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@foxeseatacid
Refreshing the page,
Myself a voyeur to myself
Looking to see you,
Have you seen me?
Did you get a text?
None was sent.
“Wow, was I really that desperate for human connection?”
A character in a bad spinoff animation series wonders aloud in the background of my life.
Maybe.
Probably.
Refresh,
Nothing.
Refresh,
Nothing.
I am a virtual back of the milk carton
Have you seen me?
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hyper individualism is folly, is self destructive, is altogether ruinous.
Places To Get Stuck
spiraling slug thoughts leaving sticky anxious trails
fragile moth wings drenched in candle wax
gnats bobbing, then drowning, in a fresh drink
passive aggressive small talk with a (former) friend
a back porch cigarette just before dawn
the cat lying, stretching, rolling, in a warm shaft of sunlight
unmet expectations — mine or yours?
the eyes staring from across the bar
a traffic light turned red too long after bad news
the sour, then bitter, taste of grief
cycles of habits, both good and bad
that same argument we have every week
the lies we keep telling ourselves
other people’s memories
fresh dirt
Again and Again and Again
I’d tell you that I started writing
Again
And you wouldn’t be surprised to learn that I set that part of myself aside for a while
Again
Every time the words come back it surprises me
Again
Like some ancient ruin of myself I’ve unearthed and tinkered with until it works
Again
And then maybe breaks
Again
I wonder what else I’ve lost
Again
And how many years will go by before I think of you
Again
the new moon sets up deep in my chest; a strange longing, a vague yearning, an unspecified heartbreak
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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I like to imagine that cicadas are chatting about what’s changed over the years
feeling doused in grief lately.
dunked, drenched, damp with grief.
my mind is eerily quiet tonight like the calm before the storm when the birds hold their breath and the trees quiver with anticipation. but I know it won’t last, because the sky is yellowing and the wind is beginning to pick up. -h.g.
10/25
Now I find me stranded in my hometown, living my life chasing ghosts and fleeting feelings. Always running; away from my demons, out of money, headfirst into heartbreak.
But at least I’m moving forward.
Chelsea said to me one night, “I am the Alamo, you know?” and before I could ask her what the hell she meant by that she continued, ‘I’ve got a thousand men who want to defend me, who will try to defend me, who would lay down their lives to defend me, but in the end, I’m going to fall, and there is nothing they can do to stop it.” And I began to tell her that was stupid, that was silly, that she was going to be just fine and was going to make one of those men a wonderful wife someday, but I couldn’t get the words out of my mouth because I knew they were bullshit and so, instead, I said to her, “Why do you think that is?” Chelsea didn’t answer right away but, instead, she played with the little drops of blood that were pouring from the crook of her arm, making a little smiley face on my copy of the Big Book that was sitting right in front of her. Finally, she looked up at me with those eyes that screamed genocide and responded, “Who the hell knows? It’s my parents fault. It’s Nixon’s fault. It’s Marlene Dietrich’s fault. Something must have made me this way. Shit, blame it on the Texas sky for all I care.” And with that, she put her head in my lap and wiped her tears, absently, on my erection. It was her way of telling me, “Give it up, boy. I know you want to fix me, too, but it’s gonna take a better tool than the one you got there.”
Max Mundan, Blame it on the the Texas Sky
© David Rutter 2016
Get my new book, “Five Words That Can Cripple a Man” by clicking right HERE!
(via maxmundan)
Woah, I'm diggin this piece today.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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8/24
This is the part where you expect a climax. My life hasn't really hit one yet, or maybe I've just hit so many I can't tell anymore. Kind of like when your best girlfriend tells you about the multiple climaxes her boyfriend always gives her in bed and even though she's definitely lying, it still makes you wet fantasizing about it with your current romantic interest. The kind where your legs go numb and you feel nothing but pure bliss until you're all used up, where you lose count and just chalk it up as the best sex ever despite not having any record of how many times you actually got off. So yeah, my life is essentially one big sex metaphor in which I'm unaware of having had a climax. Go fucking figure. -h.g.
8/10
I dreamt of you again. Not as you were, but the way I always wanted you to be. And I know you always warned me that mixing reality and fantasy was a dangerous cocktail, yet here I am drinking it in and crawling behind the wheel of a 2014 Mustang, tearing down winding back roads and slamming into some ancient oak tree at 98 miles per hour, my last conscious moments a blur dipped in the warm red ink of my own blood.
Figuratively speaking, of course.
-h.g.
rotten
I've been spending my nights trying to persuade demons that my flesh has thoroughly rotted, filled to the brim with maggots and the incurable disease which long ago claimed my soul; but like wild dogs they pay no heed, indifferent to the condition of the flesh they devour. -h.g.
some lines picked out of a long piece from last month
…Each an advertisement for love; Each trampling over one another in desperation to find the fabled, “one”; Each using up every last physical attribute deemed conventionally attractive at their disposal.
And suddenly after 20 years of running from commitment issues and gravity, people find themselves in the ragged out leftover section of degenerates; in a dimly lit bar full of burned out 40 somethings; in the Goodwill Donation Center of disenchanted lovers.
…
-h.g.
Lengthy Moments
In the depths of darkness the urge most often forthcomes. Locutions batter the interior of my mind, depriving me of the warm hands of slumber I so desperately yearn for. Resigned, I yield, smothering the room in pale yellow with a single switch, my hands still blindly fumbling in those lengthy moments required to reacquaint mind and form. Like a fool I arm myself against the inevitable onslaught; but a single blank page drowning in artificial sunlight lay before me. It is only then I find the inner machinations of my mind have fell silent, the roaring banter quelled by the threat of physical manifestation. Forced into defeat, I switch off the light, allowing the darkness to deprive me of my senses Returning again to that mental purgatory that lies between sleeping and waking. -h.g.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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my favorite way to recycle old college books ♻ #poetry #blackoutwriting
if you can't sleep, write.
