wielder-of-the-quill

i just want to watch movies and fuck and love you painfully, unrelentingly. laying bare-skinned on these soiled sheets limbs and genitals and lust strewn about tangled and merging: osmosis. humming hymns written in sweat and must with words i spoke into the crook of your neck and cleavage and cunt and perineum. obscenities written in jism in lost notebooks throughout this city where we don't sleep anymore. only waking dreams of blank lines blank verse blank thought and blank stares across empty rooms. for now, though, we will lay here until our bodies have synthesized and syncronized until we've melted into this bedfram

little wing, that unfavoured thing still cutting through wind like any other uneven, mishapen feathers misdirected there is always room for you (little, but enough) to spiral me through the clouds little wing, that tendriled piece that flaps discordantly and changes my path flight is difficult with or without you i prefer the former or none at all the air is bone cold and you are discolored a vibrant brown over black down i do not notice you there begging to be groomed picked and plucked because i cannot or i do not (i have not decided which) little wing, you neglected appendage i keep you i did not choose you but i

i am and always have been the city bred, born, and raised in disgusting apartments roaches and rats skittering across dirty linoleum babies and ambulances whaling outside my cracked windows covered in film and filth and fingerprints this is who i am but when i am with you i'm something different. you are country home-cooked meals nights full of pure silence and days of the same, but still so live so exciting so clean and untouched virginal, primal rolling hills and open plains wildlife and wind hissing blades of grass whispering to the buds of flowers i don't see everyday there, with you i am still and calm not wai

i feel it when he touches you and i burn i watch you croon to his hand on your neck his lips searing your skin trails of ash burning through onto mine my skin the same skin that laid next to me illuminated by artificial lights or none at all the same skin i wrote my name on with fingers and tongue and breaths of pure want not lust but want but there you lay as i cringe feeling him on you with you near you and i am not sure if it is i who wants you or you who wants him he who is devilishly perfect serpentine bliss on your ivory skin

in the sweltering heat of summer, sweat-drenched cloth seats of used cars in abandoned parking lots in less than beaut towns just outside Baltimore and total silence aside from the hiss of heat vapor or the droll of footsteps in the distance; too many things seem to be better than this, and my migraines tell me so. (they are the pulse of my over worked brain) they come to me in this weather, as children do so often to ice cream trucks and sno-cone stands on corners of sub-ghettos, where people convene for drug deals and light banter, and whisper the secrets of coming fall in hopes that eventually this will end,

the persistent hum of jazz echoing through the air of empty parking garages on even emptier college campuses with lonely yous at home in my bed sifting in broken sheets and sweet nothings dancing in ears of a me who is both there and not i still don't know if this is real (this haze of cigarette and marijuana smoke makes it hard to discern, but i feel that it is) its been a day or a month or a forever counted in cigarette butts and moments spent alone (they seem to be a rarity these days)

i received two phonecalls: one from the man who, since writing an epitaph on Love and its place in the salivating cuntholes and upward drawn legs of affairs in grungy inns or motels ("not hotels," he says. "those are exclusive to businessmen and politicians" "as if they aren't already deplorable," i remarked.), is now laying in a bed adjacent to his own after the scent of our sloppily romantic sex has hidden that of chain smoking. the cost of fucking a poet. the second, hours later, from Matilda (this is not her name, but I remember it as such) she is high and her slaughtered lethargic speech is inaudible but from what I can te

the words don't come like they used to i watch them from afar trotting in fields of my uncertainty i'd much rather have them nearer not so near as to have them but only to watch them dance from the tip of your tongue ballerinas of your thought because then they are tangible i watch them dripping from your lips like the vodka you love so much and i wonder how it tastes but i never spoil your grace with words heavens no, i only watch in anticipation of the final drop that i might catch it before it is lost and hope that it fuels my appetite

tonight, my mind bulges at the seams a rag doll with no eyes or mouth to speak this cross-stitching just barely holds i wonder how long it will take for this doll to feel its entrails pouring out like hot soup on a cold granite countertop left to cool while the critters of night seek a free meal

it's quiet here with all these mannequins and the sunlight hissing in the distance flowers wilting in an old dry garden tended by old dry hands rough and calloused from thorns and newspapers and years of tedious needlework long ago

Re: If your neighborhood... If your city has zombies but no fireworks you might want to move. Pause at the Door You say you want out, But you keep coming back, and I keep loving you. Get to the point Sometime I wish life Would spare the gruesome details And get to the point. Anticipation The dark setting in. Waiting for the show to start. Anticipation. In Celebration Bright lights in the sky Burning holes in the ether In Celebration. ToDo List: July 4 Sit on a steep hill And enjoy the fireworks With someone you love. I used to love you I forgot the words. Can’t remember how to say, “I used to love you.

