Letters' Compilation

Mass upload of all the letters I've kept around, in chronological order. Here goes:

'Kink AKA Jay Leno 0000'

Innocuous and inoculated,
but never innocent; never fully immune.
Breath caught frozen beneath 
an indifferent and proud powdered moon
ground down in lines to make
my eyes crest red, like family
Blood thick and hot like a stranger,
running in sleepy molasses.
A stranger like my predator,
caught in a reflection on her glasses.

We're a tragic habit,
an umbrella formed
when excitement meets cinderella 
and crushed-quiet trachea--
Doesn't quite do her gasp a justice
like the smile on her face,
eyes rolling back and fading out 
beneath the flash of a musket.

Fetishism is a funny thing.
Not funny strange, 
but funny ha-ha.
Living as that desperate, chained-up youth
under our loose floorboard constitution
we knighted long ago, farethewell morality.



'Ray Charles 0500'

White rabbits in a garbage-filled, sun-scorched field.
quenched in a whitewash oil, restless and ready,
us wretches have never been sharper.
We're hungry for evolution or revolution, all the same. 
Together we struggle, teeming; together we wither
our bones woven into a basket for compassion 
as the radiation finishes off the rest.

My favorite: I'm a big fan of that shade of blue that five-a.m and fifteen degrees as it's splashed up to paint memories on a silhouette. I wish I were a painter, so I could paint this (and I'd paint you) with no small amount of wreckless abandon. I'd burn through the novelty of a year in ten minutes worth a lifetime.
but I only write.
So you'll have to take my word for it.

If kisses were red I would take this blue to breakfast after a night of nuance, secrets, and porchlit promises. Kisses are a minute, but the sunrises lasts all day: blended painters' purple, you get a palette of sobering romance.
It all feels like a smile under eyes, circled in dark. It's weird to think of wearing a mask under your skin, so instead I think about the truth that is to wonder which skin belongs to me (or I to it, or I to you.)

I'm sorry to push you,
but you pushed first, with flattery. Now I remember the way your eyelashes work and I won't shut up about it.

I blame the schools.

'Ray Charles 2452'

About you?
You and your red lips, wine-stained?
Curved into hiccups, jovial like lost farmers' bets with best friends? Big and lovely with their shapely words, reaching for another cup, but your eyes stalling on asking something else?

The last drop is always the most dizzying: circling and sliding against the tongue like all of any frozen words meant to save friendships of times gone by,
And when you sigh,
It's like a storm, deep down inside. 
A tempest so demanding, 
filtering through a cigarette and a short story 
you once wrote about regret, 
tearing pages out to dry your eyes, but the breeze
passes through you and against your will.
It stops in my atrium and hangs there, in my memory.
It's a crash victim to all the words I'm scared you're scared to never say to me.
But c'est la vie; I'll just enjoy this sip
in present company. 

Sometimes I don't really know what to say, so I let my nerves talk to an empty room
with you in it, through this brave little blue screen
more like a soliloquy until you ask for more.
J'adore; for some reason it makes me anxious to see you happy,
smiling sleepily or awake, and with each passing minute
sleep gets further and further away as I try to get close to you.

In some ways, it's a tunnel. In others it's like a vault:
which of us is beautiful? it can't be my fault,
but I stutter and say sorry.
I apologize to the void of my room,
Too hot to sleep alone
and yet too cold without you.

Or at least sometimes, if you ask me
That's what I'll feel like in response.
Forward onto dawn
This stumbling fucking fencer
Just keeps on stumbling on.

Whistling your name in the dark.

'Captain Hook 0344'
You're a dancing candle in a violent storm. Your wax roots poured out in impermanence:  a still uncertainty
But your gaze still keeps me warm. 
Spreading through me, filling my bones up, aching and reaching, cautiously breaching underground to meet you.
Just to clumsily half mouth the things i want to say, until you let me collapse into your kiss--would I resist?
Can't I just subsist?
On too-familiar stains of lipstick filling in my pallor, heating up these tepid days?
Liquid dreams drank bitter when our lips and legs must part their phantom ways? 
Lets return with an ocean of trauma, felt meek and cautious, naked but unafraid.
Shame melts for miles as our hands repaint each other in the sliver of monochrome truly called 'home.'
By touch, we echo-locate, disguising ourselves hopelessly until helplessly, we moan.
Like pent up driftwood coming in and coming up, when pretense falls harder for the 7th time and a second bottle of wine
We get up 8 to lay down with each other , smiling with full teeth and shedding that safe cracked bark that hours prior insomnia wore so well.
And deeper I fell
Into you, Hypnotique,
A drug of valleys then of peaks
As I pray you let me carry every inch of you
To my lips
From nose to hips, roiling and pressing back to me
So I can believe in the scent hanging on your skin, breath run ragged, catching, giving us away more and more
Until we don't feel those bruises anymore.
Nibbles out tenderly, dosed and dabbed against the soft timbers of rising hearts, valves leaking and wanting, pumping to beg each other between fistfuls of hair and cheek, spilling over the clumsy and irreplaceable words
'I want you' -- I want you to hurt me, heal me, replace me, feel me, taste me;
Just stay a while, ten more minutes, ten more minutes, til ten more minutes turns to days and i can finally live this haze where I don't have to put you down or let go until you ask me.

'Captain Hook 1057'

As I listened to the steps of the rain against a hot tin roof, the kiss snuck into me. It washed through me like a warm drug, pressing and tingling--crashing in waves--working its way down through my tiniest capillaries. I never thought an absence from that feeling could make fonder hearts, but here we are.

