Yaki Watts

22, born in Brisbane, raised in Petrograd. I like to fish; roam the web; paint with words, and sometimes, I even see a face in the wild.

[putridpetrol-blog]

I wonder if her hair is caught in the drain;

If the bubbles brush her skin or if they burn her eyes, resting above the water as she keeps them shut tight.

Beneath the bubbles, well under their misty tarp, I see she has a stomach too, and a knee and nipple. I am glad.

[putridpetrol-blog]

I want to visit Moran State park, just to see the waters where men of Washington abide; The waves of storks and snipes, home to small wooden boats that glide, straight across to the rocky, pine ridden shore. I can hear them now: tones of distress from geese, rowing through the water: those soft strokes, pushing, sipping from the depths. I believe in Moran state Park.

[putridpetrol-blog]

On a scale of catholic priest to Jeffree star how gay are you?

Young man! Catholic priests aren’t gay! Just seriously pervy. I take offense that you’d smear such a holy order such as the pedo- I mean, the Catholic church. And I am more along the lines of  Jodie Foster

[putridpetrol-blog]

Lovers of Valdaro

The olive trees flutter in the wind, oily butterflies in the breeze’s contemptuous grasp; they swing, swing, sway, all the way as Athenian figures by the sunset.

Deep in the dust, buried by age and lust, are two white charred things:

Bodies holding dearly, in the pit of the earth, they spend the wholeness of time Together; rubbing against minute bacteria, decomposing slowly in the fresh cool ground.

They are called lovers; they’re called those whom share love, but they know nothing; or is love death, and all that comes right before the suffering of the end?

Love is not death, it is doom; to love is to hate to love and hate to not find it; These two have no breathe, no lips to kiss the other’s breast, or slide deep into their mouth; no hands of flesh to grope with hunger and desire, with knowledge of the other.

I hate them. I HATE them. For all their demise and turning bones; despite the earth being their home, and the only things that are for them to love being afterlife and flames of hell or chains of heavenly celibacy, for once and at one time they did love.

Perhaps they didn’t: maybe as the town was to be torched and in wrecked vengeance be torn from the world, they simply held the other for the sake of the moment and spoke nothing of intimate things; told no secrets and fears; strung no tales or spun no frills laced and born of their most sacred satisfactions.

yet still, the chance remains: love was once theirs; one day, as they walked beside each other, they looked at the other and saw that they were good; one day they came together and made themselves to feel love for a short chemical time.

Now I look, and for now I see, but they do not, and that makes all thoughts moot.

I take my leave; the lovers must need the rest.

[putridpetrol-blog]

Before and After

Before I am tired, when I am fresh and ready to go, there’s not much emotional comfort on my mind. But when I am fucking exhausted; when my mind is mixed and dizzy like an industrial cookie doe mixer, all that I can think of is having a nice girl with a real soul and plenty of deep opinions to hold me. If I were cold, would she be warm? If I told the world that I wrote suicide letters at work; if I screamed that 9-5 everyday I spent my time writing my distress, would she find me and wrap herself around my hurt? I bet the world all the wood and carpet that she’d love me

[putridpetrol-blog]

#In the office

So, while I was in the office- real 9-5 work-, I was drawn into a quasi-moral dilemma of a conversation. It went like this: if a man caught a woman cutting her arm, but let her do it, only to stop her the next day when he say she was also cutting her breast, is the man moral for stopping her self abuse, or immoral for only caring when it pertained to his lust? Also, is eating tempura calamari weirder for women than men, due to Japanese squid/woman cunnilingus art?