#feeling odd thoughts

[savageleewriting]

Just A Little Mess

Yeah, you could do all sorts of entertaining things. You could light fires and stop traffic with a blink of your eyes and a shake of your hips. You could order drinks just by flashing your nipples at the bar. 

You're my kind of girl, which is funny, because scientifically speaking they should've all gone extinct years ago. Too self-destructive. Sort of stupid, in an alarmingly sexy way. Noise goes in, music comes out. You've got a special sort of mind.

Me, I'm thirsty for Blood Flavoured Kool Aid and pepper-lime chicken wings. You know, messy, inconvenient stuff. You could understand that. You seem like it.

[savageleewriting]

Who are all you people?

I see you flicker by my day. You read my words and you hit the little "heart" button, and you stare into the abyss I have to offer. 

I know you're real people. Some of you are porn-bots, but porn-bots are still real people to me. You want the same things as real people; money, and attention. And you get it the same way: by lying. 

Who are you? I'm in love with some of you, flickering face darting by in the dark of the tumblr feed. Some of you are very, very attractive, and you draw me in like a sweet-scented spider-web, causing me to stumble for your stickiness. Drawn in, enticingly. 

Some of you are strangers, and even worse, teenagers. Some of you are warewolves and jampires, fudging facts and presuming fictions when there's only the cold harsh light of reality, reflecting off some dead whore's eyes from the gutter where she's bled out around dawn.

Some of you I'd invite in. I'd make you a meal, and steal your wallet while we made-out in the hallway. Others, I'd maybe drop a bullet into your lungs as I sped by in a high-powered automobile. Some of you I have no time for. Others I'd make time for. A couple of you, I'd risk going to prison, just to get intimate.

I see your names, your titles, your little self-applied monikers, trying to describe the all that you are in just a few letters.

And I wonder about you.

And I wonder, do you wonder, about me?

[savageleewriting]

Yeah.

I have to admit that doing drugs makes me care less about my cutlery drawer.

I get a little high, and I'm all like, "Fuck you, forks and knives. I don't care where you wind up. Spoons, you can lay in whatever direction you want. Corkscrew, I don't know why you're in there, and I don't give a damn."

I know it's not great, doing drugs. You have to be careful. Not to do them too much. But I do like to do them, and then, when I'm doing dishes, I'm like, "fuck the cutlery drawer. Who gives a shit? Just fucking throw the shit where it goes. Are we so vain, as to give a fuck, about what size spoons go where?"

It's not my best quality. It's not something I can show off to my friends, to try to be cool. "Oh yeah, check out my cutlery drawer." I can't like, threaten a guy in a fight with it. "Dude, if you even saw my cutlery drawer, you'd know that I don't give a fuck about anything!" I can't take a girl home and impress her with my "bohemian-style cutlery drawer." She won't care. 

But I care. I care about my cutlery drawer. I do. I wash my eating utensils on a regular basis. I use a little scrub brush, and soap that's easy on my hands. And I care about how it all winds up. I do.

Right up until I get high.

[savageleewriting]

Used As Hard As Can Be

"I think there's a lump of dog-shit where my heart should be." I said it all feeling tired, and used up. I said it like I needed to say something honest before my soul dried up and withered away.

Outside, the sun is shining and clouds are floating by... it looks idea, or real, or something else so pure and exciting that it only could've ever existed outside of my head.

My Candy Kingdom has grown corrupt. The tasty syrups have all run sour. Dark, angry dreams are growing in stagnent waters. 

I need hugs, handholding, quiet conversations. I need comfort; warm hands; soft demands. 

I feel like I'm falling into myself and out of myself, falling down and down and down into this little pool of shadows I've crafted in the middle of my psyche. 

I think I just need a little space, in which to pull myself together. 

[savageleewriting]

Points Of You

She needed an ashtray, so I opened my mouth to sing. 

Chemicals flow into me like fish moving upstream, when she breathes into my mouth. She exhales into me like she's aiming to resurrect me, to reestablish me as something normal you could plan around. Plot and scheme around. 

She builds bombs out of refined sugars and gunpowder. Candy-coated chaos, spiralling down from the clouds like springtime rain. A springtime reign of madness. Artificial colours being loved by artificial hearts. Plastic and bio-mechanical hearts, keeping the rhythm of nighttime dances. Yeah, her heart beats like a bongo drum, right on time. Her heart beats all other forms of madness, like a winning hand at the poker table. "I'd like to poke her," bemoans one of the drunks, "but my fingers are so short and stubby." And he's not wrong.

I wish you'd tell me what you want. I wish you'd write it on your chest, above your heart, between your tits, so you could strip off your shirt and show it to me. Can't you just be beautiful, for me, for my purposes, for five whole minutes. Stop flinching and looking away. Relax. Just put yourself in my shoes, in my hands, in my line-of-sight. 

And in return, I'll teach you just how to avoid my points of view.

[savageleewriting]

How fast, how far, my love?

She's got her eye on the road and her foot on the gas-pedal. 

She's drinking from a big-gulp cup that's holding a mixture of cream-soda slush and unrefined cocaine. She's got big, scary eyes, that seems to just eat up all the light around them, creating little pockets of shadows around everywhere she looks.

She puts one hand on the wheel, and the other on my leg. Her nails are digging in through my dirty, road-worn jeans, and into my thigh. Her fingernails are as red as the blood they urge out from my form. When we take highway corners at intense speeds, she digs into me like she's trying to tear out my bones.

She puts the straw to her slush up to her lips - thick, lush lips - and she starts to suck; she starts to get excited. 

Me, I'm just watching life go by through a passenger's side window. That's a metaphor for something, and it's literally true as well. 

[savageleewriting]

You Let My Heart Go Too Fast

"Yeah, why don't you look me in the eyes when you say that," I said as she slit my belly open and used my entrails to spell out a love letter to that cute little pink-haired girl down the hall. 

Yeah, she cut me open like I was a package wrapped in plain brown paper, arrived fresh from the mail. She slit my strings and she peeled back my thin little layers.

"Have you ever loved anything that hasn't killed you?" she asked me, her fingers sticky with the pancake syrups and desert sands that flow out from my injuries.

"Not today," I admit as I slide a little to the left and down a bit. "Not yet today."

[savageleewriting]

Once I Was A Little Light

She's got one of those Little Lives, it fits pretty much in my back pocket. 

She's never seen anything surprising before, she's never seen anything that anybody else hasn't seen. She's got a similar sounding voice that says basically the same things that anybody else might.

She's never held out for something special.  She's never had anything that was just hers alone.

I'd feel worse for her, if it ever seemed like she cared. But she likes her Little Life. Its blandness keeps her from feeling disrupted, its consistency is like clean sheets on a hotel room bed. She looks forward to having tomorrow be like today. 

She closes her eyes, and wills the world to be the way its always been. The way it always will be.

Yeah. She's got one of those Little Lives.  And no room in it for me.