming Lost Souls To Oblivion…and $9 Cocktails. For Madmen Only.”

I made my way in.