You'll always be my favorite kind of film. The sitcom without the laugh tracks or a romance without the actors. Pining for you to vivisecting you against the metal of a surgical table, because maybe if I cracked open that soft, ****** flesh I'd finally be able to understand why. How you unspool me, all these years between us but you're still the only boy that's ever made me cry without hitting me first. Mum says she liked me better before I got off the pills. Honestly, I only cut them up once they're dead mother, we all need our hobbies. I used to rewrite scene after scene of the woulda-coulda-shoulda's of our script and hide them from you. I used to be a lot of things. Don't we all miss me on pills.
This is how we meet: It's a cocktail party, **** big baby blue eyes and the smell of your skin lingering in every corner. Out on the country lawn, we all give whiskey kisses and blanket smiles. Tonight I'm lined with teeth and you're bored out of your mind. On the radio, a song plays I just wanna feel something .
A little doodle, thinking about what's it's like to meet nitroglycerin.
You said you needed an extra pair of hands so I took mine off and gave them to you. The sun set in my glass, darling- can't you hear that? coo-ee, coo-ee oh the cockatoos are jabbering philosophy again. Sweet-talker, I want to push my fingers into your mouth, swirl it in all the honey in there. My hands on the clock pointing at quarter past five, birds swing up into the air like the half-beat of a pendulum lungs filling up with water- we're all romantic fools here. Sometimes I think of time as fluid tick tock tick tock my glass dripping into yours. We're all running dry, quickly, before the night ends- ask me to dive off the edge of the world with you.
Took me ages to title this. Not as sad as what I usually go for.
I'm reading a step-by-step manual on how to love yourself again. 'Cause although fundamentals may be philosophy, Rewiring is all physics baby. We all need a reason to escape gravity and plunge ourselves out of orbit. Self-sacrifice isn't worth **** if you're wired for it. To stand on the edge of a tall building and think of jumping. Inertia and hysteria. The magnetic pull of your body to the ground. To return back to dust. loving myself is a little bit like that.
Schrodinger's cat lives, Schrodinger's cat dies, but you never know unless you open the lid.
If you're a writer your main trade is hating yourself and finding ways to be clever about it. Smoke cigar and coffee-stained typewriters, bachelor in the sixties, suicide in the seventies. I'm just a cliché, raining cats and dogs, beating dead horses and singing a little song about death a little song about love there is nothing new under the sun. Dylan doesn't understand what you do is better than accounting, your trade is people like stock markets- string them up and watch them fall I play with hearts, you say like a girl showing off her somersaults in the backyard. But no one is listening. … … …
So you burn your eyes out with hot wax in the living room and swear your name is Icarus throw your diploma into the laundry and watch it turn into tissue paper, taking moonlight walks down the beach and straight into the bottom of the ocean.
(you thought she would hit you when you told her you wanted to write but she only laughed... and you were surprised how much it hurt.)
Your father's pride, a phone full of contacts, seeing straight in the ******* morning and the heart of a girl that was once foolish enough to love nitroglycerine, sold for a bottle of ink and a scrap of paper and your name in the obituaries. ... ... ...
Tell yourself it was worth it.
Sometimes I think writers like me might be why no one reads anymore.
Every morning I die a little death. Bourbon-shot skies and whiskey lies, better stop making those bedroom eyes, 'cause I might just take you up on it darlin'. I'm a little bit of pretty nonsense. Rhyme and dine, turn down the lights, break our bodies into bread and say our daily prayer and ****** hope there's a god for sinners. Fire brings out the worst of us and we're fucken gasoline. You keep spittin' out that serious talk saying Everything has a price, Well then kiss me and let's bleed for it later, the whole world's only a cocktail darling.
Watched the sunrise today and thought of this- something impulsive.