Prose: from the dead letter department
eventful and decline.
they say i have my fathers passion, whom, in his uncertainties and timeless infrequencies, beats his only daughter (and that dark withered bloom inside that wooden casing shook and screamed and melted like ice coming in contact with the alive) and left her outside of the house in the dark when she was afraid of ghosts, or stories of cowboys shot dumb in the head, you know those sounds they make, like pocket change and aroma of valleys and ranchos and mexican faldas (y no quiero tu hablar por mi), or devil women with river weed in her hair, the ones that arise from stones and portions of dandilions, so youve got to speak to god like you mean it or theyll eat your future babies, something like that, something you have to do, so that my mother called the cops on me as she held me down in the neighbor's yard, and i screamed, i screamed, i screamed (por favor la llorona, no comes mi cara hermosa)!
you say i have the same type of hair as she did, the one with the big breasts, except mine sway inadequantly, but impressionable still, and you hung your arm around me and you smashed my ribs with your fat arms, with your fat tattoos and held me whike you were making a phone call, while making love, did you see my hair is not black, just the absence of light, and my eyes are the same way, uncalled for, and you were double jointed and pretty lashed, i remember they told me youhad sex with more girls than i have fingers and toes and limbs, and i didnt even notice that the top of your head is this terrible autumn while the rest lay in painted black, you remind me of earth, the smell of it when you creeped your hands to my heart and played with what you thought would be best.
you say i sing too much about the injustice of the world, and i never mention about what you did for yourself, you pulled yourself out of this gapping wound and tore yourself a new world, and threaded your eyes with your words, and stapled the rest, after the crash you pulled me out and we made love on the pavement right there, i thought like we did when we were fourteen, miserably with the stink of possibility and institution, we made love like you didnt need to live anymore or have a phone number or even a brain to function your touch through me, "we are dead", you whispered in white tongue, i tell you i am falling madly, but there is no contraction of the tongue, no voluntary movement, no sign of life, and you were right.
i say that there is nothing living under my bed, or in the pillows, the sheets, there is no murderer in my car except me, innumerable fears like holy shit, i'm going to die today when i fall sleep, or how tall i am getting, how much do my organs cost, can i live without you, my liver, my heart? can i see without glasses, what will my stories sound like if i tell the truth? that i've slept with myself, and liked it more than stars and united states', explosives, guns, and keats' poetry.
they say i have my fathers passion, whom, in his uncertainties and timeless infrequencies, beats his only daughter (and that dark withered bloom inside that wooden casing shook and screamed and melted like ice coming in contact with the alive) and left her outside of the house in the dark when she was afraid of ghosts, or stories of cowboys shot dumb in the head, you know those sounds they make, like pocket change and aroma of valleys and ranchos and mexican faldas (y no quiero tu hablar por mi), or devil women with river weed in her hair, the ones that arise from stones and portions of dandilions, so youve got to speak to god like you mean it or theyll eat your future babies, something like that, something you have to do, so that my mother called the cops on me as she held me down in the neighbor's yard, and i screamed, i screamed, i screamed (por favor la llorona, no comes mi cara hermosa)!
you say i have the same type of hair as she did, the one with the big breasts, except mine sway inadequantly, but impressionable still, and you hung your arm around me and you smashed my ribs with your fat arms, with your fat tattoos and held me whike you were making a phone call, while making love, did you see my hair is not black, just the absence of light, and my eyes are the same way, uncalled for, and you were double jointed and pretty lashed, i remember they told me youhad sex with more girls than i have fingers and toes and limbs, and i didnt even notice that the top of your head is this terrible autumn while the rest lay in painted black, you remind me of earth, the smell of it when you creeped your hands to my heart and played with what you thought would be best.
you say i sing too much about the injustice of the world, and i never mention about what you did for yourself, you pulled yourself out of this gapping wound and tore yourself a new world, and threaded your eyes with your words, and stapled the rest, after the crash you pulled me out and we made love on the pavement right there, i thought like we did when we were fourteen, miserably with the stink of possibility and institution, we made love like you didnt need to live anymore or have a phone number or even a brain to function your touch through me, "we are dead", you whispered in white tongue, i tell you i am falling madly, but there is no contraction of the tongue, no voluntary movement, no sign of life, and you were right.
i say that there is nothing living under my bed, or in the pillows, the sheets, there is no murderer in my car except me, innumerable fears like holy shit, i'm going to die today when i fall sleep, or how tall i am getting, how much do my organs cost, can i live without you, my liver, my heart? can i see without glasses, what will my stories sound like if i tell the truth? that i've slept with myself, and liked it more than stars and united states', explosives, guns, and keats' poetry.
posted by ~Allie~ @ 6:24 PM
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