|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
Word HungerA good writer, I've heard
always has a pen in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
I think the cigarette is interchangable and tonight
I have a drink,
a vodka and orangette,
a whiskey, no water.
When I began writing at three,
my characters were animals
with distinct plots, turmoil
and resolutions. now I have no boundaries,
restrictions or spiral-bound rules
my characters are people
with broken hearts,
no concept of remorse,
I consider this plot.
In my world it is a headache wrapped
the word revolution
and word hunger.
Tonight tonight tonight
I am writing about a girl
who has a broken heart,
a handle of whiskey,
dont have toWe spend six days planning to fingerpaint, and never do.
We talk about the past between swigs of whiskey, and plan countless poetic tributes we'll never execute.
We don't have to do this, pretend we were happy, ever;
but we do, and you'd think we are any other couple
the way you goad me to dance and laugh as I refuse, but it's not a form of flirting;
I don't understand movement, cannot engage rhythm,
and will not dance with you;
but you were British, and the waltz is not dancing,
it is a set of precise calculations and a square.
Squares are easy,
shapes are definitive,
geometry makes sense
and I like math.
you like languages, made up languages,
and things you can wrap your tongue around,
and my tongue.
I like you.
I like thinking i like you,
and I like that it goes both ways;
That part cannot distinguish the distinction between minds and words,
this message is somewhere inside of my fingers inside of yours.
(I think that's why we like holdin
Oak Trees and TabooWe have two nights and two mornings,
a lot to catch up on
a lot of historical advances
and a lot of whiskey.
I'm sorry I ignored you.
We have to talk. Maybe we kiss. Maybe you have a girlfriend
and maybe I have a boy whose not my boyfriend
but still in a relationship with me.
Maybe it means nothing.
The me four years ago would have been so angry.
that I've sold out.
The me now sort of kind of maybe wants to kiss you.
Maybe it's because you wouldn't tell me to quit smoking. If you did,
I'd tell you that it's better than sex for me.
and you wouldn't take that away.
You smoke sometimes too, when you were in high school
when you were in a different country
and when you hurt as bad as I do.
We smoke an entire pack of ciagrettes in one night
and I let you have sex with me,
you let me salvage urea, ammonia, tar
and I let you salvage sweat;
We give and take.
love is not humiliation.
and not change.
love is brinner and coffee and drinking and smoking and fuck
Nine TimesI saw him nine times.
The first time we were both sitting in the room together, getting ready to take the math test that would determine our placement. I was scatterbrained and throwing things around, trying to find the pencils that I had known I would need but had still just tossed in my purse. He was lounging backwards in his chair, looking for all the world as though he didn’t have a single care in the world, including the upcoming test. It annoyed me, that I was frantic and ready to scream, while someone else could be that relaxed.
I tested out of the class.
I don’t know if he did.
The second time I saw him, it was a few months after I arrived on campus. He was the one rushing and frantic this time, running across the square. He was probably late for class, though I had no way of knowing for sure. I was already lost in my own thoughts and ideas, deciding on my major and convincing people that yes, this is what I really want to do with my life. If they weren
Keep in Touch!