Saturday, August 15, 2009

I should know by now that Brick has some perfected error when it comes to Jenny. But somehow her machine still only strikes a wrong key.

I should know by now that Jenny still cries about my life. I should know how it feels, again, to wait for you. But… Somehow I got up and left.

I should know by now that I still love you. I should know how to see you. But somehow my phone is still the only treasure I get in my hunt for you.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Today I sat alone with words I fought to forget

Those solid nights so guarded by your past

Forever objective so not to regret

Tell me by your hand

I don’t need all

That I lost you

One thing I know… you never think

And it’s too late to hold on

Alone with your words

Let me tell you about a gentleman I once knew, most discreet

Most worthy of all the love

I’ll pled for you once more

I cut you out of shaped dreams only to see

A young heart eager to breathe

I’ve cut you just right

Hooks in arms I will ease your pain

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

i am burning. BURNING.
i want to turn you inside out and pour you down my throat
i want what is inside of you inside of me to push it down push it out wrap it around and around me and pull it tight
i want to break you open and see what's inside i want all of it
i want to spill you out on the floor and get in you on my knees i want you wet and messy and on me I want to tear at your magic like a beast i want you in my hair and slick on my skin i want you in my eyes and in my mouth
i want wild fistfuls of you pressed against my cheeks and i want to look in the mirror as you drip down my neck
i want to smell you and i want it to burn like like too much whiskey i want your rhythm in me slow and mean like an unfinished song i want you i want you iwantyou i'm fucking burning

i want you to turn me to gold because there is nothing else left

Monday, August 3, 2009

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
by E. E. Cummings

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

It wasn't her that was circular, it was the paths she chose. And then, in what was to be her most defining moment, he offered his world to her. Their lips met and their hands grasped for the air the impact took from them. All the voices that had made her head a source of great discomfort were now saying only one thing. Again and again in harmonic unison they whispered, you, you, you....

Friday, July 24, 2009


you're both the teacher and the worthy opponent. it doesnt get much better than that.
in the dream, it's me and you.

in the dream, there's a difference between skin and flesh.

in the dream, it's real.
Sometimes I wonder what or who is running through your mind, Brick. Here we lay or, are again. You say, "The best part of this is when you lose yourself Jenny". Forever, I always thought how beautiful that was. Today, I'm not as sure. The picture I painted years ago was my idealism. I realize now that it has no border. Why won't you let it have a border? You missed me for the wrong reasons. I remembered the painting. It brought me back here, yet again.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

she turned to look at him while he slept. watched his soft lips breathe. jealous of his eyelashes.

he opened his eyes and saw her. he smiled. she smiled.

she was nervous. or giddy. were they the same thing?

he rolled onto his back and expelled a breath of air. he stared at the ceiling.

somewhere "the girl from ipanema" began to play.

shit. he said.

he got up and walked over to the cluttered desk, searching for the sound...

"And when she passes, each one she passes goes - ah...."
I made loneliness a home, thanks to you. Your ghost moved in next door. You should come get your stuff.
mother always said "men will fuck a coffee table if they could figure out how to do it."

so, i'm less attractive than a coffee table?

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

They were olives. Six olives to be precise. This was his concession. His version of a dozen roses, or a sappy Hallmark card. He thought he was being clever, the proverbial olive branch on a stark white salad plate. But to her it was as obvious as the lie she had spent the last two days trying to shake.

dictated by ec
where are you going?
it's hot
did you still want the ice cream?
did i ever?

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Who knew that this is where she was going? Make plans and make God laugh, right? She thought she was out to get ice cream and then she was here. This is where all the whys, the wheres and hows in her life had gotten her. All the best-laid plans had finally gotten her laid right. It sounded crass to her, but this is what happens when you follow the ice cream. She lets her finger trace his back as he sleeps. The skin is so soft and the slight dent of his spine leaves room for something so fragile and vulnerable that it makes her tear up. She hadn’t cried in months and now this boy was making her melt. Like ice cream. In this room, on this dusty street in Hollywood, on the hottest day of the year she found her deepest secrets and dirtiest thoughts buried in the skin of this boy she hardly knows. She whispers: “I will never pretend to know you.” But she knows, in this particular light of day, that she can’t keep her promise. She remembers her high school teacher saying something about skin being your largest organ and how all the boys had laughed. Her friend had said that it was the heart, but her friend is now the kind of girl who hears “hedge fund” and asks “how high?” Jenny looks at the ceiling. This large white surface now kept all her confidences. Sin is your largest organ. Jenny is not easy, but her body is. It responds like a good girl to bad things and all her correct answers become lost in that hot excavation between sugar and Brick. Her eyes lazily follow the soothing white walls down to the floor and she notice the ice cream has become creamy and soft, creating a puddle that looks like summer a cloud. Her clothes are scattered, forming a complicated geographical map in the white open bedroom. She takes a mental picture and let’s the map of her clothes tell the truth of how fucking turned on she is. She wakes him…
she lay there. turned to her side, her hand underneath her cheek, she watches him sleep. she smiles.

the smell of him fills the room like a potpourri of sex. dirty boy things, socks and forgotten shoes, t-shirts never been washed, jeans in a ball.

this is it. that primal thing she read about, spoke about with knowledge, knowledge she didn't have. she felt it now. deep within her. a heat. a light. or both.

Monday, July 20, 2009

she calls him "trouble".
he calls her bluff.

and the heat breaks records.
it was hot outside. too hot to be outside. too hot to be inside. just too hot.

standing outside of his door, she remind herself that she just needed ice. he was a neighbor. this was fine. "do you have some ice i might have?" "yes, i do" "oh thank you" and that would be it.

just ice.

the door opened and she splashed a casual yet friendly smile on her face. though her heart pounded into her chest. her fingers began to tingle. and her throat was dry.

the smell of sleepy boy floated out of the apartment and wrapped itself around her. his eyes became alert upon seeing her.

"oh hh--" his voice cracked, he rubbed his hand through is hair - "hi. what's up?"

Sunday, July 19, 2009

The buzz of the booze. The smell of the crowd. The sweep of your hand. My sweating brow. Relax. Not long now
When you think like you do? You make me want this even more. Just stop.

Friday, July 17, 2009

i will not be ignored, dan.