portraits in progress 2345841Iportraits in progress 2345841
She’s small-town pretty. Five foot seven and still waiting to grow up. Sick of her own scent and so bored she could eat her face. Last summer (the one that’s fading) she had sex with a senior and she thinks she lost her naivety by default. It had been by a cornfield in his car. (Husky silky ripe corn.) The beer had made her feel blurred, like she had been smudged. A divine cartoonist changing his mind perhaps. She likes to think she likes a drink.
She’s slightly scared of becoming like her mother (who bakes peanut butter chiffon pies and sleeps in a patchouli-fugged f
portraits in progressIportraits in progress
She’s small-town pretty. Five foot seven and still waiting to grow up. Sick of her own scent and so bored she could eat her face. Last summer (the one that’s fading) she had sex with a senior and she thinks she lost her naivety by default. It had been by a cornfield in his car. (Husky silky ripe corn.) The beer had made her feel blurred, like she had been smudged. A divine cartoonist changing his mind perhaps. She likes to think she likes a drink.
She’s slightly scared of becoming like her mother (who bakes peanut butter chiffon pies and sleeps in a patchouli-fugged f
your motherI think your mother would have liked me. She was a stupid woman. She would have liked me because I knew not to wear denim to the country club, and because I liked art. She and I would have sat on the side of a concrete pool under a polyester parasol, and been brought long island iced teas by a waiter called Carlos (my paler skin belying the fact that I share his ethnicity, his language, his hatred of her). She would have carefully plied me with alcohol, monitoring whether I succumbed to slurring. High tolerance is a status symbol, proof of a life spent in cocktail parties. My own invulnerability to it is noyour mother
cardiopulmonary resuscitationIcardiopulmonary resuscitation
Today she asked us to feel for a pulse. Touch our own heartbeats with two fingers. A genuflection in praise and reverence of an inconstant mass of flesh blood and bone. Pushed up my sleeve and watched my tiny childish amateur hand gouge at my wrist’s tendons and familiar scars in search of something life-affirming. And I noticed I hadn’t painted my nails in weeks, since I saw you last if not longer. Then she told us to try to find our partner’s pulse. He offered up a smooth dark wrist laced with veins and taut with sinew. I watched my fingers grope, applying pressure with teasing
DanielaDaniela (Kinda like the Weezer song Jamie)Daniela
So,
You want a poem do you,
A shameless self promotion type thing (they say self improvement is masturbation),
but you know me,
I’m more than willing to oblige
(not the masturbating part…ok, so maybe).
There’s something about you,
You know, that special something,
Kinda like when someone smells really bad but you aren’t sure what they smell like,
But it’s special.
You’re like that, except you don’t smell bad.
(You smell great, actually. Like flowers and morning dew, usually).
I think
The Evening MealThe Evening MealThe Evening Meal
Sullen afternoons outside full of water, threatening rain Sitting bent over herself on the concrete stairs of the stoop watching the neighborhood loop itself around the thin steel banisters, broken
concrete, fire hydrants and parked cars wishing her feet were faster or the day were longer or both
Sunset sends her inside with the ratty couch and the hard wooden floors covered in rugs worn by the tough black heels of girls shoes, never meant for running but converted to the purpose each afternoon on the way
Speaking of OxygenSpeaking Of Oxygen .Chris Serio.Speaking of Oxygen
Let’s blow it out he says, ? Fuck me it’s loud, Drills and police wail sirens sailing on oxygen Snow sailing on the sky On the wings of fallen angels tortured with plastic, metals and butane And it’s green so you can see it tonight.
But every flame that he sees screams of combustion
And it’s louder than before,
It’s explosions and ignition like fuel injection On Pinto’s with flaming fat bubbling on fabrics and sullied dashboards Dirty dust that careens on parabola’s
And Hoover’s on carpets and mom’s Sunday morning fl
Devious Journal Entry
hay alguien por aqui?
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"Algunas cosas ya cambiaron..."
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My stock photos: ~nitra
Member of: ~la-ch ~argentinos ~kiss-me ~oscurabsas * Guidance-Counseling * Cerodigital
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Art without shame
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I wish I understood what the fuck I'm saying.
I am glad that you liked Lady McAlpine in the Moulin Rouge style. In the pic, she was chatting up a rich boy with money to burn (off-camera) ^_~
Merci muchly for your kind words. I hope you'll check out my gallery soon. Much has changed since my earlier characters
I like what I see here! Very impressive arts. Wish I could write decent prose like I used to in High School...
I hope you're okay.
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#writers - [link]
What's the surprise? You've got me interested now
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#writers - [link]
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tower of Babel .
:iconmissannthropexxx::iconnoc tambula::iconbeyondlight::icon boxchicken::iconaccela:
:iconamandine::iconsirensin::i condollseye::icond1n3::iconfra gil:
Glad [link] made you laugh.
don't worry about inteligent remarks. I myself refuse to make them on a regular basis.
good work with all you are doing.
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