gone/no_more.this
It isn't right for me to write. I know you want no words from me. Not that you mean to be mean. But it's rare to meet another who doesn't eat meat. Pray, make me your prey.
And the Fins with fins never could perform the final finale--so, here I am to sew another fly on the fly. Though once it was your wont, you won't be coming here to come. Peel me 'til I'm appealing.
Sorry. I'm in love with language in an embarassingly bad way. And who else cares? Or who else, by not caring, could open so the valves of my attention? Only you.
For all I know you've blocked my e-mail and these go straight to the spamboxxx (the love below). My place. Where else? I don't expect/deserve/request/begrudge an answer. But I'm depressed and sick and . . . inspired. And you're the only human . . . even your silence is delicious to me.
But you're only human.
I need to sleep. I need sleep. I'm not drunk on it yet--howevermuch this indicates. I'm stone stinking sober slash awake. Just feeling. It all comes down to diet you know, and no one eats healthier than me. Tomorrow I'll hack up a lung and it will all pass. I blew my nose this morning and there were jellied globs of blood. Still, I don't feel weak or frail, though my voice is low, sexy and full of gravel. I've been leaving people those old voice mails: "This is Barry White, wishing you a very sexy Thanksgiving." My friends indulge me.
Damn, you have put up with some serious shit from a ridiculous man. Smile for me just once. Smile because of me. Let me be the source of some secret happiness, small but signifigant. You don't even have to associate it with me on a conscious level. I'd settle for being a vague memory that puts a nameless twinkle in your eye.
Because your eyes . . . I have to dash out the brains of the oarsmen, lest they crash the boat on the hopeless memory of them. Just row, damn you, row. The Scylla left a voicemail. I texted back to say we were on our way. My crew thinks mutiny is SOP. To disabuse them at this point would be abuse.
There I go again.
And the Fins with fins never could perform the final finale--so, here I am to sew another fly on the fly. Though once it was your wont, you won't be coming here to come. Peel me 'til I'm appealing.
Sorry. I'm in love with language in an embarassingly bad way. And who else cares? Or who else, by not caring, could open so the valves of my attention? Only you.
For all I know you've blocked my e-mail and these go straight to the spamboxxx (the love below). My place. Where else? I don't expect/deserve/request/begrudge an answer. But I'm depressed and sick and . . . inspired. And you're the only human . . . even your silence is delicious to me.
But you're only human.
I need to sleep. I need sleep. I'm not drunk on it yet--howevermuch this indicates. I'm stone stinking sober slash awake. Just feeling. It all comes down to diet you know, and no one eats healthier than me. Tomorrow I'll hack up a lung and it will all pass. I blew my nose this morning and there were jellied globs of blood. Still, I don't feel weak or frail, though my voice is low, sexy and full of gravel. I've been leaving people those old voice mails: "This is Barry White, wishing you a very sexy Thanksgiving." My friends indulge me.
Damn, you have put up with some serious shit from a ridiculous man. Smile for me just once. Smile because of me. Let me be the source of some secret happiness, small but signifigant. You don't even have to associate it with me on a conscious level. I'd settle for being a vague memory that puts a nameless twinkle in your eye.
Because your eyes . . . I have to dash out the brains of the oarsmen, lest they crash the boat on the hopeless memory of them. Just row, damn you, row. The Scylla left a voicemail. I texted back to say we were on our way. My crew thinks mutiny is SOP. To disabuse them at this point would be abuse.
There I go again.
1 Comments:
i am only human...
read my new post. you'll understand the reason i said those words..
Post a Comment
<< Home