wish they'd make books out of love, cause then I'd know which ones to never read.

short story thing

Night, 3.am. 

James had turfed the rest of his one cubed drink. 

He wasn't drunk enough, too drunk though to find his bed, like if he drove now eight days later the flowers would be soaking wet at his grave. James didn't mind the acrid smoke drifting past his face, he liked that he could feel the world push gently past him, and it was that red-haired woman with the rollie with her gunshot laugh and sex-pill eyes that was blowing all the smoke after all.

He can't remember her name though. It melted through the stiff posture of his drink. It's a dilemma suited for staring at trees, or giving to a tree. Right now he needs to take a piss, lean into the shadow a little perilously, blanket the earth in his misgivings and sex-fuelled dissociation. 

Feels like a lurch for James, a lick of seconds but damn when he nets himself back into the comfort of the 2 seater, bunched against the sleeping dog, well, sure enough she is gone. 

one TWO three FOUR

so you take inspiration from me, though i'm not look -

or very good looking. so the girl she says: 

    b

oiiii

or: !!!! ( with her mouth) i am the struggle to find space with all these things mothballed inside me, little egregious dont ya thinK! 

and what's plastiK? side-boob, saying things with sway on your mouth, chiffon girl, or salmon lady, oh say 

my star-spangled friend did you love the music or the element, the texture or the friendship? what was it you said 

 joey joey joey, 

 i tingle for the thing you said 

my hand in your ... 

she knows the rest . 

though countertop people are saying about her that-  

well, she has gums that smile instead of teeth, and is thin and knows them all to be heartless cunts, and is in love with one of them even if- well,  love. 

know how that is, so she wants to have a baby, love. 

grew tired of the fondling, or just bootlegging pretension and giving it out for free. 

love. 

i know that's harsh, 

that mam or 

me, by leonard cohen's fire

looking at her   look me!

and not really connect ...

entertaining the idea of my head nestled in boughs of her breasts 

feeding that warmth with logs from the tinder pi..

oh sacrilege we. 

though another night comes,  roars, 

ages by, the wine we dripped 

i saw it murky, clear eyes now 

 weeds we let crush us 

worm

inside the failing beat heart

 seeds we let shiver 

never to follow her 

 bright 

or pulse ,

false dark.

less bright, sanitary intentions

so the rain comes 

                               i can write again 

two-verse: 

                               YE! on the three. 

her basil persona 

                               tambourine like heart 

shakes him like a 

                               banana! 

hearse 

                               for the lit 

yellow glow. 

        of being inside the puddle 

        with the lights swishing by 

        and that one guy 

        by the by

        drinking all the things he wants 

        to say 

        and just so close to 

        her 

        that he knows 

        saying is for fakes 

        or 

        just scared 

        of 

        wanting to buy condoms 

        because this poem is the real world. 

       

which is trudging through the puddle and being 

on the street and doesn't give a shit about my fingers.