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Jess threw her books on the bed then grabbed a notebook from a shelf and slammed it onto a writing table. It made a hard pop gunshot sound. Flinging open the book, a page tore. Her diaries were named Annabelle. It was with a blue felt tip pen that she wrote: …
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My mind is on idle as it knows no other way to go. I look for good news, but if there is any, will I be able to process it?
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This is a call to burn down the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum. It is everything wrong with our culture boiled down to one location. Ground Zero of hypocrisy. The spot where the very spirit of rebellion has been stolen by corporate America.
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Though some days... I feel as though I'm nothing more than the ultimate hedged-bet should the offender be living out his last days on earth, holding my arm as we both feel our way through the long dark corridors of tragedy.
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It's awfulYou remember everythingYou never forgetEvery insultEvery bruiseEvery scarEvery burnEvery nickEvery blow You never forgetI never forget The pain of memoryYou think you forgetBut you never forgetThe dread of some wholly misfortuneThe pain that left you…
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The woman was dancing, holding her bottle in the air as she slowly turned around, blocking the way to the exit. “I asked Miss Pansy Blossom if she would wing a reel,” she sang.
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This energy said, "Fuck it, I am going to be the fucking sun."
In it’s language it sounded more like "Khershhhhhhh Hhhhhhhhhhh Zirshhhhhhh."
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The reaction had started, the hives and respiratory swelling. Maddy huffed for air, each inhalation rattling her throat louder, more hoarse.
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Your left hand cups your balls which are drawn up tight under a turgid fireplug cock. Your right hovers over your temple, thumb cocked at the cheek. Your eyes are dreamy, mouth wry, chest and belly furry and fat. You're a picture in a file on my desktop on which…
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Its edges fluttering in the dull breeze, today's town newspaper lay at my old feet, open to the obituary page.
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NO3RAM7-ciU
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It's Halloween again, the season when my mother died.
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This is a wife pregnant with spiders
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"That zit on your forehead just won't go away, will it, sweetie?" she adds as she brushes her daughter's bangs downward.
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An extended account of his criminal exploits for a criminal syndicate of Midwestern newspapers and radio stations hastened a change of career plans.
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Macro-Microbe parked his car and proceeded on foot, which was a misnomer because he had no feet. Typical for Manhattan, no one gave him a second glance except for a homeless woman who tried to sell him hand-sanitizer. Macro-Microbe locomoted himself insid
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94427
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Regina Dawn "Gina" Edwards, 49, passed away June 2, 2006.
R.I.P. "Ridge Woman"
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into the Zone of Avoidance gazes sink/
―and why not? a black hole at the heart of it,/gravity attracts even our vision when/
we lift our gazes . . .
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You sleep. The time is soft and slow.
Your dreams are covered with the snow.
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They could cram Rob inside the trunk and then drop him somewhere in the dingles.
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I am a shadow. Cooler than liquid. I don't need a container to take shape.
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When you're scared to write badly, that's when you write. You are probably trying to tell the truth.
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And then, one fateful day, the world ran out of ideas. The last one was gone, floating away like a balloon full of the helium we had already squandered.
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Someday they'll find me face-down in a puddle of ink.
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Either a ruckus needs to be raised
Or a ruckus needs to be caused
I began chewing the locks of love
Off the fences and the gates
I was so outraged
At the horrible academic trash
If they had found me doing this
They would have hauled me a
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The middle finger talks of many things
How I killed the moon
But still drank the moonshine
And how getting over her took
Some bleeding from the soul
Maybe it’s the Inner Face of Outer Space
That worries me the most
But what about the Fro
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He gave her cancer. He gave her cancer.
Not what she said. She said her relationship gave her cancer. Her relationship with him. Gave her cancer.
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With my heart preserved, I shoved a handful of baubles back in its place: some pages torn from my favorite books, a bass guitar string, a butane lighter, a shot of vodka. I stitched myself back up and left the roof in favor of the attic, where I hung my s
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