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.old. .new. .guestbook. .notes. .email.
.profile. .diaryland. .song. .story. .things. .records. .rings. .site. words from me. from Tell Me Everything: Eighteen Confessions by: me Clever Sleazoid. He trips over his Bourbon like he doesn’t know what it does. He stumbles up stone steps littered with gravel and vomit. He uses the word slut without pretense or remorse. Slurs are the words that he knows, that he wouldn’t pretend to loathe. He knows he would if he were righteous. But nobility is nothing, in this world. Wit is everything. Wit builds upon itself like a stack of Jenga blocks – awkward and crooked, but still standing tall. Scorpion glass. I could be an insect frozen in amber, stared at by tourists in a glass case. But what about a windshield that stings? What about a whiskey shot the color of desert scales? I’m the kind of thing that cuts, that people hide their fingers from in fear of making themselves vulnerable. A color resembling oil, a countenance like a beast surviving years of evolution. Beyond bugs, I am a skeleton turned inside out – protected only by circumstance. Sleepless beauty: sacred air. Waves of crowd part like the singer is a mythical Moses. He pierces the air into particles. You, who listen to nothing but traffic, listen to him. He soars over the scaffolding into cups of concert music. Is this really occurring? you ask yourself. It’s a sacred moment. Drip upon yourself with sweeter and sweeter chords. Designate your words sparingly. Wait until the strings come in – then it’s safe to make your move. Hana. (Scent.) Fragrance, movement upon laughter. He savors none of these things. He knows his existence: make them happy; make them glow. Their completion is his service. He lives through them. He could shrink into a dwarf star and feel no smaller; as it is, he burns into the palms of their hands, whether clasping or holding sand close enough to see his gold. He doesn’t mind the dirt or panning. He would rather wallow. Sleep. I am a nuzzle puzzle piece fitting into you, an edge – I find the edge first, then fill the picture in. I drape in color like a paint-by-number. How can I make this sincere? Add another harmony. Layer the thirds. The more voices that are raised, the fuller my meaning becomes. I never want to move. Were I allowed the time, I still would not. I would stay on your shoulder, defense against nothing. I would stay here. |