The Ultimate Food Group. Corndogs are vital. They have essential nutr’ents And are delicious. :D Apathy I laughed at the sight Of an old lady crying In the park at dusk. Everything, but the fluff. I think love’s about Trust and reciprocation. The rest is just fluff. Against The Odds There’s only one way To show someone you love them, More to show you don’t. Set the Bar I’m sorry I can’t Love you the way he did, but I promise, I’ll try. The Answer Sometimes you don’t need To speak. Just look in my eyes. The answer is there. An Introspective Just take a second To feel the wind th

When We Were Fighting When we were fighting, You threw a ceramic vase, And then we made love. In Memorandum A soldier died t’day In a battle for the earth While the world just watched. On a Slave's Best Day You’re better without Me holding you back like chains On a slave’s best day. Too little. Too late. She thought to herself, “This wasn’t worth it, was it? You never loved him.”

I Fail at Due Dates When time comes around, I never follow through 'cause I fail at due dates. More. Fucking. Cowbell. I’ve got a fever, And only one thing can help: More. Fucking. Cowbell. Time to Say Goodbye And when the sun set, She turned to me and said, “Babe, Time to say goodbye.”

This burning, pulsing feeling. I can’t let this go; This burning, pulsing feeling. Oh, I hate shitting. Empty Midnight Eyes Eyes in mirrors Stare back like stars in the night. Is anyone there? Detox Fingertips ready, Pursing my lips for more, but It’s not what I want.

Summer Breeze Loose strands of hair dance In a summer breeze like kids Wishing you were here It Won't Be The Same I never forgot What you said to me that day "It won't be the same."

I don't hear voices. Just you whisp'ring in my ear Like a southern wind.

Dicks in a bucket Like a haiku with no lines Utterly pointless

Promises and Hearts Promises and hearts They're so easy to break, yet So hard to forget Chain Smoking I smoke eight a day. Emphysema. Can't read, but Better than cancer.

Useless Education You learn things in school You'll never use in real life. Like long division Memory My memory sucks. I wish I could remember... Oh shit! I forgot! Here ya go, mister. He thrust inside me. Tried to take my innocence. I gave it to him.

Just sitting in a coffee shop With some old friends Sharing a cup of silence Hold the cream

Thank you for breaking my heart. You've given me something to write about.

I miss the days when we’d smoke ourselves higher than chimney stacks until our pupils were the sizes of nickels with vision so skewed they clang together like change in the hand of a young boy skipping to the candy store. And that’s what we were: just kids; kids looking for a way out; a way away from the calamity and confusion of what lay before us. We’d smoke, we’d chill, and we’d smoke some more. And even though we were high more times than, not we still bonded; we still shared ourselves unhinged as if we were repairing our door frames, welcoming each other in, and giving each other the comfort of knowing that, if n

We fucked our brains out, in the metaphorical sense, as if we'd never see each other again. It felt like days. And we didn't speak after.

My girlfriend and I had decided to take a day out of every month to appreciate the human form, especially our own, by walking around the house naked and view artistic nudes. We had gotten hungry, and ordered a pizza. She answered the door naked and handed the cash to the pizza boy, who dropped the change because of the beautifully naked harlequin standing in front of him. She knelt down to pick it up; more like squatted. And that's the moment I knew I was gay.

...and we danced as if the hour glass sat on its side.

