hate to start things out with a question,
where has that fucking
should say the lovely and the we will make it better, I say say things like you
think they should be, does he live in a farmhouse cause I think his friends and
their basements. I don't have it clear; in my head we all bend and fold like sometime
you live far enough outside of town, there is still no river. In fact, there is
less of that. The quiet and orange, and any white could look white it's so anywhere
else. If you live away and town, if you outside of and, you likely have two stories
frame, a spit across and catch it view, a lot of space for sure but more of the
same. The land taking a nap, the land closing its eyes on you like it wants to
be slapped. You slap me and I'll go on laughing -- we know each other's names
already, act reasonable it's clear we're just a dusty version of ourselves.
I met him I knew it was no big deal.
not us as such, you set us in the dust and look. What happens, you know. I'd tell
you my name but I don't think he cares. I'd tell you about his eyelashes but sometimes
when I'm walking I feel my hair falling out like candy.
I met him, I knew I suppose. Though I'd say no big deal.
real question is, is the house really white? Or does it fade with the weather,
when I visit I want to press my finger to the paint like a sponge. We live outside.
I don't expect you to understand.
boy got to, fucking. Where the fuck.
late and later and I don't care if you're you.
later and fuck. As if I wore makeup.
love you like loud music.
love you like sleeping in on Saturdays.
love you like I fuck you.
fuck you like, love you like
When you live outside of town, your house
happens to be old and cluttered. The usual parents, or at least one I think, or
something, or siblings who would cut your hair in a second (the gulping cries
of someone who is sullen without knowing why; don't be stupid of course I'm all
right). Maybe you sleep with someone sometimes, maybe you really should get glasses
someday. Perhaps we should mention friends' basements, but to me cheap carpeting
always says oh well oh well.
feel my hair falling out, I suck his thumb like candy for a
you live far away.
didn't want to start this with a question, but where
wash my hands of the situation. You can sleep where you
where Did you never write his name.
can sleep where you
I first saw him, he was picking at his fingers, frowning like saying you there,
nails, I'm not so sure yeah, so sure about you, where are we going cause I just
don't know. His hair was black and falling in fingers, of course I want to touch
it, smile like I thought he was some girl. No big deal, but I walked over anyways,
something new I thought. Shake hands or something in that kind of way, no shit
man, you live outside too?
I say where the fuck. Where is he?
not like eyelashes can melt into dirt and grit.
I first saw him, he was walking towards me and I bit pinky expecting to taste
it does not
well i'm sorry
love you like pine needles get into the basement in winter.
love you like sweeping them out the door.
love you like they collect in the corners, like dirt fucking pine needles.
I was young I'd play basketball with my dad. He, like leather and button up shirts
in the dirt, but then he'd slap my back, run his hands over the ball, swear when
I scored. Well I'll be fucked. My mom says damned. I'll be damned. My mom says
don't you ever say that dirty dirty, damned is plain well good enough you fucker.
Still my game (we'll play it, I'll tell you if you ask). I wear a hat to cover
my hey do you mind if I touch your hair?
man, don't look at me like a you know what. You walking towards me, my pinky in
my teeth, you smile like I'm fucking slinky, like my torso's something you could
wrap your arms around.
play along, pretend we're just gonna be guys and shit and shit, but I know the
truth right then. I know we will always be boys.
say it hurts like a girl, the high pitch of come back you I didn't mean it. Pouting,
as if he wore makeup.
the town and you live, well you know where by now you fucking should at least,
all this time. You occasionally tire of your sister's showtunes, the pickup you
share with your brothers gets dirty there is nothing much to be done so. And how
many dogs are there now? No one thinks to scrub the house, things rot in the yard
of course, can I come over to your place man I'll bring a change of clothes. I
am so hungry, I am so sick of washing white clothes as if they were just that
the fuck has he
son, you know, that one I've always wondered but
how he always
I met him, I admit it I knew I wanted to touch his forehead.
you live far away enough, when it's outside the town. We realize someday that
our father's shirts will never fit us, we remain thin and angry for always, your
eyelashes much longer than his, we bend and fold like something that can only
bend and fold. The surprise on your mother's lips when you pull your posture straight
-- oh you, I didn't think you
fucking got to.
know where he fucking
sleeping bag (for show, I guess)
(ok mom, I'm not an idiot for fuck's sake)
comb? well you were wrong.
half the way over, the middle half, then brake and it's ok, no nothing)
I'm ready for you, fucker.
yeah, you know I'm fucking yours.
you live out and town is far it hurts to turn your neck, a basketball sounds like
the loudest ever thing, like yelling hey the phone's for you asshole and give
it here you motherfucker goddammit boys if you don't shut your mouth. The screen
door slamming just a second sooner than you thought, oh you finally oiled that
sucker honey, I would've said thank you but. A basketball in the dirt that dusty
thump, as if it hit you right there, as if it shook your bones and all that silent
Spit it out
baby, if you can just
right, ok. Sometimes it hurts. It's not like we wear makeup.
hair is leaving in leaps and bounds. I'm thinking of fistfuls, I fear it will
follow me, that they will finger tufts of curls and know for sure where I've been.
know this isn't anything.
know I'm not like that.
not you know.
love you like you know I'll never say it but we look like that sometimes no matter
I love you like
pine needles were a stupid thing to say anyways.
they'll tell me I should've known.
hair holding on to his jaw like my fingers
cut it, I think. I remember screaming.
you were little?
I know. It's
only sleeping here.
I met him, hey you know we might as well at least be friends.
I know we might as well.
you remember when we met?
me my fucking shirt
fucking dirty your fucking shirt
do you expect, you gonna clean it up or something
you're nice to me maybe If you fucking clean mine
bout if I
I don't yeah maybe I
Well maybe I
Ok. I said ok.
you live outside far enough, the white so silent and seated you never think to
say yellow. There's a road, sure, if that's what you want yes the dirt is really
hard enough see we bounce it up down just like that. As if driveways off the highway
were paved, as if my room was in the basement and you wore lipstick like anything.
I never want to cut my hair, they used to chase me till I
you think they sleep with
Hey I don't want to be a
just where the fuck I have to put my foot
I have to call it what it
he yawns he closes his eyes, squints. For longer than you'd think. Rubs his eyes
and shakes out his fingers like they're all wet or something. Sometimes he pulls
at one of his looser curls, too, like he's pretending his eyes were open the whole
time. Like he doesn't need to know whether I was looking.
didn't know you wore glasses.
you take a lock of my hair? I can tell I'm losing it anyways -- don't look at
me like we'll never change.
say his name but I don't think it matters. We were always athletes all, if we
didn't fold and slender they'd never see us bending. We slip down to the basement
say I'm sorry Mrs. mother other I must have forgotten to leave my shoes at the
I only sleep where I only sleep with, shit we only
you know I'm yours.
question is, I want to press my finger to the dirt like a sponge. I want to my
finger and find a white house underneath it, I don't really care if he comes but
when you live away and where the fuck. His lids crash down as if I cared more,
I think I am becoming bald at this point. I'd tell you his name, but we don't
even whisper, it hurts and we say sorry at this point. At this point, in the dark
and god it's always sunny. Perhaps we should basement, but I and white house.
Can you sleep where you
question is, where will we
just fucking can't. It's that simple. Tell him he can't.
question is of course, our skin will grow sunspots and thin, we will feel the
rubber ball beneath our fingers but we can never wear his shirts, we will never
lose the eyelashes we will always know that something basemented deep inside so
what if we almost thought the house could be white. But fuck it, love, you know
we're just a dusty version.
you, I didn't think you