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"I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again."
Charles Bukowski (via realizes)

Praised be our idols. 

Our fathers, our neighbors, our leaders. 

May their wasted bodies find peace,

When they fall six feet deep in life’s trenches. 

Praised be our brothers,

Our sisters, our keepers, our lovers. 

They too have found pleasure in sin and flesh, 

In gluttony, lust and satisfaction. 

They too will find their way into your home. 

Palms ripping bloated bellies through barbed wire forests.

They too demand freedom from your womb. 

Even knowing that it could mean being strangled

By the very flesh that connects us to our mothers. 

I almost forgot about our mothers.

Who know that a baby won’t bring you the same joy from a box

That it would from a basket. 

Who just wants to save your from yourself

Until you’re tucked tight in her casket. 

Praised be our mothers

Who sent us running to fight a war. 

Over something as quickly fleeting as we are. 

Who love unconditionally like I once loved. 

But have forgotten because no one gets loved perfectly.

And because it’s hard to love things that expire.

Like bodies, our eyes and fingers and flesh. 

Like hearts, and bladders, and arteries. 

Who needs them and their decaying illusion of happiness. 

They are undeserving of praise in their days of temporary brilliance,

Unlike our lord whose brilliance is forever.

Praised be our lord.

Whose bones can withstand the hostility of a million years. 

Praised be our lord. 

Who unlike our mothers can watch his children suffer and die 

And still have enough love for the rest of us. 

Praised be our lord. 

Waking up to my white bitch. 
<3 Time to hurt her.

Waking up to my white bitch. 

<3 Time to hurt her.

Blow My House Down.

We connected.

Plugged in on opposite ends of the same screen. 

We lingered.

Projecting insignificant reflections of yesterday’s news.

Night after night.

Drifting slowly into each other’s brains and melting. 

Night after night.

Of forgetting about the morning to come. 

Night after night

Chasing someone who had a 3000 mile head start.

And at what point did I fall in love?

At what point did I forget that life,

Does not transfer it’s files. 

Life, can’t be copy and pasted and sent miles away. 

In seconds. 

Life can’t wait for you to respond. 

Bing!

Bing!

Bing!

Real life does not come in bings. 

Real life has hands and heart beats,

tears, and cough syrup induced nightmares.

In real life moments are miles. 

In real life you fall down the stairs and always end up at the bottom. 

In real life strangers are everywhere.  

And.

In real life I have a place to be.

Unplugged. 

You will penetrate the stars. 

I will penetrate your mother. 

I liked you better when you were choking on my name. 

Spit, blood, tears and drool cocooned your wasted carcass.

On my floor.

My poor bedroom floor. 

And those walls, those miserable walls. 

Oh the things they’ve seen.  

They look at you,

Pitying you silently. 

At least something pity’s you. 

Because I don’t. 

Your scrambled mess of limbs. 

Sits right past my doorstep. 

So you can soak in the filth of the city. 

From the grime covered bottoms of my brand new boots. 

I love you now. 

I liked you better then. 

Stapled Together.

All it took. 

Was a couple of pinches. 

And two cans of orange soda pop. 

(One diet.) 

To get us stuck. 

Crafted to each other with staples and floss. 

You have to be strong for the both of us. 

When I struggle to pull us apart. 

A message from Anonymous
is that you in those last 2 photos ?

Yes. I’m in the polka dot dress. 

PhotoCredit: Sir Ian Reid.

PhotoCredit: Sir Ian Reid.

PhotoCredit: Sir Ian Reid. 

PhotoCredit: Sir Ian Reid.