Here we lie(lay), smoke trailing up, the vice as it is, stark against the asylum white of a hotel roof. Both our chests heaving, eyes burning raw when we look into each other. 
We are embers, still red from all those jealous, unfulfilled high school passes, bottled and stored away for years alongside the leather jacket that we've been convinced couldn't fit anymore. There it is, between the dirty magazines kept on life support more out of novelty than memory, repressed and swallowed in a thousand bitter dark draughts. Here it is, waves of hydraulic fluid, where shame mixes with something genuine and indescribable; Here it is, to improvise what love should've felt like all those years and months and days (life counted by the second feels so much longer.)

Yes, this mattress in a graffiti canvas, laid out in protest for two souls and a pack of menthols who now understand that the human condition's got nothing to lose. 

It takes only a glance for us to embrace again: tangled in the shed skins of innocence and exempt from social contract; it's love because we don't have to tell each other what it is.

'Captain Hook 0015'

Taking pride in being ugly is one hell of a mental callous. When burned under the spotlight, there are moments of chilling revelation where you are naked and raw in front of a silent, unforgiving audience. They do not sympathize. They cannot empathize. They do not react to your spectacles of fear or bravado or words or tears. There simply is, and if the ugly skin stretched so thin across your being doesn't feel like home, there's nothing but that eerie, alien quiet. In that moment, we might come to understand what a farce this life's become.
The first step is admitting you have a problem. The glass breaks before it can be reblown.

I just want to be myself, you know? But it's difficult.
Of course you know. We share an identity crisis. 
Wish you were here. 

Listening to the radio is my favorite past-time, so I hope you're OK with that. Some nights I just need it on. Like my dad, he needs a pile of clothes in his room, by his canvass bag and bed. It's a habit that's held more permanently than the faces that smile and fade as he's waded through life (the sins of the father...)
Through the days, months, years, decades -- he can reliably reach down from whichever bed he lay and his hands find that point of reference. Pants can't lie.

For me, writing these letters to you is kind of like that, too.
I'm sorry I've been so weird lately. I'll admit, I've been a little bit spooky since you got back and I'm not entirely sure why.
No drinking for me tonight.

Oberon Ether 0401

This week, life is really squeezing in on me.
I wish you were here, your shape within arms' reach, a familiar touch to slide against, granted passage as I route you with a kiss
and sigh against your collarbones and lips.
As I seal off the spaces between us, like warm cement,
uncoiling and content
in your bouquet as I pray, knocking quietly with my touches
asking you you let me in.
And you answer sleepily, close and tangled in my ear
the answer: quiet but always clear
as I press against you, weak and bare
I am piles,
miles of ashen bones, 
reborne away and alone.

dropped and rewrapped and recompiled by years 
of hardluck grimacing
kept alive by reminiscing,
reliving this moment with you that's never been.
But every single night
is althemore vivid
at the bitter bottom 
of every pint.

I'm softened by your taste,
quenching those white hot fears
that tumbled forward against your silhouette.
There might be blood, sweat and tears
but neither of us knows the taste of regret.
(Not ever, not yet.)

Nor should we, as long as we dream of dry pain
and pulling hair, soft eyed smiles and moans,
pillow talk and sunday morning groans.
We'll hit the snooze button one more time
to be late for work and breathe you in

Just one more time: nine analog minutes to fill in each others' spaces against the glaring sunrise.
Just one more time: to make love half-way, quietly biting your lip so you're all I think about all day.
Just one more time: a promise that I'll come home, alive and smiling at your touch, your kiss, your whisper in my ear.
Just one more time: the potency of my words is thin and cheap as I pull my boots on, watching as you sleep.

Maybe I'll quit. Maybe I'll stay home today. There's got to, ought to be another way. I ache, watching you stir, and have to leave before you wake.
"Nah. Do it for her."

Ray Charles 0012

"I am going to make a note that you will never save me from myself.

Now we're best friends."

The coercion of coincidence pushes this malted memory to my lips:
the anti-hero is made of wedding veils and runs like liquid eyeliner
sinking away, a ship in a bottle, crashing and washing 
to the shore of early morning radio static
when all his prayers were for radio silence.

tiktiktik--tac tac tac--tiktiktik

You can't save 'em all, Odin.

'The Napkin Kiss AKA Sheila Mauser'

Bottle half full, bottle half empty. 
The man who associates with bottle lusts,
Desperate for its cool curves in his ever-diminishing grip.
How he yearns,
By the most desperate association in his throat-loans from,
The Goose-Necked apparition.
For the first bitter, warmth of a kiss.
Of a mem'ry. 

He swallows.
He breathes.
He drowns, in contempt and temprustness,
Of a spoken-word spiral staircase.

He sells,
The used cars of the beatnick ryhme,
in beatnick time.

He buys,
A taste of nothing. It's his everything he traded for.
Damaged goods and damaged bads,
Dirty hoods and dreams:
Duct. Tape. Clad. 

'Baby, it's not you, it's me.' 
'Baby, kiss me one more time.'
Of course, baby.
Yes, Love.
But my eyes are closed to remember
My addiction
To warm christmas turtle doves.

Why'd you leave, baby? 
A cheap used car salesman.
Selling stitch-open promises,
Seams bursting with regret.

Everybody's got a story to tell to
Pitch to you their lives,
In exchange for a necklace made.
Of bottlecaps.

You break your flow, 
Remember your long necked,
She's all I want in a world
full of what I need.

For a second, in the dark,
let this work out for me.
Someone, in sincerity, 
Lie and say I'm beautiful.

0200, time for bed. I'll transcribe most of my stuff over the next few days, thematically or in an otherwise completely disorganized fashion. This entire move might be just for the sake of reliving some of these.


i love too much or not enough

Simean (02/04/2010) ►


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