10.3.11

BABY WHY LOVE WITH SONG WHEN YOU CAN LOVE WITH ICEPICK






photographed in the tundra wearing one of those cable-knit sweaters that threatens to swallow, revisiting the secret goth of fifteen. want to say those were easier times but nothing about black metal is simple.

ok, things look grim. i held a color in my head that was less a color than the sound of barking dogs. sorry for being so erratic. happy birthday. please come back.

photograph of an overhanging face from the perspective of the toilet. cut off chunks of my hair with the scissors from the sink. dried your dick in my hair, ok. but if you clock me in the face and call me Little Dog In Heat again i swear.

wind-blasted polaroids of a face’s corner, obviously in error. you never said goodbye. we never took a back road or dressed up like members of Kraftwerk. ich weiss nicht.

say something stupid. i don’t want to live i want to fuck. ok. we still look good but i don’t have the bones for this anymore. if i end up with my stomach in a sack on wheels will you still make me shave my cunt. will i be smooth and useless.

drawing of your dad in the bottom of the boat. dad didn't spend time. once slit a cow from larynx to rectum, greened the lawn with shit. misunderstood as a child: inches in a cookie's radius. overheard as a child: fat kids fucking fully clothed.

the place where my heart is hurts and i don’t mean that way. i mean the beating the backwards the icepick, the icepick i mean that way. meaning white. white always. white all.


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