“Pill poppin’, ho hoppin’, ain’t no stopping Big Poppa”
First real day of work auspiciously embarked upon with the help of pharmaceutical friends.
tension and texture
everyone is kind of tightly wound somehow and I might be worse than most / I might be worse than most but it dams and damns what might be a deafening kind of blow oh darling / oh darling my cup it runneth over / it runneth over and you are not there to hold your lips to the rim / lips to the rim and suck (nobody has done that successfully ever but you never tried) / you never tried asking but maybe you just didn’t have a question / question all of it but not that hot afternoon in january / that hot afternoon in january my thighs were golden as the shined-up dust but softer / softer, infinitely softer / softer like affection like sweet like the taste of your tongue /
(the taste of your tongue, I can’t really remember it now)
“ I want to sail away to Cuba with the boy I love, and never bestow as much as a blowjob. I want to climb into the bedroom of the person I confide in most and know that they will always be awake. I want kisses on moonlit piers, and to be crowned Homecoming Queen, and dramatic confessionals where we always say exactly what we mean, incrediblyfastandurgently. I want a never-ending rotation of pastel cable neck sweaters, and parents who are sympathetic to my every need. I want Jann Arden to score my first kiss, and my soul mate to retake my virginity on our senior ski trip. I want Katie Holmes’ thighs and Michelle Williams’ breasts. I want true, undeniable love, but only at the expense of my own self-flagellation. I want to own a rowboat, so I can row up to your house and tell you not to go to Paris. (I only own a metro pass.) I want you to look at me as if you know who I am because we share the same blood. ”
http://thekatiegirls.blogspot.com/2009/05/chandler-levacks-ode-to-dawsons-creek.html
HKIA, 22/07/09 <3
this is Pippy. she is beautiful.
“disease index”
Late-night breathing and influenza rasps –
your lungs are undependable.
They are porous; they leak soggy air like your
heart seeps stray affection.
Sometimes when I am punch-drunk and head-sweet I
imagine having designs
on your little thumper;
but it bumpers and stutters and stops
arrhythmic far too much.
After a fright, a pretty girl:
palpitate.
…I should not love so fickle an object.
Nor your clever brain-pan
or any tidy expanse of skin;
they are unreliable narrators, they
do not tell the story.
They do not show the true decline.
Instead –
I will invest in your liver;
so I can see the slow yellowing of your face
(of your pale eyes)
as our experiment ends.
- girlambrose
if anyone has a cool grand to spare, this is always an option :P
SWEET LIFE
“ little I & little you /
have only this left to hold onto ”
girl ambrose
Happy @ Casa de N
Little Cupcaking
