Tonight, Masochism Tasted a Lot like Lemonade and Renaissance Art

Break the skin; can't tell where your body ends and mine begins.

I hear the beat; heard it louder than your heart pumping blood through your system. I feel the music as it courses through your veins, the very fibre of your being meshed with tiny blood vessels fueling your body with appropriate amounts of oxygen and oxycodone genocide. Worse than the music and the morphine is the eternal sedative, the feeling of bliss that blocks out all other emotion and draws a blank upon facial expression. It's the coffee that slows you down -- that shit is like water to me; the beer.

The idea is within the man, but when the man is within the alcohol, the idea is lost. So I close my eyes, and touch the man, because there isn't much else to do. There isn't much else to be lost, sanity already fled many day sbefore. Smile into the kiss, touch into the night, make a mess of the sheets. We're cutting edge, cutting clean, cutting skin on the cutting room floor. Where flesh meets flesh, and eyes of silver glue shut on the pillow case. Here we go again.

So just as the Armchair Cynics knew all too well, you go off like a gun, like a loaded weapon.

Bang bang bang.

From a long break in cultural difference and dissonance, all that is derived is bad music references to a local band, and a short, disarray of lettering.

My apologies.

Today, We Only Wish We Were as Fascinated by the Growing Stain on the Bookshelf That's Vaguely Shaped Like Anna Nicole Smith as We Are With Fascism

Excuse me, you just sat on Steven – no, he's on that chair. Yes, I’m aware you're sitting on this chair. He's on this chair too. You know, he's also in my lap. He's a good cat…

I stayed up too late one night listening to songs about the next door neighbour and his best friend tramp; the whore down the street didn't stand a chance compared to this character. She's quite the darling, with her knee high boots and childish scream. She yells at night, when my neighbour laughs.

So this neighbour boy and his best friend tramp laugh all night, and scream all night, and here I am, sitting at my laptop thinking about early it is in the morning for Green Tea and White Rabbit candies listening to Jefferson Airplane, Facebook messages, and bridal showers. How I’m not looking forward to shopping, going to the movie theatre, and counting off days on the calendar.

Most of all, I'm sitting here thinking about how I'd like to blow up a small planet, cook up a recipe book in hopes it doesn't set aflame the kitchen, swallow a few iron supplements, and pray to a higher power I won't faint tomorrow morning.

Barcode Apologies for the Deaf Leopard

A bookshelf lined with dramatic cartoons and Stephen King novels fills the room; a room brimming with the innocence of a young child, long lost to hostility and irresponsibility. CD's line the walls, and blankets scatter about the bed.

The figure sits in the middle of disaster, cooking up ideas in a notebook the size of wallet. Silent and brooding, burrowing itself into the depths of literature and expression, this figure sits still.

I watch it, feeling as if I was watching myself so many years ago.

Then I looked away, because nobody likes being watched by their own ipod speakers.

When I saw the walls, I knew I was too short to accomplish much. At first, there was the theory, the optimism and hope of a freer time – freer with a fee, like a free bird who couldn't feel.

We were feeling so good that day; the mysterious figure and I. It may as well have been our story, but it wasn't.

It may as well have been worthwhile telling, but I think I forgot to mention – I'm pretty sure I just burnt my toast.

My Neighbors Didn't Like the Sound of Cat Scratch Fever in the Afternoon, Just Like I Didn't Like the Smell of Car Accident in the Morning

With names too long to fit on a title, and pictures edited in Photoshop to fool the creative sexual predator, children around the world are revolutionizing the institution of intuition we like to call the world, and the boundaries and rules people live by each and every day. Between rock concerts and CDs stacked to the ceiling in cramped, closet-sized bedrooms, it becomes literal; coming out of the closet.

When the gay kid flaunts their way down the hallway, and nobody turns to spit -- find out why old ways have gone to shit. Colored markers and rainbow bracelets make up for the bleach blonde, the tacky shoes, and the dollar store stick on earrings that children wear so much; wear whatever you want if it's cool -- hip. Follow those internet trends, latch onto those humorous ideas so tight, then let them go at the right time and keep moving on.

What is funny today, might not be funny tomorrow.

What is funny a few decades ago?

That's all the rage today.

Fourteen Years of Silence and a Slice of Apple Pie

The girls in the back room are discussing the volume of bowling balls as compared to mascara, and the boys at the country club are counting light bulbs. Open eyes, close eyes, breathe in, breathe out, pump blood throughout the body like a mechanical robot. Live life, live free, live in peace -- where there is no excitement to pierce the quiet din of nothingness that has become life.

Soft shoulders, with even softer skin. Like a full body makeover, in the form of ice and snow, stone and cold. There is always new technology, like there is always new faces, new names, but never new places. They're all overgrown from years of use -- covered every inch of this goddamn planet in a matter of millenniums; counting light bulbs suddenly became appealing.

A magazine cut out model on the bedroom wall of a young child. Another girl says, "I'm going to be just like her."

That mother pretends that 'being just like her' doesn't mean skipping meals, throwing up on purpose, and self-injury.
That mother pretends she is still that little girl, saying, "I'm going to be just like that when I grow up."