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Lipstick

“I keep having these weird dreams where I’m stuck in a wooden box with a really really sharp knife,” I say. “Oh, Rhiannon, I think all that lipstick is finally getting to your brain,” says Sabine. “Leave me alone about the lipstick,” I say. The lipstick started during the divorce, and even though all is better now, the lipstick habit still remains. But seriously, it tastes good. It’s not like I eat it when I’m extra sad about the divorce or anything like that. It all comes down to the simple fact that I enjoy this stuff. “Have you tried the orange kind yet?” Sabine asks me. &

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Out of Control

It's 6:46 and thirty-one seconds when the doorbell rings. My mom runs to answer it. "Hi, Michelle!" I hear my mom call. It's my sister. She left her college friends to have dinner with us tonight. I have four minutes before I can go out and greet her. I can only walk through doors when the number of minutes is divisible by five. 6:46 and fifty-nine seconds. Not happening. It's the killer of what could be an okay life. I'm late for class all the time when I'm at school. A teacher will let me out at 1:50 exactly. I walk through the hallways in a straight line, starting with my right foot, ending with my left. I reach the door,

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Forgiveness

I When the little girl woke up, she found cookies in her shoes. It was December 6, St. Nicholas Day, her parents told her. That’s the day when Santa comes and takes your Christmas list and leaves you cookies if you were good, a switch if you were bad. Santa left her cookies! The little girl squealed in delight, in excitement. Do you want to try one, her mother asked. The little girl put one in her mouth. She chewed. She swallowed. She smiled. It was the best thing she had ever eaten in her life. You can eat another one, her father said. &

oldest-boy

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affection drive

If I recycled the love littered at your feet hearts would starve no more.

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for the drunks

there's a sense of wealth in me, not one that comes from checking bank statements, or balancing a check book, but more or less a contrast to the spiritual bankruptcy of my past, I remember sitting filthy in self pity on the stairs of a church, drinking beer hotter than piss from a dirty styrofoam cup fresh from the

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and all the things...

I'm in my underwear, writing because my pen was closer than my pants, the sun is practically drawing the curtains itself so I finish the job with a squint, this time last year I had no underwear and the windows were boarded up, It's so much easier to get out of bed and step on my pen than a broken crack-pipe or a dirty needle, hope and desperation at my sides, knowing time will drown me in it's wake, I wonder things; what Robert Lowell could have possibly known about life, how the blind know they are awake, if Erika got my letter, lost to myself for a second smiling like a retard with a popsicle, a p

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Love Song for Dagmar

She’s a glutton, she’s no kitten; she can stuff her face for Britain See her sitting in her Citroen, you can spot her from afar. She is buxom, she is brazen, see her bottom, it’s amazing, She is straining at the straplets of her cantilevered bra. She’s an airship, she’s a trawler, still I worship and adore her She’s a randy landslide riding in her flash French car. As a goddess, she’s the oddest, and she’s vulgar and immodest She’s the empress of breast, she is my sweet Dagmar. She’s no figment, she’s no fragment, she’s a fat fridge magnet and she’s sticking like a limp

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Counting for Nothing

Fourteen hundred paces wasted walking to your door, and every time a pointless pounding headache - sore, resounding, raw; what follows next? as you'd expect a shocking exhibition of that bloody mix of tears and spit and semen spilled across this gritty floor. and from the day that we last spoke I've counted twenty-four. How come I'm your ignored - you must have grown so bored of me and now my fingers, gnawed and nails all bitten paw through scores of letters better left unwritten - never sent, now torn and scattered, littered with my bitter thoughts unuttered, so utterly distraught I am, I poured a litany of scorn and lo

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As If

If you can hold your drink when all about you are losing theirs and aiming it at you, if you can drive your car when all men doubt you, but make allowance for the coppers too; or need to pee but not be tired by waiting, or after peeing don’t forget your flies; on politics or football start debating and yet don’t look too good nor talk too wise. If you can drink and not make drink your master; if you can talk – and not make sense your aim; if you can still stand up although you’re plastered and shout at passing women dirty names; if you can bear to hear the truth tomorrow of how you acted like a total fool and

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poetry

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Despoema de amor

Deveria lhe compor versos perfeitos Que homenageariam todo seu ser Te diria que o meu sonho é te ter Mas fico com preguiça e não faço tais feitos Diria que desbravaria todo o mundo Somente pra defender seu nome Só que eu esqueci dele, to usando um pronome, Então é melhor guardar isso num buraco fundo Doaria pra te uma parte de mim Se necessário até meu coração Mas na hora do transplante eu daria uma de fujão É melhor a essa estrofe eu dar um fim Falarei então que até Lua eu te daria Mas agora de me lembro de um problema: Não consigo nem sequer puxar

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Desire

Your smooth skin, It drives me crazy I want to touch you, And just maybe, You...will let me... The look in your eyes, It really drives me wild I shouldn't be surprised, That you're so tempting... You are all I can see... Desire... Taking over me Desire... Controlling me I can see... The light in your eyes, Every time you see me... The beads of perspiration, Are rolling down your face As you look away, I lean in for a little taste, Because you let me... I can see your curves, Move underneath your shirt And I can't place a price, On what this moment's worth... So revealing... Desire... Taking over me Desire... Always controlling me I can s

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Our Last Kiss

If I had known that it was our last kiss, I would have inhaled you deeper within me. If I had known that it was our last kiss, I would have seared your taste onto my tongue. If I had known it was our last kiss, I would have scorched your scent into my skin. ... If I had known, I would have frozen time ...

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Washing With Water

Shooting blanks and shitty whisky wishing somebody was sitting sinking with me.

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compulsive liar.

once i asked you your favourite colour, and you said, "the brown of your eyes," so i put in one green contact and told everyone that i came out of the womb as a factory defect, half-priced, damaged goods. - sometimes i am from canada and sometimes i am from england and sometimes i am from spain. i've carefully tempered my accents and plotted out my stories with yellow and purple coloured pencils on index cards. my origin changes like the seasons. "why do you lie to everyone?" you ask. "why not?" i reply. - i wear nametags that read "alicia" and "liana" and "samantha," because i want to know how it feels to be someon

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Contrivand

no pain t no gain a

diaphragm

mme-enigmatique

Published: Sep 10, 2009

202 Views

Description

an odd experiment in type and sound.

EDIT: 11 sept. 2009

i want to make an attempt at giving onomatopoeic voice to sounds that we all hear, have all made. thus, i tried to create this story in onomatopoeia, drinking something and then tragedy.

Comments1

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piroteki

Sep 11, 2009

interesting. tell me more.

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