update

I act like a emo fuck-face when I like someone. Turns out blondie emailed me this morning and I just never bothered to check. Dead flowers are a lot more potent in their magnitude when you've got the blues. 

I border on fiction but I've been told I am tangible.

I could write prose for hours onwards about how for the last three days in a row I keep running into fresh, dewy flowers stomped upon and laying in perfect morose silence upon new york pavements. I could tell you how the first time this happened I had to talk myself out of picking it up out of its filthy grave and nurturing it back to half-life...normal people don't do such things, I said to myself. The second time I glanced and walked past, like any other jaded new yorker would. But the guilt lingered as much as it does today even though I acquired a quick snapshot; as if my cellphone had somehow preserved its great tragedy or somehow served it the memento mori it deserves. I could anthemize these trampled flowers; read life lessons and potent messages in what I saw...of how beauty in juxtaposition with this harsh urban landscape we live in, is irrefutably and inevitably fragile. I could, but I won't.

I could tell you about how yesterday morning, in the speckled blue iris and glittering prism of fluttering platinum eyelashes, I thought I saw love. How in the warm morning sunlight that swarmed around our musky, heavy sweat...I felt love. The sheer brightness deemed our seedy intentions and the frugality of our touch as something else entirely; how redemption came in the form of cleanliness and purity...and maybe some innocent dimple-flashing.
But I'm exhausted.

I could be giddy in my recollections of how I spent my afternoon wholly liberated, playing catch and dodge ball with 3-8year olds and how it was the most fun I've had in....fuck... Or how said 8 year old had a ridiculous crush on me which resulted in my boobies being continuously blasted by a dolphin embossed rubber ball. How birthday parties of kids remind me of the kind of celebrations I yearn for every february but cast off to the side in favour of being morose and self-deprecating on account of some shitty memories from the years before. I am twenty-two and four hours with children have left me spent, so I'll take a mental flash and snap in favour of articulating the highs of my day.

I will, however tell you this.
I thought I saw Leonard Cohen today (in chelsea, nonetheless). I didn't but for a while I thought I did. (Sound too good to be true? it usually is) It was some doppleganger, I suppose. Likely older than the man himself, though I have no true sense of whether he would, in fact be slightly hunched over or still has impeccable posture. This man, though, had a perfect 3-piece suit on, in conjunction with a gorgeous khaki summer trench so the styling(in the very least) was Cohen-like.

The irony in this, alongside the rest of my life, is not lost upon me.
I'm lounging in my bed, whiskey by my side, dressed in some man's oversize plaid shirt I picked up at a flea market. I made cracks today about 'pretty woman', never having seen the film in its entirety (pardon me if the chick flicks won't digest. Regurgitation isn't even an option. My mouth refuses to open for such filth) and how real life never resembles anything of that sort. I have a slow, throbbing pain below my second left rib. It came on once I realized a certain platinum-haired boy never followed up on plans for tonight. Not that I should care. Of course not. My magical pussyjuice mojo works wonders and men often think they love me. I ought to have underlined and italicized 'think'. It wears off though. And despite the fact that this boy was a dead ringer for Kurt Cobain, despite the fact that something very real transpired between us that night and the morning that followed, even despite my flea market shirt and the false sighting of my demigod....life isn't fiction. There are no movie endings, though there are many more absurdities that lie in between that would not even make it to a Burroughs novel.

And so I walk back home, no flower in hand, only a picture of a dead pretty thing in gravel. I take the headphones off before the melody comes to it's natural end because right now I can't bear to finish hearing the rest of this song. I’m just tired, that’s all.




"Every heart, every heart/ to love will come/ but like a refugee"

in a nutshell

I want to die with worth, however imagined it might be.

AWOL

He said my mouth was a rosebud,

Geisha lips with a glint of metal

That he yearned to kiss;

Aching to press against me  

Until he engulfed my very soul.

He didn't quote Mandelstam 

'for every piece of trim, yknow?'

And I never offered more than

Mere flesh for the others,

Let alone my words.

He said a lot of things

That haunt me on those nights

Sleep does not visit.

Poignant sentences,

Besmirched with a heavy dousing

Of profound tenderness

That have echoed for the years to come.

These words, they stewed and stirred

Deep within the marrow of my bones

Quieting to a lull

Only once they struck as true,

Much too late.

He said a lot of beautiful things

That I did not want to believe

But he's not here to say them anymore

And all I am left with

Is the acute absence of words.

Over the summer.

This is what came out the last time I tried to write fiction/non-fiction. I rather like it.

"On the Belgian"

You know you’ve got issues when wake up kissing your trick with more intimacy than you have anyone else in your life. You know you’ve passed so far down that invisible line that it’s no longer visible. And that once you stepped over, you didn’t really care if it existed in the first place. It’s trouble when you reach out; you call to come over. When you start hinting money is not an issue. When the music starts boring you to death.

It’s easier.

It’s easier to let someone in and think about them, fancy them, get soft and doe-eyed, when you know it’s never going anywhere. That its very conception was the most formidable fence you could ever build. So you kiss, deeply. You kiss with your eyes closed and fingers clasping his head closer, twirling his fine dark hair. You tell him how cute his ass is when he catches you staring at him from afar. You flirt, you smile, but you also tell him bits and pieces of where you come from, who you are. You blush and nearly cry when he tells you that you’re beautiful, even if you don’t believe it. You actually believe him when he tells you he’s only fucking you. You yearn to have him inside you raw, to be as close to him as you physically can. You throw common sense down the tracks as the subway approaches to smatter it to a million pieces. You don’t care.

You want to say “hey, let’s do this”, but bite down on your tongue. Every slightest hint of apathy or rejection; turning over while asleep instead of holding you close, not kissing you goodbye on the train, not calling in two three months for your services: they all enforce your feelings right back into place. Right where they belong. ‘For you’re only you when you’re closed in’ or so some old lover sang in lieu of your anti-muse, exoticized sexual persona. It’s gets harder and harder to tell the difference these days. You fake confidence, get enough positive feedback and affirmation and before you know it, it no longer relies on validation and comes from the mirror instead. You put on your fuck-me-heels and a flower in your hair, channel one of those girls Leonard Cohen always rambled on about…before you know it you’re one of those lost and lonely beautifully damaged girls; another of the untouchables that are beyond fixing, though many try.

Before you know it, you’re one of those cynical, unbelieving yet hopeless romantics that muse about their tricks as if they were real lovers. Tsk, tsk tsk.