Oh, heavy head caving in my chest.
Oh, flash of light that makes you bury your face in your hands.
Oh, pillar of smoke forcing red veins to pop and tears to run down your face.
Scratches on my arms.
Bruises on my back.
My dear, my dear. I weep only for you.
9 Here’s the link to download my first short story! It’s a tiny one, but I am pretty proud of it. I think it helped me experiment. I am about halfway finished writing my second one, so if anyone cares, keep a lookout for it! Thanks guys!
I have written and finished (I am bad doing that) my first short story. It’s only about two and a half pages. It is entitled “The Sorrow of Past Lives and Bamboo Backbones”. I will post the link to download the text document whenever I have time to type it up since unfortunately, my computer has crash and I have no money to my name. See you on the flipside!
I have witnessed a friend in anguish on his 21st.
With a limp cock and overflowing balls,
He weeps into his plastic cup and drinks his sin away.
I have seen a slicked-back lonely boy wax and wane
by the new standards of worship.
I have leaned and loved on a young man
bound by friction against the vagina of an angel.
I have felt the breast and kissed the lips and rubbed the back
and curled the hair and cut the bangs and seen the skin
and said the words that lovers say to a girl
that makes me bleed and sews me back up with kind words and frisky hands.
Boiled water coating my skin and I can no longer feel the presence of a spirit
other than that of death.
I feel him hold my hand.
I feel him stroke my hair.
I hear him whisper words of love and sweet discord
into my ear until I cum a million times over.
Three drinks in waiting for a pot of gold
and reflecting on the creations of a broken family.
My stomach curls and implodes when I realize
that I’ve never seen the best or worst of anything really.
But I’m ok with that now.
Now, I am ok.
Me and Andrew Lee (www.andrewkangaroo.tumblr.com) co-wrote another poem. I personally am pretty proud of it, so any and all feedback would be great! Feel free to say bad things if it’s honest!
Two matters, to what matters.
With the truth of renewed vowels and orchestras
blazing through the stench and breaking our clothing.
I am, you are, we together are starting a small taste of historical art.
Angels producing through speakers with nothing to say
as fingers communicate through text messages
of quickly forgotten words to distant dream lands.
We are here. And only here. And everywhere.
And what we make is nothing at all.
For who would be seen or to care.
Dying to be some big name, or listless song.
So many are or aren’t and you love both.
You are taking my words and turning them into true destruction of reconstruction.
The cinema glow that drowns our skin
shows us that we are simply causeless rebels.
Verdicts are cast that make us weep deep in our bellies.
And our only tie to reality is the bills we pay.
Hurdling over cast to the past weather from crowds of sea.
Excepting nothing from Jenny Peach Tree.
With broken promises and waves of broken bells.
We see two in celebration, Florida.
So, off with you to moldy beaches and thoughtless seniles.
Off to be with the dream of another. The dream of my brother.
Off to the land of panhandles and fellow man handlers.
Off to the endless summer with cocks in hand.
Off to the past life recreated for the present strife.
Or the return to the shit stain first land,
with open mouths and endless talks of endlessness.
With taped blankets and sensing touches of opera singers,
The family disease is forgotten.
Bringing pitches of empty use of organs to validity.
Pondering about a man and a women
and a black and white 60’s french sex scene.
Adjectives rolling off of our tongues about a film never viewed.
Our imaginations creating nonsense
as our minds drift to distant lovers and local friends.
Now to make the rest cautions or maybe on edge.
Looking down to the unborn men on my hands.
Hanging over sinks and smiling of the lost hairs of the members of the beat vibe.
Beating meats and eating out dated lips
drying themselves of the lips they can’t meet for
the lips of opposites keep them safe.
Thoughts and thoughtlessness crowding an overused room
and Frank is back up on the wall.
Drowning in a sea of literature with not enough shelf room.
We are the confused and the righteous.
We are the pained and the dead.
Living in talks with distant language.
Walking with the doubts and contradiction swelling like balloons.
With her tears following, as I adsorb it all.
Until I over flow and cry the same tears.
Evaporating and raining, as we live in the constant sorrows of missing finger tips.
Dreaming in written words and talking through the air,
my mind creates a world of disappointment and betrayal.
For the crow has flown and acedia has been lost
and I am here with nothing to show but the joy of a few dear friendships.
In lost transitions to the dead breaths of this girl I’ve met.
Living, flying, right to the west.
Her hair wrinkles my very head.
Bruising my hair with sexual rights and lefts.
I guess it’s no surprise that the south suits the best of winters and springs.
70 sheets and everything to write.
One journal dedicated to a sweet piece and a sweeter peace.
The creative genius of a Nicholas Sparks bitch
inspiring me to love, hate and create.
The stubborn ass of the brain.
The sensitive heart of the bones.
The actions of the describing place.
Fences and tools, beads of rosaries,
and the ins and outs, the recipe of the best of the fellows’ fellowship.
Seeking in green the creating figment of the majorities imagination,
I judge with my two-tattooed sibling.
We think about truth and lies and the difference between.
Looking up at heaven, we scream ‘you’re just a sky!’
I lie awake at night dreading the stained paper that controls my life.
My life and my lover.
And her desire controls my emotions
sending them spiraling down until the only thing
that would make me feel better is to hurt her.
And yet that would make me feels twice as bad.
I imagine my hands around her neck.
