787 0 0
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Pushing the "surge of steam" button has latelygiven the mother a feeling ofpower;She pushes a button anda loud gurgling sounddampens the spiritof even a 100% cotton item,and forces it to be still andstraighten out.I need a button likethis to affect my family and…
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787167
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Unseen, he slides through cracks, unbound, liquid fear of mothers.
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78754
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The candles and my brain
flame
like a torch
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78700
|
My distinguished white-haired boss sat behind a table at the entrance of the building and gave me a forbidding look. You’re fired, he said. Get out.
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78700
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http://fictionique.com/?p=16220
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78600
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“You know,” I said finally, “when I’m out in the waiting room, I get high blood pressure when you call my name.”
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78643
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Crispcrashingcoldan interlude from youThe pebbles pulled back and forthlike side stepping nailswhite frothan interlude from youThe sun likeA camellia for herCrispColddropsflicking on her face.An interludefrom you.
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78600
|
“I’ve seized a family’s satellite dish, I’ve put a lien on a guy’s blue tick hound–everything,” Suggins says with a laugh.
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78633
|
he dreams of limp victims stepping out of the waves/ water draining from skin and hair
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78621
|
carrion is no longer hauled away:/if the road killed it, it must be the road’s . . .
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78610
|
I remember him saying something like: “Are you aware of how completely horrible you are as a human being?”
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78620
|
Cataclysm was a bustling city
right across the river from Orgasm.
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78600
|
Luke Warm and the Sole Contenders.
Door Odor Ant.
Release My Pajamas!
Behemoth Pterodactyls.
Dragon Wagons.
Mucked Up.
The Gosspinator.
Italian Film Director.
Summer Dress.
Unsolicited Advice.
Golden Calf.
The Gum-Chewin Gurus.…
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7852016
|
Aside from smearing your mascara, destroying your freshly manicured fingernails, and pulling up your skirts in an unladylike way, being slain is a drag! How do you know if murder is on his mind when all you see are his words?
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785102
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For every person who dies alone that way, another twenty try.
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78521
|
It was 1984, that foreboding year, I now
recall. You were in the hospital,
your cat having snagged your nail.
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78500
|
“The usual,” he says, casting implicit scorn on Boston’s B–or is it C-list?–scene. “There’s a TV weatherman who’s trying to impress a hot babe at the bar with the ten-day extended forecast.”
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78585
|
growing up fumbling for excuses your fingers, clumsy littlepads of flesh you don't recognize a scatter plot of acnethat won't erase by mirrorwhy this scene doesn't workkissing the detachable lips of bobby-soxed methodgirlswho keep…
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78586
|
Shivers of desire,
bristles of knowing
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78553
|
"First we’ll get a good workout at the discotheque where my lady friend works. Don’t worry, she’s already arranged for a friend of hers to attend so you won’t have to suffer the indignity of being a third wheel."
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78330
|
I just can't figure out why nothing terrible happened to me that night. Young, blonde, drunk American girl sitting on a dirty curb in the red light district of Nuevo Laredo, and everyone left me alone ... amazing.
|
78354
|
The first thing I realized I was hearing when I woke up from the land of nowhere was the brittle sounds of little frozen rods of rain crashing into the sliding glass porch doors relentlessly and cracking into tiny shards of split piles in…
|
78374
|
As Sebald says, I grew up in the shadow of war....
|
78344
|
Is that who we are as a nation, or was that day an aberration?
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78255
|
Mrs. Death was walking in mountains where everything around was still. Mr. Death? —in another hemisphere, wandering (last she’d heard) through a vast forest.
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78100
|
having the time of their lives,
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78141
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Go ahead, show the soul its own beauty. But also tell me again about my own, so I may know I lived, and loved you. The one who shows the soul its own touching beauty gets to keep her. Who shows her the golden nightly song that's given us life, is like t
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78021
|
Details may be missing from our lives, but you can fill them in any time you want. Fill up the cup again with me. Come in and be warm, anytime you want. Wine, women, song, whatever. I sat on the curb once, in Mexico, saying, “Give me your salads, your o
|
78000
|
I wrote a million lines of poetry last night.
/ Metaphor after metaphor of your beauty
|
78011
|
“Time to check out,” I tell myself, looking at sailboats and surfers from the open window of my hotel room. I inhale minty incense and gaze down on a dark-skinned woman in a sombrero beneath towering palm trees. Laid out before her on a folding table ar
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