woes prose

this is where i put stuff

*FLICKR hello! theme by cissysaurus

Don’t you see the dead flowers on top of your head, honey?
They bent so far back to try reach the sun
That they’re tickling the ends of your shoulder blades

Please stop fucking clicking “learn more” on advertisements
As a symbolic gesture about the capitalistic nature
Of our sex life 




a bunch of really cool people are in this read it okay 


love is the greatest memory haha that’s an ironic title kind of

How many light bulbs will it take
For you to see
The trap door I built under your feet

How many crime shows will we have to watch
For you to see
Who the snitch is

How many games of Clue will we play
For you to see
Where I’ve hidden the gun
(In the kitchen)

How many James Patterson novels will you read
For you to see
That my cover is an honest plea
(I am an open book)


Herman Melville, Moby Dick

“I’m gonna buy some vending machine coffee and continue to hate my life”

What I want,
like the singular wall left standing
of a wooden victorian house,
is to detach
from the rest of my body

 I want to feel the space
Between my eyes and
My brain
Become larger and larger
Until I can look back
And see myself

How do I know when to make a piece poetry or prose? Why do we set arbitrary rules on words and language?

It means
All the

I’m lying about mental breakdowns
In the hopes that I’ll have one soon.

Laying on the tables of Weaver Beach
Which is actually just a grassy curve
Risen from the dirty fingernails of
Men with soft voices and bedtime stories
Tucked under their collars

This is what I am thinking about
As i lay on this table,
Looking towards the sky
And half of Danny’s face
The orange beard and
Light blue confetti eyes with one
Black dot in the middle for a pupil

He breathes when he talks
And smacks his lips
Before he reads

Signs of a high school drama kid

And when I start crying he talks about
Wine and Weed nights
At the house next year.

And when I start yelling about my mortality
He tells the spectators that
I’m just having some fun

What I was trying to do was yell enough
So that maybe I could make
Somebody else’s heart vibrate
At least just for a little while



Are you still smoking those? Try Camel.

Not that I’m advertising some new tar
that removes death’s difficult stains
nor that I still believe in the different
taste of the untried, in its new strength.
Every kiss exchanged between the old sensual
habit and each new gigolo smoke
is quick-burning.
A slower blend of love has not been found.

Camel because
however well you’ve managed till now
alone on foot to advance the wilderness
following of all its myriad paths
the difficult one that brings you to the exclusion
of all travel companions

now as you see the climate has rebelled
the sand rose up became a storm
the cargo of time you bear became harsher
lead drenched as it was by the rain of fast numbers.

You wish the ozone were to blame, that the soul’s
black hole had grown overly big
you wish your sterilising of dreams had failed
so they wouldn’t bear any others
now you’re wrestling, groaning, shrieking
just as a dream shrieks that despite the sterilisation
bears for you the dream of a companion.

Accept then humiliation’s admonitions
and climb on the camel’s hump opportunity
offered you by that passing nicotine fellah.

Climb up, admit it
partner fears have entered your self-sufficiency
(just the other day you were seen with company
in sunstroke’s mirror).

Let’s not fool ourselves my likeness.
Only the futile is self-sufficient.


- Kiki Dimoula, from Cartoon (via violentwavesofemotion)


the beginning to a poem that idk about yet

i can pronounce my names
as many times as it will take
for you to stumble before you 
use it in a sentence 

you pace back and forth
in front of dorm door at 2am
sunday when i saw you get a
goodnight call 
you said “i have to take this”
and walked outside to talk to
someone else about the 
problem in your life called

but i was born
with large feet and
rough skin like the basque
mountains where my grandfather
once said “it does not matter 
what language you speak if you
cannot whisper good morning
in your lover’s ear” 
my name in basque means

i knew the pause,
that was always me.
teachers always remembering
me by face, not by name 
i was the pause, the stutter,
the forgotten vowels and misplaced
i couldn’t be placed in an alphabet,


"Don’t compare your Chapter 1 to someone else’s Chapter 20."

- TheDailyPositive.com (via thedailypozitive)