I imagine her in a bathroom stall.
I imagine kissing her neck.
I imagine fucking her against the wall.
I see her face and she’s crying because I have killed her.
She cut me open for the last time and I killed her for it.
My brain screaming back upon itself and sending me into fits of sweat and boners.
Yet my hand never cramps anymore.
I see stains of cum and buffalo sauce on my sheets.
One much more recent than the other.
I scroll through my mind trying to remember her hand around me.
I imagine the top of her head. Running my fingers through her hair
and desperately trying to keep my eyes open to watch.
Yet they slam shut, sending me into darkened pleasure.
Strange noises escape through my mouth as I make love to her feet.
Drinking electric eels that go straight to my head
as secrets are revealed and ashamed I am no longer.
I am in love with her and every part of her.
I remember our nakedness in a Kohl’s dressing room.
Feeling your skin and trying to keep my mouth shut.
It’s almost her birthday and I have no money to spend.
So I apologize and kiss her in return.
She is ashamed of me and I of her.
Yet when I look at her, I stop seeing death.
My best friend for all these years is suddenly gone
and replaced only with her.
Sweat and booze and puke become natural to us.
Jealousy and rage are never too far away.
Harps and haircuts and Killers can never compare.
But I still find myself weeping at the thought of what she really is.
Love butting heads on belief and disbelief
in a thing unknown and a thing unseen.
Focus on the fellowship of a thriving building.
Vague explanations become all I have to lean on
and I am forced to examine every word in my brain
before I let it loose into the atmosphere of your being.
The pit of my stomach curls as I think about the deceit that you are now a part of
and my thoughts become filled with embarrassment
yet I adore you.
You have become the thing I hate more than anything else.
But I can’t bring myself to hate you.
I just hate what you pretend to be.
I can’t help but imagine our future, if there is one.
The constant charade of a ghost in the sky.
The imminent bickering about the nothing you are so dedicated to.
The unavoidable passing thought as I fuck the vagina claimed by a mirage.
You lift your hands as you praise the walls
and worship your ability to look like you really feel something.
Your biased friends compliment you on your moving prayers
and you make sure your eyes are closed when judging stares pass your ways.
So, welcome to the life of pretend that I once lived for many years.
I wish you luck and all the love in the world that you find what makes you happy.
I just pray that you find it in truth so I too can sleep.
There is a women that bleeds me dry.
Cutting open my veins, she drenches my pillow
then lays my head down so I can sleep.
I prick my finger with the needle that created love made out of fabric.
Such a thing that provides warmth and safety.
As I think of her lying under it, deep in slumber,
I think of love and murder
and cock and vagina
and sorrow and joy and comfort
or lack there of.
My stomach flushes as I’m seized with terror.
I think of our future and our present.
Both scare me equally.
Masturbating our emotions, we strive to be kind.
Ash and smoke surround our bodies and burn our eyes
yet we cannot provide relief.
Or at least we choose not to.
The home she has built with my leaves sometimes makes me weep
for I feel the future in the pit of my stomach
and I can’t help but puke up all the feelings I once had for her.
Unwanted phone calls have become all I am now.
Yet the hope of returning to a past treasure keeps my heart warm.
So I will pack up a plastic suitcase with an extra shirt
and make my way to her exclusive house
while her home is a million miles away.
And continue to drip salt and cum alone
with my Ginsberg in the next room.
Hanging blankets with screws and safety pins,
swearing to never come out of our fortress.
The one who gives me life sometimes makes me want to die.
And yet you make me live.
Creativity and vivacious passion filling the room to the brim.
We love as we cook chicken teriyaki and french fried potatoes.
We love as cinema burns our retinas
and we stop remembering what television shows are.
We love as records play and play and play and play.
We love as your hairs part down the middle and grow out of your upper lip.
We love as we make ancient markings on our walls
so people will remember us years from now.
We love as we make rich noises from strings and air.
ABC’s.
NYC.
ACDC.
You dream of a dream that no sleep can conjure.
You hold to hope that should have been broken.
We praise our community.
Our own personal Kerouac. Ginsberg. Cassidy. Burroughs.
Our beautiful group of disheartened ex-christians
fucking and loving and cussing and writing.
Asteroids rotting our brains
and our weary bones aching more with each passing day.
Your leg twitches as you lie next to me in peaceful slumber.
Re-watching sitcoms from the glow of my personal machine.
Bliss is bleeding into ruin.
Love bleeding into hate.
Contentment bleeding into desire.
I hear a distant love song
sang through shitty speakers from another time.
I hear the thumping bass pounding from below me
as overweight middle-aged women throw fists in the air and shake their asses.
I hear the words “I love you”
and for the first time, I believe it.
I feel my lungs desperately trying to catch the breath that ran off with my heartbeat.
I feel damp sheets and wet skin.
I feel God looking me right in the eyes
as I return his age old slap across the face.
Turn the other cheek?
God, you’ve been dealing kidney shots since I was born!
Breaking my toes with your heel ever time I get close to the tree of understanding.
Cutting off every finger that touches truth.
Gouging out my eyes when they see beauty.
I hear Ponyboy Curtis quoting Robert Frost as the weight on my shoulder increases.
I hear whispery vocals about states in the background
as we talk about sex, food, and how birth control will make you fat.
I feel my mind going as the t.v. flickers,
and I worry no more.
by: Landon Maloney
