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Literature Text
The traffic jam on the I-15 locked like a Chinese Fingertrap, every vehicle aligned like some fucked-up map of stars over the skyline of a cemetery. Hours before the Sun broke down crying, the Moon undressed its craters and tossed them on the floor of some sleazy galaxy avenue.
--
Drive faster.
"But this is as fast as I can go." He spun the wheel the same way he spun his tongue in her mouth: recklessly -- too bad it's not spelt 'wrecklessly'. He sped across the bedspread boulevard with one hand steering the car and one hand steering the course of his life off the road and into a fucking fire hydrant -- or some other explosive metaphor.
Oh, I want to feel a rush. Like we used to. Slam on the gas pedal, and don't stop for anyone.
He ran through the red light the same way he ran his fingers through her hair: absentmindedly -- too bad his subconscious never took roll call. He pressed against the curb the same way his chest pressed against her spine: hard, fast, and furious -- at a speed of 55 moans per orgasm.
"That was a close call."
Shut up and drive.
Blood spilt from his skull the same way semen-flavoured lies spilt from her lips -- isn't it uncanny how close split and spilt look? Nothing's off-game with a cracked skull or stale mattress. I guess one could call it a 'head-on collision with Death', so long as 'head' is used in the right context...
I never said to fucking slow down. Get your foot off the brakes.
"Yes, sorry, but navigating the curves of the street has lost its thrill."
Just shut up and drive me wild.
The windshield smashed and glass cut his throat the same way she cut his hair -- but never his strings. He crashed into a semitruck the same way he crashed into her bones: five seconds of consciousness, then waking up in a hospital or a coffin -- if it's the former, they'll be back in another nine months; if it's the latter, well, let's hope no one crashed the funeral...
--
So the Sun doused itself with tears, the Moon (stricken with tumult) lit itself on fire, and the silhouette of an ambulance rained from the cataclysmic anomaly of a carcrash romance.
--
Drive faster.
"But this is as fast as I can go." He spun the wheel the same way he spun his tongue in her mouth: recklessly -- too bad it's not spelt 'wrecklessly'. He sped across the bedspread boulevard with one hand steering the car and one hand steering the course of his life off the road and into a fucking fire hydrant -- or some other explosive metaphor.
Oh, I want to feel a rush. Like we used to. Slam on the gas pedal, and don't stop for anyone.
He ran through the red light the same way he ran his fingers through her hair: absentmindedly -- too bad his subconscious never took roll call. He pressed against the curb the same way his chest pressed against her spine: hard, fast, and furious -- at a speed of 55 moans per orgasm.
"That was a close call."
Shut up and drive.
Blood spilt from his skull the same way semen-flavoured lies spilt from her lips -- isn't it uncanny how close split and spilt look? Nothing's off-game with a cracked skull or stale mattress. I guess one could call it a 'head-on collision with Death', so long as 'head' is used in the right context...
I never said to fucking slow down. Get your foot off the brakes.
"Yes, sorry, but navigating the curves of the street has lost its thrill."
Just shut up and drive me wild.
The windshield smashed and glass cut his throat the same way she cut his hair -- but never his strings. He crashed into a semitruck the same way he crashed into her bones: five seconds of consciousness, then waking up in a hospital or a coffin -- if it's the former, they'll be back in another nine months; if it's the latter, well, let's hope no one crashed the funeral...
--
So the Sun doused itself with tears, the Moon (stricken with tumult) lit itself on fire, and the silhouette of an ambulance rained from the cataclysmic anomaly of a carcrash romance.
Literature
fair grading.
rain rain you went away
come back and flush me down the drain.
i sat in the middle of the road and my mind's in a drought
i've got the carcasses of words baking in harsh artificial light within me.
[i slur my words, but don't think it's because i've been drinking
i just don't know how to bring myself to say anything to you.]
-
we're walking down the street, puddles lit by street lights.
there are rainbows in the cement cracks, and your words are sparkling with magic.
'this is where dreams live,' you tell me.
'this is where dreams live.'
[if this is a dream, then i must be snow white, and not even your kiss can wake me up.]
-
twin
Literature
my five year plan
day one
at least once a day, I mistake a boy for a girl. the truth could take five years to write, and I think it probably will. at least once a month, you mistake my "i'm okay"s for "okay, I'm not doing so good"s. this is a matching test. this is a matching test without a word bank. this is sucks-to-be-you-because-you-didn't-study-you-spent-your-night-being-a-manwhore-again. let me know if you're really satisfied with fractions of many girls as opposed to the entirety of me that I'm offering to you.
month three, week two
I'm unsatisfied with my eyebrow arches, my jaw line, my cheekbones, and having someone care so much one minute and comp
Literature
the modern air condition
you can't fall
in love with
a man
for his
handwriting
but his hand
writing
is another
thing
entirely
we propose to it
admiringly
we make
bows
of our-
selves
we make
new words
for fire
and we
make our real
families
strangers
we take
real
strangers
to bed
bodiless skulls
cacklin' madly
at the
necks
who've lost
their heads
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this is probably a metaphor, but i have no idea.
i should probably be asleep now, but whatever.
i should probably be asleep now, but whatever.
© 2010 - 2024 ChloroformBoy
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Favourites: 69
LOL
I'm just going to skip faving for now because that's too perfect.
LOL
I'm just going to skip faving for now because that's too perfect.