It's been a while since he's vomited up a call for attention by calling other out. The doubt that wreaked havoc on his mind was squelched by an over active need for sympathy, coupled with a hope that someday, maybe someday, he wouldn't be so fucking needy. When he sat by the apple to his worm (a beautiful reminder of the downfall of man, being pitted by earth's worthless defender and creator) he was reminded of the universe, he was reminded of his eminent demise and the eventual meeting with his savior. But when he asked her what would happen to them after the rapture, she dropped her voice low.
"I'm not going to follow when you go. I plan to spend eternity arm in arm with a man who loves me unconditionally. A man who encourages me to enjoy my time instead of planning for a future that I cant be sure of. "
Regretting having asked he passed the subject while looking to find a way to empty his Adam in her garden. The more time she spent inside his head the more he longed to feel her bed on his spine, drinking her blood of wine, feeling her from behind, grinding on satin sheets until he fell asleep. The more time she spent beside him the more he had to fight his desires, put out the devils fires, deny he'd be a liar after speaking God's own word. The longer she knew she had his mind, the more she wanted to have his flesh, looking for away to make his devotion to the ever after a disaster. She wanted to ruin his faith, not because she cared but to take revenge for all the men that ever hurt her, draped in cloth or spitting Leviticus, it didn't matter who he was.
The day came that she rang his doorbell in a physical act of vandalism, the smell of their violence emptied into the hallway. And while he was lost in pit of passion, his mind was acting in a fashion that demanded a better understanding, but blinded by the revelation that salvation might not soon be waiting for him, he didnt have time to think of what he was doing.
When she left him cold and alone, five boards floating above his head, he realized he would never see her again. His eyelids became too heavy and his faith was lost in an instant. He had no reason to stop believing but it felt better not needing a bleeding heart...
a heathens fresh start.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
RUNNIN 2 @ ONCE!
So there are sometimes that i dont want to write a letter (see http://dearxxx.blogspot.com). And there are also sometimes that i just dont want to have decent grammar. or capitalize properly. or spellchsdck. So this is where this one comes in. I doubt many people read "dear xxxx," regularly, and i doubt further that ANYONE will ever read this one, but im finna start usin it anywayz.
so fuck.
I am a firm believer in free writing. Anytime i sit down to write anything, i start by doing at least a paragraph of freewriting, just to get in the mood. then i light some candles, play some marvin gaye and start fucking myself. I try to pay more attention to where my fingers are placed on the keyboard than what i'm actually typing. And i can honestly say, sometimes better shit comes out than when i actually try.
that being said, i used to write all the time. it was what i used to pass the time. it was what i used to vent my problems, explore my insecurities, and build up the lack of self esteem i had. emphasize the word "had" for me, wont you? because now my self image is so jacked up into the fucking air that to reach the top takes a space shuttle, and were you to fall off, you would bust into flames half way down. which seems pretty fucking redundant. maybe its the prescription pain killers talking, but this whole blog is terrible.
I think the overly self aware writings that i find either in other blogs, or in those books that the hipsters have adopted for their summer reading list (see urban outfitters selection of Salinger and Klosterman) have really turned me off from that style of writing. im really not sure what im talking about. it would be nearly impossible for me to take some of the things that go on in my head and make them coherent. so most times i dont even try. unfortunately im not listening to myself.
sometimes i think that the crazy never left. Sometimes i think that i just managed to convince myself that the crazy was normal and let the chips fall. sometimes i think that the hand i was dealt was loaded to roll a 7, and the 52 weeks i spend too much money talking about things that i cant even imagine... where the hell am i going with this?
i have a conscious stream, and it seems that when the leaves start to change, the colors arrange themselves in the water. I want the world to look a little farther than the base, not the world, just the few that hurled insults when nothing can be bought and sold, but we're told that before we get old we should fold and submit to the way things are, and the ones that do can get far ahead of the rest of us. sometimes i think that the ones that are always moving are the ones that collect the most dust. the same ones that keep air packed in aerosol cans, release it and trap it in plastic bags, and inhale a little noise into their frontal lobes just to escape the dead end roads and the ebb and flow that got them sea sick. but sometimes you have to suck lifes dick. sometimes you have to bend over, grab your ass and let them kiss it. because being stagnate is the enemy, being a piss poor mother fucker makes you a friend to me, and sometimes censorship is utter blasphemy. it's days like tomorrow that make you want to learn a new habit, like swearing like a fucking rabbit, like beating the shit out of some kid that snuck into a bar trying to act like he knew what he was doing, instead of praying his brothers ID doesnt get stolen. So fuck. fuck everything until the sun comes up and you're forced to give a fuck about things that will never matter. so fuck.
so fuck.
so fuck.
I am a firm believer in free writing. Anytime i sit down to write anything, i start by doing at least a paragraph of freewriting, just to get in the mood. then i light some candles, play some marvin gaye and start fucking myself. I try to pay more attention to where my fingers are placed on the keyboard than what i'm actually typing. And i can honestly say, sometimes better shit comes out than when i actually try.
that being said, i used to write all the time. it was what i used to pass the time. it was what i used to vent my problems, explore my insecurities, and build up the lack of self esteem i had. emphasize the word "had" for me, wont you? because now my self image is so jacked up into the fucking air that to reach the top takes a space shuttle, and were you to fall off, you would bust into flames half way down. which seems pretty fucking redundant. maybe its the prescription pain killers talking, but this whole blog is terrible.
I think the overly self aware writings that i find either in other blogs, or in those books that the hipsters have adopted for their summer reading list (see urban outfitters selection of Salinger and Klosterman) have really turned me off from that style of writing. im really not sure what im talking about. it would be nearly impossible for me to take some of the things that go on in my head and make them coherent. so most times i dont even try. unfortunately im not listening to myself.
sometimes i think that the crazy never left. Sometimes i think that i just managed to convince myself that the crazy was normal and let the chips fall. sometimes i think that the hand i was dealt was loaded to roll a 7, and the 52 weeks i spend too much money talking about things that i cant even imagine... where the hell am i going with this?
i have a conscious stream, and it seems that when the leaves start to change, the colors arrange themselves in the water. I want the world to look a little farther than the base, not the world, just the few that hurled insults when nothing can be bought and sold, but we're told that before we get old we should fold and submit to the way things are, and the ones that do can get far ahead of the rest of us. sometimes i think that the ones that are always moving are the ones that collect the most dust. the same ones that keep air packed in aerosol cans, release it and trap it in plastic bags, and inhale a little noise into their frontal lobes just to escape the dead end roads and the ebb and flow that got them sea sick. but sometimes you have to suck lifes dick. sometimes you have to bend over, grab your ass and let them kiss it. because being stagnate is the enemy, being a piss poor mother fucker makes you a friend to me, and sometimes censorship is utter blasphemy. it's days like tomorrow that make you want to learn a new habit, like swearing like a fucking rabbit, like beating the shit out of some kid that snuck into a bar trying to act like he knew what he was doing, instead of praying his brothers ID doesnt get stolen. So fuck. fuck everything until the sun comes up and you're forced to give a fuck about things that will never matter. so fuck.
so fuck.
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