Friday, 3 January 2014

too much caffeine

This year: crushing on everything. I don't know what's happened to my bit lips and bones.

You know what is pretty as fuck? You are. You know what I want to do to you? You do. You know how long it takes for the sky to twist from light to dusk? Ages. You know how many square pegs we could fit in round holes during that time? Loads and loads and loads.

This January: dizzy for fictional characters. I want to write myself into all of the black & white movies and red & yellow days. I tell a boy that his shoulders are pretty and jump off a high bridge into a frozen canal. My ankles don't even snap.

It is later than lunch and I can't stop questioning everything. Too much caffeine. The internet: too ripe for refreshing. It is later than lunch and I am needier than baskets full of kittens, ripe for redemption, circle-shaped bruises on all of my thighs.

I click and clamber as if there is a moment like a platform I can find for my legs to rest upon, as if there is a destination worthy of attentions, as if anything I find will let all the air come out of my lungs like restless bees and I will feel–finally–fine.

I need more hieroglyphics to paint my walls. I need a leather glove to slap someone's face. I need to be strapped in the back of Lydia Lunch's automobile, going 330kmph down the freeway, our teased bouffants growling at the night like tigers. I need to record the sound of pinking sheers going snip.

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