FICTION

Backwards Swallowing

perfectionatrix — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 01:28:23 +0000

After that, I walked around the side to find the spot where people hide when they are tired and they think that the music is too loud. I drank too much to call you now – my thoughts are planks of neatly cut wood laid to make a deck. The other smokers ask me questions – little do they suspect I am three seconds from hurling out my stomach on this fence. I answer basically, evasively, deep breaths in my chest. I concentrate on swallowing and letting acids rest in the churned pit of my stomach – this is it, I’ve really done it – I hug the railing sweetly (now no people want to meet me) and I stare at all the feet; we are a strange array of shoes. I know the shot that did it – the third agave blue, and here it comes again to greet me (oh my love you shouldn’t see me, welping like a dog, can’t help but still be self-defeating) and ohhhhh ahhhhhhh

Girls with Straight Teeth

perfectionatrix — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 20:36:54 +0000

Girls who have straight teeth are most likely crazy. The upside of course is the sex is amazing – each sweat-dappled night finds exhausted frames thanking the gods for existence and cigarette kisses. Girls who have straight teeth don’t care if I miss them – the things they don’t do keep them all very busy. Morning will find us upset to be living in suburbs of joggers and after school specials, crosswalks with crossing guards hired to meddle with regular routes through new glue sniffed towns. Girls with straight teeth don’t know I had braces; girls with straight teeth and even straighter faces tell me take a seat and then when I’m done waiting they’ll call for my turn if my turn ever comes, if my ticket is pulled, if the balance of sum expectations awakened a feeling or two. I don’t know why I try; they almost never do.

Drunk By Noon

perfectionatrix — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 04:17:39 +0000

I am sitting at a bar – the International Cafe. I told the bartender that I love IPAs so he uncapped a Hop Devil (made in Downingtown, PA) and said this one’s on the house, buddy – you deserve a day. And you know, he’s probably right – lately I’ve been too uptight about who’s sleeping with whom – you know, who’s making who’s night; too obsessed with my own gloom to see the sun’s radiant light shining on my untanned skin. Us regulars talk about our alcoholic sins like veterans talk medals (I assume; I’ve only met one and he had nothing to add, though his green eyes did turn sad) and anyway it’s not so bad – between drinks I try to text you but it ends up sounding forced; I end up thinking more about your reaction than the supreme satisfaction that I get making you happy. Us patrons are all laughing about people I don’t know but may as well and if you could even be here oh I swear to god I’d tell you how the ocean wakes up slowly, how the foamy tides are rolling with the glory of completion, how romantic every beach is stretching far as I can see it -

You owe me one million thousand kisses.

Saladin Defeats the Crusaders at Hattin

perfectionatrix — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 03:09:06 +0000

It’s mostly because I’m allergic to gambling – and your presence renders me rambling, stammering, yammering on about something so dumb I realize I’m talking but forget what it was I was aiming to say. Mostly, anyway. I generally do not enter myself in contests with long ends of odds – it’s a practice of saving some face for soon dates; the mattress forgives me, even when I’m late but you wouldn’t, I’m certain. You’re a stained glass window covered by a curtain that no one can see – I am free to watch your draperies ripple in the breeze but try though I may I never see more than a brief peak – a too brief secret scenery, a scandalous river that leaked out to the sea that I would like to be the only one fit to navigate; I wait and wait for rains to wash me there but there’s no moisture in the air. Fire is not random, oh and nor is my despair – the odds are terrible, I swear to you. The window still cannot be viewed. I have aversions to both gambling and knowing I will lose.