You are so beautiful lying there. The blanket covers you up to your shoulders which the pale moonlight hits so perfectly. Your skin looks so soft from here. Each mole and imperfection, each blemish I would die to kiss, but I dare not disturb you in your slumber. I trace your silhouette with my eyes. The arch of your back. Your slim waist. The curve of your buttocks to the slim of your legs. And, oh, your feet. Those of a queen. I worship them and how your toes curl as you slide them under the blanket to shield them from the cold. I feel your calf rub against mine and a tingle runs up my spine. Your thighs slide against mine and I notice your

Dear Santa, I know I may be a bit old this year, but let's face it, I'm about as immature as you get, and being so I think I deserve an exception. But being as old as I am, I need a sort of...flare...a winning had...an edge over the competition. So, this year for Christmas, I am asking, no...requesting for a huge helping of innovative vision.   Now I know what you're thinking, Nick. (Can I call you Nick? OK? Cool.) What the hell does this guy mean by innovative vision. Well, sir, let me explain. Innovative vision is like...insight into the public's heart; what the people truly want and what they will find dazzling. If I can have

It feels like that movie where the guy wakes up and it’s the same day over and over again…Groundhog Day! Yea, that’s it. It’s just like, ever since that day, I wake up and we talk, but nothing is said, the silence broken by a few dropped tears and an apologetic breath.  Words fall on selectively deaf ears, sifting through the calamity to find those few words that actually give light to how you really feel. I just… I just wish I could say I, tell you how I felt, sitting across the table from you in this barren coffee shop with only the sound of cherubs whispering  and snickering to each other about

Her voice trembled as she whispered in my ear, "I love you." She tightened her embrace, pulling me closer, and in that brief moment between breaths, I caught a waft of her scent. Her smell reminded me of Saturday mornings, when I would watch cartoons in my footy pajamas, waiting for my grandma to finish cooking breakfast. And that was how I knew we would be together for a long time. Although we were but 15, our fates had brought us to a crossroads where our paths conjoined, creating one single route to our destination. I looked into her eyes and gave her a smile. As she smiled back, I grabbed her hand, our fingers interlacing. "I love you,

i just want to watch movies and fuck and love you painfully, unrelentingly. laying bare-skinned on these soiled sheets limbs and genitals and lust strewn about tangled and merging: osmosis. humming hymns written in sweat and must with words i spoke into the crook of your neck and cleavage and cunt and perineum. obscenities written in jism in lost notebooks throughout this city where we don't sleep anymore. only waking dreams of blank lines blank verse blank thought and blank stares across empty rooms. for now, though, we will lay here until our bodies have synthesized and syncronized until we've melted into this bedfram

little wing, that unfavoured thing still cutting through wind like any other uneven, mishapen feathers misdirected there is always room for you (little, but enough) to spiral me through the clouds little wing, that tendriled piece that flaps discordantly and changes my path flight is difficult with or without you i prefer the former or none at all the air is bone cold and you are discolored a vibrant brown over black down i do not notice you there begging to be groomed picked and plucked because i cannot or i do not (i have not decided which) little wing, you neglected appendage i keep you i did not choose you but i

i received two phonecalls: one from the man who, since writing an epitaph on Love and its place in the salivating cuntholes and upward drawn legs of affairs in grungy inns or motels ("not hotels," he says. "those are exclusive to businessmen and politicians" "as if they aren't already deplorable," i remarked.), is now laying in a bed adjacent to his own after the scent of our sloppily romantic sex has hidden that of chain smoking. the cost of fucking a poet. the second, hours later, from Matilda (this is not her name, but I remember it as such) she is high and her slaughtered lethargic speech is inaudible but from what I can te

it's quiet here with all these mannequins and the sunlight hissing in the distance flowers wilting in an old dry garden tended by old dry hands rough and calloused from thorns and newspapers and years of tedious needlework long ago

laying here in bed with you i do not see this moment getting any better or you growing more beautiful than you already are but i know i am wrong i know that you age like they say fine wines do and that at the apex of ripening whenever that may be although your berry skin may not be the darkest of blood reds your juice is the sweetest to be tasted and i will pluck you from your vine again and again knowing each time you will be better than the last but still not quite ready for whatever flavors you bequeath me

I'm just hanging on By a single thread that you Just cut with your wit.

My alarm clock screams Profanities at me and I really don't mind.

I'm sitting behind you in class. I just poured my drink in your backpack Good luck turning in your term paper. The same term paper you've been writing Since we started seeing each other. Seeing each other in the sense that We joined the same study group And sat across from each other. And I watched you scribble your name With that pink ballpoint pen your mother gave you On your 18th birthday. She said it was a sign of you making your own world. "Writing the story of your life," she told you. And don't ask how I know this, There's no need to get into the formalities right now. I just want you to know that I sort of hate you for