Sunday, 28 September 2014

Toilet Walls

Sometimes, when everything is right with the world, I kiss the toilet wall. I close my eyes. I mouth "I love you" to the wall, but really I mean it to myself.

Love is a simple business. All I really want is something close to my face.

When everything is right with the world, I become a fool. I get lost on the cycle from work — these familiar streets choked with swoons and skin. I emerge from daydreams slick and uncanny. I kiss toilet walls.

My own, and other people's. Other places'. When everything is right with the world, I have perfect trust in the purity of cool white tiles.

The "I love you" is an incantation to protect me from germs and judgement. Love, sometimes, is a hex.

On a good day, my scabs are amber-studded jewels I can't help but harvest. I hide them around his room so that when I'm gone, he'll remember. My grossness. My finery. All the torments of my skin.

Gary Indiana is on the floor saying PROTECT ME FROM WHAT I WANT and I do not want to be protected. Everywhere are roses suspended in salt water, blushing and translucent. Sometimes, I feel the world can see all the way through me.

But the stuff inside is sweet words carved on toilet walls and sometimes, everything feels right with world. I am a simple creature. I unlatch the door and let them peek inside.

Wednesday, 24 September 2014

Love Rode 1500 Miles by Judy Grahn

Love rode 1500 miles on a grey
hound bus & climbed in my window
one night to surprise
both of us.
the pleasure of that sleepy
shock has lasted a decade
now or more because she is
always still doing it and I am
always still pleased. I do indeed like
aggressive women
who come half a continent
just for me; I am not saying that patience
is virtuous, Love
like anybody else, comes to those who
wait actively
and leave their windows open.

Keep sliding

Keep sliding. Don’t land yet. Don’t believe in that “yet”. Don’t land ever. Raise your eyebrows at the meme that there’s a better place, an emotional destination. Raise your voice at the idea there’s a stop. Keep sliding. Stay sliding. Enjoy this feeling of loose and lovely ankles. Relish in the catapult. You opened your mouth and things started to fall inside; now a whole universe is snarled in your teeth, and you’re grinning. Keep sliding. Whether you end up—eventually—in his arms is of no import because ending up means ending means dead. You are not dead yet. Don’t believe in that “yet”. Refuse to angle yourself to a destination. Adore everything. Get all dizzy by the smell of that neck.

Sunday, 21 September 2014


lovers against haters

hecklers against grownups

kisses against the patriarchy

explosions against the status quo

girls against bus stops

bruises against collar bones

swoons against the handcuffs

hyperbole against restraint

dream sequences against logic

fisting against the dirty dishes

makeouts against the history channel

sunsets against a cantaloupe sky

Tuesday, 16 September 2014


Go read a short story about Caterpillars, by me, at the fucking fabulous Word Riot.

Tuesday, 9 September 2014


I bite his lip, he busts mine.

We don’t mean it: we are, together, too many teeth. Too many sharp kinetic wavelengths. What we are, we shouldn’t be allowed.

He’s on his back. I’m on his front, leaning down for the Hollywood close-up, when he twitches. He twitches like a heart monitor yelping “stat!” at the chest of a dying man. His broken tooth into my soft upper lip.

When the blood swells, both of us open our mouths wide.

He didn’t mean it. We are counting off all the things we didn’t mean. We didn’t mean any of it and we meant everything, all at once. I touch my finger to my lip. The blood mixing with my spit.

Everything is so new, so red and so shiny.

We pretend to be shocked, but we aren’t. Not really. I lick my lip with a wet tongue, because I am a sucker for a dramatic mug shot. “I can’t believe you did that,” I say, because this time around, I’m allowed.

I sit back on my heels. I probe my mouth with my tongue. I ooze.

He is flickering like a zoetrope between horror and giggles. He says, “I’m so sorry.” He is trapped in the moment after flinging the ming vase against the wall. Aghast at shards and spatters.

I bite my lip but it’s too late: I’m already laughing. We’re not surprised a bit; we know what caused the twitching. I meant it.

He catches my giggles and steps forward to join me in a place that is oozing and easy. A place where everything is allowed.

Monday, 1 September 2014


The creatures are nestled and sleepy and coated with bruises. The bruises pattern their pelts with all the certainty of yesterday's clouds.

In this city, it feels like summer is ending. But that's okay. It's okay, because this skin isn't fit to show the world anyhow: so purple and so private. It's okay, because tomorrow there will be a hammock and a balcony and a sunbeam. She will pluck a tomato from the vine; the girl will crush a pepper in her fist just to luxuriate in the squish.

But all this is still in tomorrow. Today, the creatures must drag themselves from the pit and attend to the blunt teeth of the day. There are bags to pack and tickets to print and a dozen messages mewling, and it's tricky. It's so tricky—the pit is right there. What if they fall inside?

Maybe they will. Maybe that's okay. Maybe falling is the simplest thing yet.

The creatures had not prepared themselves for how good the pit would feel and they have failed in all their preparations. They have not stockpiled for winter. What if the supplies run out soon?

The creatures cannot bring themselves to care.

The day mewls and the bellies growl with small, soft claws. "I need to go to work," he says. "I know," she says. They lie and watch the sky change to a grey uncertain pink.

The world is made up of so much skin and she thinks about scrambling but this thing is so simple and so sweet. Outside the pit, the world continues its ministrations. The sky continues to change.