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Cacophonous

Indian Giver

she was disarming

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  • Dec 1, 2009
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[...]

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The Tragedy of You and I

  • Sep 5, 2009
  • 1 comment

Intro: His name does not matter. It should not. We will wrap all of our secrets up in metaphors and let them steep. Our story follows.

I can't say when I met you. Not because I do not want to, but because the truth evades me. I do remember. It was a colorful and plutonic rendezvous at a local restaurant--the type that sits on every city block. I found you perched in a booth sitting behind your menu--only your eyes present at my arrival as some ridiculous caricature of yourself. It would be ages before you inked me onto your sheets and, at the time, you had promised yourself you would not write me out on the linen. Such things are historical and others' the poetry that destroyed it. 

The plan was not to meet me. Not to be enchanted by me. Not to use me. It all came too soon and too fast to be avoided. We whispered our declarations in slow, steady streams. They didn't mean much, but they sure were something. You let me in.

I remember you. Behind the steam of simmering pots and pans, there was a smile. A joint pressed between your lips, your feet danced to the music you intended to spread onto me in rich thick strokes. In rueful obliteration I lie on the couch eyeing your careful movements; between the dinner mist and the drug haze I knew today would be the day I would seduce you.

One thought after another, clearly just a muse for me, I wrote you on my sheets and then into my sheets. You hardly resisted. Well aware of the threat, we allowed the tryst to continue. We snaked around our own beds and whispered even completely alone. Some things break on impact; you were one of them. 

Some days I would lie in wait for weeks. The sun turned over on itself and I exhaled rich, thick smoke. I dreamed you lying on your back in blissful resolution excusing the woman that kept your dick warm from the bed you refused to share. She, unknowingly, fell victim same as the rest, but with little resistance. I would, later, discover she was yours first and you, you were hers.

Things like this did not matter. They were trivial and our desires we could mask. Adventures would follow. 

We speed down the road behind your place not bothering to stop at the drive that is yours--hugging the curves and pressed tight to the door and the sidewalk;
"You are driving in the bike lane, dear."

I remember one night up on a mountain top overlooking the entire city in every direction, surrounded by transients and lurking voyeurs, legs spread to the stars and the cool winter gale flew up my skirt, nearly covering my face.
Back pinned to a rock in the sort of ecstasy that mimics the moments we imagine to be exactly perfect;
the moment exactly before we remember mundane articles that bring us back to the here and now--
the wet laundry left to mildew in the washing machine
or 
having forgotten to pay the car insurance the other day when it was due. I watch you rise up like a sunset between my legs, licking your lips and fingers and whispering sweet words to me that perhaps I'll not ever hear again (the drugs are quicker than we remember and we say more than we intend, but, in fact, far less than we mean to--we will never say more).

The rough smoke exhale exitting my lips tastes better midorgasm.

"The planes make grids in tha air, you know. Have you ever watched them? They supervise the city. You have to do that with a city the size of Phoenix."
We are not safe.

In the car and driving around the neighborhood waiting for the house to clear up and our captors to disappear to their responsibilities so we can sleep late into the day seeking the clarity left somewhere in the closet in the back of the hall next to old board games and photo albums of prior life long loves--the reflections of pack animals lying on their backs forgetting the misdemeanors and heartbreaks of the past addressing remade mistakes askew in positions not recommended by the surgeon general in any form or condition thereof.

We will slip in, unannounced, finding ourselves almost immediately under-dressed fucking up the stairway and around the corner to the room that made me remember that I am, in fact, more alive than I once anticipated. Sleep seeped in until the startled day succumbed.

We sneak out -- disguise ourselves. Dance under the stars until the darkness bleeds into the late night. Speeding freely down the interstate, our destination is northward; we prolong our minutes with thick smoke. There is not a light for miles. Often, the speed limit is ignored and exceeded. We entertain ourselves with backlit pipedreams
as the city disappears in the distance. I entertain you with my lips. I see unnatural colors in the sky. The clouds settle in uneasy patterns.The fog over the mountains alarms me. Living in Phoenix, the very thought of fog is mystifying and unnerving. The sky moves and the drugs have reached my brain- I can see the curve of the earth. My lips tingle
and I can feel the buzz of the blood under my skin.

The road slows--where cacti meet conifer--and the temperature suddenly drops 
20-or so degrees. Mind frenzied, I forget where I am and lose track of time. The buzz of the tires on the road keeps me grounded. We arrive more or less clothed than when we started. The hotel was the only vacant--some weekend, small town festival was to follow. There were unexpected oddities, but the clerk held his tongue. We got in for cheap and examined our new surroundings. Nothing worked. When the drug haze cleared we would discover that none of the electronics, oddly enough, were plugged in.

