These are things tossed out of the windows of my mind. Catch them. At worst, I am brilliant at breakfast.
At best ....
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I taste the South when she talks.
Every salutation,
a lick of cigarette smoke,
Every stress,
a throat full of molasses,
Every intonation,
a belly glazed with orange marmalade.
(Because talking to me on Skype sometimes results in spontaneous bouts of poetry. Engage at your own risk.)
let them talk.
forever, disaster, disgust.
they equate the same to me.
and should I ask you out
in such a world?
all I need is a line to kill it.
you’re not that type.
no, you are the line.
and when I think of disaster
it better be what we talk of.
now, disastrous, but always.
that’s what equates to us.
bad poetry subsides beneath.
the earth and sun are fucked.
we don’t give. shit. a fucking one.
fuck me. that’s given. so is pain.
say goodbye to me one more time.
that’s how I like you. see you again.
say goodbye. standing on now.
it’s just this and you will.
forever rains. our forever
reigns.
bubbles on sunlit sighs.
at least we’re alive.
just wanna try.
just wanna be
among some
one true enough
to bury blues
and soothe
chamomile.
and I talk
to her.
and maybe you want some of me.
and maybe you will, all of me.
I’m a graduate of cardboard
lives, meaning what I mean.
meet a girl just to tell her
I’m nothing.
meet a girl. quit my job;
the one that doesn’t
pay. she knows
I’m nobody.
just to see
her skype,
eyes pretending
sleep’s alright.
and if we get by
tonight,
we’ll speak drugs
or not, or lit.
it’s good to know
we’re all of it.
eyes, eyes,
eyes.
I’ve not started
yet.
So Joy wrote a sweet little poem for me because she is everything wonderful.
With every word she writes,
every time,
every which way,
and again.
I know I love this
again and always.
So Roggy just compared me to a sexy-as-fuck hand gun. In other news, I’ve just decided the phrase “sexy as fuck” is woefully and impermissibly redundant. This does not take away from my loving of this, nor from my propensity to use said phrase. Roggy and I have an understanding, okay? We were cut from the same cloth. And that cloth was sexy as fuck.
A Beretta M9A1 to me.
Sexy as fuck, she’s reliable and accurate. Reliable and accurate!
She’s my weapon of choice.
Though I know Jen has an affinity for German builds and in that case, a Sig/HK would be the natural comparison, I’m going to go ahead and be bold enough to compare her to a Beretta M9A1.
She’s designed for low maintenance but built to withstand corrosion. Her resistance is remarkable what with the hardass hard chrome finishing.
She’s reliable and accurate.
She has a grip on her — sleek curved forward base — that can be compared to loyalty. Jen is fucking loyal.
She’s reliable and accurate.
So she has an enlarger hammer pin. Don’t we all. Besides there’s a use for that, it’s a necessity. There won’t be no sliding off when that fucker cracks. Nope.
She’s reliable and accurate.
Have you ever met anyone who can write the fuck off anything? This badass semi-automatic is easily reloadable and packs 15 rounds in one magazine.
And the aggressive front? Totally adds to her sexy, clean look. Which is oxymoronic when I say clean because this baby screams fuck. Like, Fuck. Wrap your hand around me and let’s blow this place up. Bang! Bang! Bang! Fuck!
She’s reliable and accurate.
And she’s my weapon of choice.
I’ve always been a collector of pretty things. Warm books bound in leather that are perfumed in a pinewood smell. They speak of stories that I press hard behind my eyes. Stories are what lead me to you, lead me down a winding path where stars get caught in my eyes. You do it every time. I am captured, mesmerized, and captivated under the weight of your smile. A beautiful curve that became a river flowing with words meant for the artists pen. You were inspiration at first sight, and I wanted to dip my pen into you. Dip into your thoughts where secrets melt and mesh like warm butter, tasting the violence beneath your skin. You are more than these scars stretched across your heart, with every line and gash I want to write you a new song, pen you a new story. Would you let me write myself into you? I’d like to etch my words across your thighs, let you hear them as I breathe them along your skin. A breath of new life — for me, for you. Perhaps this is what we hoped for all along. Connection — in your eyes, in mine. This is what it means to want to consume in the blink of an eye. A need to devour from the inside out. It is certainly no mystery. I want to possess you, capture you in a pretty jar for my own. A warm place where I can watch your wings flutter behind frosted glass. You will be loyal, loved, and kind. That is why I’ll leave the lid open for you, my dear. I’ll set you free, but only after I’ve collected you first.
Wow … I’m overwhelmed. I’ll cherish this always. <3
The fabulous Jen
Needed only her pen
To change the way
I saw the world.
This is quite possibly the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. I’m smiling so big right now.
Jester Jen, minuscule juggernaut;
Artist of both pen and coffee-pot; she’s
Young in body, old in her soul, spilling
Ale fueled flirtations to sweet
Rock-and-roll, streaming
Raucous, and rowdy, as an
Author should be,
Richly shod in chic chucks,
Robed resplendently in vocabulary.
Just the sweetest little surprise to see. <3
I love her and her writes because
it doesn’t matter what she says
she will always back it up with
the truth.She is pure, she is real, and she is honest.
That is why I love her.
