The Impulsion of Candor

You can directly direct me any which way you like; face down in the robe-covered, towel-padded carpet or however. Suits you. Not that beating around the bush has ever been a problem of ours, just a problem of mine, post-coital, "Um, you don't mind that I need .. um .. you know .. for you to be ... like, the boss of me?" I just need to abdicate mine, once in awhile, and objectify myself, even, too. To become: your lovely, sweaty, Eviscerated. Because nothing else trumps the browbeats of the mean quotidian streets of our (multitudinous) lives like that, like that. Hoodwinked and whip-strapped and flash-burned and tequila-drunk and the mind boggles; at the many varieties of sex two people can have, using only each other (and some common household materials.) And it makes me feel unmitigated and unrepentant joy in the absolute center of my dopaminergic system to know that I can pretty much count on fucking you for the rest of your life. No, no, its okay. I would rather go last, anyway. I think.

The Sound Of No Hands Clapping

Because when I was little, I thought that this was all that there was, but now I think that this is all that. God, I'm so gay; and write in sound bytes, but. Sex makes me sane. Take it lightly? Never. I believe in: murder suicide, driving with my headlights on in the daytime for safety, and that there really is nothing to believe in. One day we're going to live in the south of France, I promise, I'm on it and every night we'll watch the stars because they will be out for us because we will never end this relationship with a simple handshake. No, we'll hold back and kiss slow and then I'll push you out and breathe you in and would you give all back to take you back when? I know its been so long since you felt the same. And I dream a lot and I would do it full time if the position was open and the benefits tenable because you glow and glow and melt and flow and I would do anything to be with you forever. You say dumb shit like "time heals all wounds, baby" and tell it to the ghosts of turn of the last century Galvestonians and I'll only ever bend and never break; when you turn me on and then turn on me. But I'll always take your surly, bratty ways in stride and navigate the labyrinth of the intersecting lines in the palm of my hands into the delicious violence of your lap. Because churning random hearts like ours get off on throwing consequence aside; and we were born to multiply. Now, my Dearest Death Professor Father Confessor, do us both a favor and close this window and power down this machine and, then in the dark, find your way to my bed and then my throat to choke.

You Are The Ever-Living Ghost Of What Once Was

Anything to make you smile;
'Cause its a better side;
Of you to admire.

You want to know of what I'm made? About to find out because I'm splitting at the seams and there's a bed under this monster. Yeah, I yell, but he says shriek, and its all I can do, never properly trained in the ways of getting.your(my).fucking.point.across't. because of deaf ears, and my everything everything falling; upon them, hard. So he arts and I write and we both smoke and pretty soon I'm going to be rich and I'll never have to write again! Then I can finally sit down at the piano in peace for a piece and write him a song about false imprisonment and how I am so, so sorry for how I done him so, so wrong. And I will dedicate it to the slave drivers and the cage fighters and to the girls who settled down in their early twenties and suck more blood than a dentist. Smile for the digirati! I just want to be loved like Abigail Adams and you can do what you like but you can't do that and you can say what you want but don't say that and you can go anywhere but you can't go there cause you are descended from animals and you are constructed of chemicals and it is not an old wives' tale: everyone you know, some day, will die. Including me; then you can get your architect, so be patient. Today I got a speeding ticket and he asked me if I was wearing my corrective lenses. I told him that I thought I had pulled off to a safe spot but I secretly hoped a car would smash us both, although I am his Valentine all year 'round but I am going to stop this descent into madness now because I am already going to catch enough shit about my poor time-management.

In conclusion, I hated every single lover at la Madeleine today, eating their croissants and linzer cookies and laughing and carrying bouquets and the men pretending to be interested in their woman and the woman trying to be interesting, like one day has ever meant shit in the history of shit. I believe that lovers should be tied together and thrown into the ocean in a fierce squall or chained together and thrown into a fire with their songs and letters and left there to burn because you will spend the greenest summers fucking and water fighting and lovers should drown in their innocence and arrogance before it all dissolves into a single second and you and your over-developed sense of responsibility are left reeling from the force of one G and settling for a few brief moments of wishing that you were the type of girl who made men never want another.

Two Lovers Walk A Lakeside Mile (Big Hands, Strong Hands)

With an eloquence inspired by no less than the likes of Mssrs. Madden et Michaels, I would like to announce to you that, in probably about 8 months from now, I have designs on quitting to a small Central American island and getting drunk and then staying drunk. Etc.

Baby's up and I'm late for sleeping for work. Out!

PS. I am still non-mad mad!

xoxo