We slide into our surroundings, uneasily shake off the dizziness and drive. We pretend, with two beds present, we won't share one. Lips move faster than words and our clothes fall off in petals. Camouflaged by the street light bleeding through the crack in the shades, we slip under linens and speak to dead poets. Proclamations are not our poisons, but affirmations, oh, they do the trick. Closed lip kisses tell secrets I care not to mention.

Its Saturday and work thinks I have cholera. I chose the symptoms carefully, even give it a name, but the only outcome is "Get well soon." We wandered around the city. Small towns are eerily desolate, even when populated, on weekends, We went to meet the tattooist and talked to him for hours about design. The dragons take shape and envelope the steady haze. In the time of Cholera, we go out for Thai. Fabulous Thai with the tattoo artist. The weekend was settling into a mold.

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so and so

  • Sep 5, 2009
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smaller than a grain of sound,

we run off

undress our souls,
sparkle in the daylight
and
breathe

off we go
through the foliage
taking in
the taste of the trees

slow to start
we run in circles
drawing off ancient energies
of liquid air

we fall asleep
at water's edge
dreaming of the sage that 
disarmed us.

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paper

  • Aug 27, 2009
  • 1 comment

It started yesterday. 
Pages, Ink-startled with life

meticulously scribed.

A rendezvous-- 
incomplete. 
Days past now stagnant 
and laced into dusty deja vu.

Yet, 
there is a lull;

the sun creeps over the horizon,

then sinks.

Blood runs thick and stale--

I roll over into and out of my breath.

The earth dies in patterns under my body.

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Daniel

  • Aug 24, 2009
  • 1 comment

Little boy

I had so much hope
and the pills came
chasing after you.

They give it a name,
but can not be certain
of any outcome 
forthcoming.

LIttle boy,
You can do it still.
They give it a title 
to answer their questions.

Where are your questions--
much unanswered?
So carefully we tiptoe through time
Hoping for truth some day.

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"COME WITH ME! I have an AMAZING idea!"

  • Aug 18, 2009
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lacquered in a heavy, grey film, I observe the world. blotting out detail pursing my lips on the tissue of dim; my visage enhanced. smoke surfaces where it does not belong my fingers seem foreign I examine them in wonderment breezeway lips to imagined or real destructions amazing grace pleas hummed at an unsteady tempo these chemicals write my blood chemistry chain reactions radiate through my nervous system store-bought lobotomy; I develop a tic. "The benefits outweigh the side effects," they say. The noises become quiet, I jest. my day is restricted to bar graphs and pie charts delicious reminders of differential indifference. I slink into my bed and lie still in waking hours watching patterns on the ceiling at night when the chemicals may run free; It is not safe. Take two sedatives and call me when you shake them, baby. My fears have been reduced to miligrams. There is a tear in the seams I venture out examine things slowly and watch colors bleed together to myself I proclaim, in question, Is this a glimpse of happiness or does it simply define madness?

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Airtight

  • Aug 18, 2009
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green melts into my fingers I soothe the earth in rich, slow strokes lying on my back I feel the ground exhale. My lashes flicker and earthly debris falls slow off my careless cheeks. I breathe. my figure lay akimbo to breezes grazing the curve of my body. I wake as raindrops blanket the grey two petals parting I wait. the skies darken my eyes dilate lips burn I exhale.

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listless

  • Aug 18, 2009
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long, drawn out summer days kiss the nape of my humid flesh breathe Is it enough to exist? Is it enough to write letters I will never send? I mourn the loss of you. Colors pass over the lids of my eyes cool themselves in flutters You light up the night, behind my lids, and my womb aches. It is a tiring masquerade running down the streets brightly aged by love's glow and I mourn you. My lips on the cool glass of store windows I drift off to a weary sleep exchanging correspondence in waves.


For Varun Marthur

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asleep

  • Apr 20, 2009
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spinning clockwise
daydream haze
things are what they are not
functioning for utility
and living on

days only pills can cure


lovers laid out on racks
fresh fish baking in the sun
someone else's latest catch
irregular movements in the dark

long distance cheek kisses 
declarations of infatuation
affording indifference
to situationally exist
to miss the present
is life.

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untitled

  • Mar 10, 2009
  • 1 comment

Strictly unmentionable content

      wrapped in a careful blanket of contagious lies,
      we only kiss in a thick, contaminating haze.
And you only reciprocate on Thursday between 6 and 10; 
      the vector is quickly forgotten.
We slip through closed doors and colorless daydreams,
      communicating in 160 words or less like Mr. Mayor--
      so publicized are our most intimate declarations.
Having grown old and apathetic, our tryst has come to my enlightenment
      and I forgive you:
Your colors are black and white;
      I dare you to claim more.
      We will never speak in full sentences 
      as we did in innocent and ancient days past
Living on physical exchange and recognizing the entropy of the cause--
      our love, briefly stated, is porn.

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Cacophonous

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She was disarming
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