The Sound of Smoking
Slitting your wrists is all the fun of partying with none of the regret in the morning. You get to be sloppy and wreck stuff and no one can really blame you. “Oops sorry I ruined your dress. We shouldn’t be dancing so close anyways, I have a girlfriend”
If honesty always comes out when you’re drunk you could mumble “I thought I already told you not to trust me” and give a playful wink and fancy yourself cleverer than anyone realizes. And if they challenge you simply retort “forget spilling my guts, I’m pouring blood here!”
No one ever really wants to hear the truth anyways.
Labels: kill yourself-suprise your friends, uncontrollable urges
At a 100 words a minute I'm taking my time
As if you weren’t perfect enough already, now you’re a cybernetic organism. Seeing your IP address late at night is flirtatious, knowing your operating system is alluring. A Mac eh? That’s sexy and close to home, and in this case familiarity no longer breeds contempt.
Now if you would only permit me to place my fingers on you I swear I could come up with something compelling. I could punch out something dripping with pathos; you’d be disgusted at just how easy imagery comes to mind to produce the required intrigue to make you a thrilling ride right until the end.
You’re a tough read; but it’s worth it.
Labels: the robocalypse, uncontrollable urges
Juliet: when we made love you used to cry
Comfort comes in strange forms, it can be laid out in front of you, kinked and creased and you can spread out like old maps in dusty libraries. I could run my palms over topography lines, and outdated destinations; I could trace the outlines of misguided vacations kept firmly under my thumb. You can curl your hands around the small of its back and nuzzle its soft neck. Regret is easier to handle when it comes in the form of a silk wrapped blond. We could turn the music up to drown out the sound of the self doubt ringing in my ears; we could turn the music up to feel the bass throb as we grow closer.
We could spin on empty dance floors; we could lie to each other in silence; we could betray ourselves with simple disingenuous glances. We could stab blindly at silhouettes and curse what substance we know of each other. Intent is a funny thing, subtlety is biting and I hope it leaves wounds. Because if I were to leave an indelible mark on you I wouldn’t want it to come from my hands. Because just to spite myself I just pulled my teeth and found a new word for everything.
Juliet; the dice was loaded from the start.
Labels: bad friends, tender tender flesh
Someday in the future there will be a day like this
I imagine staying inside all day because it’s cold and rainy out. Tracing the outlines of skeletons and placing them in romantic embraces and guessing at the comfort that would provide on a fateful day in Pompeii. We would grow drowsy surrounded by the dry heat of our apartment and lay our skeletons to sleep, candle light still flickering as we closed our eyes. We’d dream and speak in backwards German and sip strange wines and it would smell like hearty nuts and soft spices. We’d take advantage of the fact that it grows dark early and take comfortable naps and wake up with lots of time left to just lay there and smell your hair before it was time to actually go to bed.
Labels: future?
The once and future king
I’m starting to understand what Mars Volta is talking about. It’s starting to get cold and it feels like Christmas. That reminds me of that album, cranking it in Jason’s car and trying to explain the significance as snow fell heavily on the windshield wipers that he ended up replacing. I could see the CN Tower from my bedroom and I’d sit in the chair we rolled down the street from the end of someone’s driveway and read and watch the sky darken behind it. I’m feeling nostalgic; it’s just different this time.
Demons swinging hammers? I understand that now. I can isolate that sound and I can appreciate why its there. Somewhere between Latin rhythms and the horns section its there, percussion is amazing regardless of impact. So just imagine how that feels when it hits you.
I tried explaining it by applying pressure on your body once. Your skin was too soft and my fingers too weak. I did manage to get a sound out of you but it didn’t end in a bang.
My fortress of solitude
I go there with a bitterness in my mouth, a hollowness of spirit, a weakness of constitution. Montreal; with your strange sofas I wake up on, your fluffy omlettes with weird ingredients, your deep glasses of wine and candle light and cigarette smoke and your fluid definitions of morality.
Things look like they were filmed on 8mm...romantic, distant, scattered and hazy.
Yesterday I had déjà-vu a couple times.
Slowly curling around a highway off ramp in the late afternoon I watched a seemingly out of place grassy hill bathed in sunlight. It was a deep yellow and I watched the wind seductively wrap its curvy body in the silky grass. It rippled and surged under the invisible waves and I knew what in fact was playing on that hill. My fellow motorists were unaware of the impending danger.
Then late last night driving down a dark and slick Bloor Street I watched the streets teem with young blood. Globs of flesh protruding from thigh high stockings, networks of vein and bones mischievously dangling from short skirts and unbuttoned necklines gave pause for caution. Just because ghosts were following me shouldn’t preclude me from gazing as muscle and sinew worked hard against the unseasonably warm autumn air. It was warm enough to expose bare skin, but I bet it would rise and tighten under the gentlest of touches. I continued on…
I witnessed the romance of a haymaker, the betrayal of alcohol, the hyper vivid realization that we are not as strong as we appear and that maybe self doubt is a good thing. There are a lot of forces at work; in the grass, in my rearview...the most powerful of which is in my head, keeping me safe by telling me “I can’t”.
Labels: little thoughts, tender tender flesh, uncontrollable urges
B-sides are a funny thing
About once a month I have to sit through this excruciatingly boring meeting about soil contaminants. It is horrible, not just because of the topic, but the purpose, hammering out precise language for a best practices guide. Oh, and I’m also there for no reason!
So at this meeting there is this slightly older woman that I have a real soft spot for her as the only female around the table. Sometimes we catch each others eyes and we suppress small grins, sometimes we scowl at each other pretending to ruminate over the inane talking. We go until one of us cracks a smile and looks away. We go until I’m dizzy considering the possibilities.
So as I was walking into the room today I collide with her as she was exiting. Our bodies pressed against each other and my hands fell delicately on her hips. Her hands raised and placed her open palms on my chest. We blushed deeply at our accidental embrace, betraying us to the entire room. We both took a step back, cleared our throats and uttered soft apologies before continuing on our way. Some of the older men commented on what a “soft landing” that must have been. In my head I agreed.
This is how I celebrated my 1 year of no smoking!
It is a strange moment when this is what your friends become. How is it possible that these random vapors escaping your face hole are received and interpreted in a way that I can only conclude you’re talking about history? Who talks about history? How did you acquire this knowledge when everything we do is random and you’re only here because more particles were magnetically attracted long ago to a glob of a baser version of yourself than they did to the nothingness that was beside you?
A collection of guts and bones wrapped in plush skin acting randomly while completely disconnected from the system that allegedly binds us together. It reminds me of a punctured aerosol can rattling loudly against solid objects while ignoring any of the all too apparent mental constructs that filled and failed the room. It just spins and flutters; impervious to any sentiment, devotion or cognitive dependence on those around you. You can will it to stop, but what is will? You could rely upon social norms and precedent, but where has that ever gotten us? Does this feel normal when I put my hands on you and try to still your flailing body? Instead I'll just stare, a body in motion wants to stay that way and there is no friction in the space between us. Ignore these giant strings of theories and etiquette that drape the room, you can pass right through them.
Yet I still can receive this transmission despite my own bizarre and uncontrollable hissing and sputtering.
Labels: going crazy, tender tender flesh
