Archive for the ‘Prose’ Category

Fantastic

Drown me in bad decisions.
Distract me with heartbeats and hormones, chemicals and chemistry. I’ll be gone for a while, lost, alone, immersed in fantasy. (Daydreams are so much less complicated than reality.) There are no inconvenient attachments in two-dimensionality, and it’s so much more satisfying at any rate. No disappointment, no regret.
Everything I ever wanted, right behind my eyelids.

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Heat wave

Despite the wave of heat under which this city suffers, I feel a shiver run up my spine. The air I breathe is heavy, nearly saturated with moisture, on which my arid lungs gorge. Water stolen from the breeze, it seeps from my skin greasy with unspoken urges, and drips from my brows with desperate silence.

Jersey

The feel of you on my skin is whisper soft. It feels like relief, like satisfaction. I spread myself against you, my flesh pressing fabric. I feel the friction, the heat it produces. My skin tingles as goosebumps rise from the thrill. I curl my toes and arch my spine as I press my face into pillows. Sighs escape my lips as I shiver in a quiet sort of ecstasy. I burrow my way under the covers, wrapping myself up with you, and tangling you around me. Here I can breathe deep and slow, finding solace and rest. My only sorrow being how soon I must extricate my bones from your delicious clutches to make my way back into the world.

My jersey sheets were a great investment.

The taste of disappointment is bitter, but bearable

Quietly reeling, you clung like a barnacle to the lips of a new lover. They grasped you in firm and fervent hands, often losing you in their hair, the smell of their skin. You both breathed out great sighs, bellows expelling burnt ashes and a thick subterranean heat. Blood ran so hot. Sweat dripped salty and words slipped saccharine. Nights turned into days, and those days into nights while conversations evolved and revolved. Such a great hunger you shared.  It was immolation almost, in desire. Of course it would fade too soon. The fuel was being piled under that bed at an alarming rate. How could it not grow cold? Sense came, chasing away the pleasant poignancy, leaving only a bitterness and careful care. My fingers across a jawline, I soon was only tracing a memory despite the physicality of the motion. Words were left unsaid as flesh lied fallow, yet friendship had flowered in that garden. So, a few tears were shed with uncomfortable conversation, but your stability had returned despite your disappointed hearts. Kind and honest, with no tempest, no hurricane, the end was simply a puff of air on a candle, the smoke fading quickly.

Birthed of boredom

Just another collection of random thoughts birthed of boredom.  Digitized frustration bathed in light.  A blinking cursor, impatient, ever waiting for a prompt.  A heart-beat, almost, of phonemes made morphemes made more.  Like flesh to a skeleton it will grow, collecting to itself meaning.  For now though, it has yet to congeal.  It is yet simply idle cognition made visual.  Not following any conventions to speak of, it meanders, avoiding the point, avoiding conclusion.  It remains, behind a screen and trapped in another, waiting.  Waiting for attention to return, for the rekindling.

A sacrifice of words, a turning away of phrase

I am a devourer of stories, a devourer of worlds.  I swallow books whole, gluttonous.  As I snake I am, but rarely do I rest to digest what I’ve just consumed.  Not a lover of tales am I, but a ravisher.  I do not savor the nuances, the subtle flavor of style.  No, I delve deep into the marrow and suck it dry.  My attention engrossed so thoroughly that aches and pains and disappointments cease to matter, but the last page turned leaves me with no sympathy.  Once complete the fantasy matters not.  Like an addict I grasp for another collection of sentences.  Whether they be short or long is inconsequential as long as I’ve another life to live. Oh, I may at times keep a book close to me, placing its looted pages on a shelf for a later day or another year, but it oft means naught to me but a sure means of escape.  Hand me a treasure, a delight of many pages and for a few hours I will exist wholly between those covers, whetting my teeth and slacking my appetite. But, Oh!  It is never enough.  Grand epics, little vignettes, they never truly satisfy.  So like I beast I am, prowling cases, stalking floors.  Never satisfied, never mollified, I am the walker between the rows.  Slyly I may leave with a bag of morsels over my shoulder, but I know I’ll be back soon enough to unceremoniously replace picked-over spines with some new delicacy, some new distraction.

Only a dream to fall asleep to

I can feel it as I’m falling asleep, the breeze through the bathroom window.   I can hear it, the dry rattle as it makes the blinds tremble.  The smell, full of abundance and so fresh, it mingles with the dust from tissue paper, with the musty smell of mold growing behind the paint. My cheek is cool, resting on porcelain.  My legs are caught up under me, but I am comfortable.  I’ve wrapped myself up in a thin blanket and I feel at home, at peace.  I take a deep breath.  I let it out.  It is so bright. The colors popping against my retinas, they are running, flowing, as the pulse of the morning is slowing, slowing, slowing.  Heavy my limbs settle as the muscles relax.  I sigh, comfortable and unthinking.  I close my eyes and rest.