Midday in Eden

perfectionatrix — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 17:39:32 +0000

When it’s this warm and bright, you almost forget night even existed – that it’s raining (at least misting) on the painted ladies sifting through a passed out man’s wallet when a cab (because they called it) is downstairs, ready to ride them into freedom and invite them back home for one more drink. I do not think you understand me: the importance of all things makes it hard to describe them with any accuracy – I’m not sure the important parts or who bore the worthy heart, I’m only sure that soon the night will tear this world apart and make me forget this noon hour of sunshine, as the rain dries up like smoke and my thoughts turn to a supine girl who jokes about her noteworthy abilities regarding certain strokes. I’d be better if all hours were this sweet, absent of sour thoughts of how to pay for gas next tank or which relatives to thank for christmas gifts (I’m always late – they bitch and I can’t even say they’re baseless; they have quite a case). I’d be better if you’d fetter yourself to me like these letters – I will hide you (oh don’t worry) and invite you to my home for one more drink.

How Everything Is

perfectionatrix — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 22:27:33 +0000

Liars are always the best ones at lying – this is how everything is. It’s easy to spot the people dying – it’s the ones that wish they were kids again, pretending nothing exists beyond narrow neighborhoods of long-moved friends and barbershop quartets. Regrets are funny things – useless, chewing parasites. I cried a lot as a kid. I do not think I’d like it one bit to go back again, pretending nothing exists beyond narrow neighborhoods (because your body was too good after three beers and a shot; because when I was young I could not get the things I want; because to hear you speak surprises / to see you stretching rises heartbeats, breathing rates, all gauges – this is not my favorite age – it’s just something that I have to hopefully try to improve). And it’s losers who always know the worst ways to lose. And the corpulent masses know who fries the best food and useless rhyming is all I can do is all I can do for you.

The Staring Problem

perfectionatrix — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 15:36:41 +0000

The problem of staring is your’s and not mine. How can I help if your skin refracts light like a diamond? I’m simply trying to find the flaw in the structure, exquisite design to be sure – crystalline, with the eyes of your mother – this is no doubt why the strict Muslims cover their women – forgive them, some beauty is prismic, too livid to let slide without asking them into your life. The problem of staring is you look so right looking up at me smiling, softly replying, “No, I’m afraid that I don’t see it at all.”

Why I Miss Myself

perfectionatrix — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 00:47:30 +0000

Why I miss myself: because I liked my old self better. He was younger, tighter, happier, got laid more, was more clever. I am used and put away wet; I have things I can’t forget that weigh upon me before sleeping – I am nervous now, I let my doubts make sure I don’t sound confident – my hands and voice each shake. I dream happy hour specials and prescription pills to take to calm me down, just calm me down already – god my heart beats fast. I feel worn and used and spent and like I was much better last year, barely a week past – shaking, my hands grab for hope and find nothing but dryness and secondhand smoke.

The Eve of St. Magnus

perfectionatrix — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 21:21:55 +0000

I don’t know which year is which anyway – even if I wanted to, I couldn’t say what the best thing was because the best thing does not come until this year is ended – here’s hoping that they’ll change the mirrors to make me look more pretty. here’s hoping that each morning isn’t as hungover shitty as they all were at the end here; let’s be clear – it’s mostly me; I have an awful weakness of feeling sad on eves and knowing that we cannot go back, here we perch upon the cliff – evil I did dwell; lewd did I live (the same forwards and backwards, just like our calendar is flipping back to swallow itself whole). I stole nothing this year – no candy, no sexy hearts, no second glances at tearaway parts – I got nothing but something rising in my throat – I have hidden myself in the folds of my coat and I hate it all hate everything but not you.

Synaesthetics, 3

perfectionatrix — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 21:22:05 +0000

Disappointment’s peppermint, elation tastes like cream. There’s mint upon your breath; you are too nice to make a scene but I am sticky with the syrup – I have long showers to take, beers to drink by breakfast, excuses left to fake and realize I give too much credit out for simple jeans or eyes. The cream got churned to butter, I’m pretty sure it means tonight is just the same as last night was the same as one before. A general fails to get laid and next morning calls for war upon those goddamned motherfuckers who didn’t care for him – their blood cools off like peppermint, the bombing runs begin.