homoerotic: (Default)
Autocarrot After Dinner

I'm stardust to fall asleep,
gumdrops into a peaceful lullaby.
I'm fishnets through dreams
as they deus ex machina my sight.
We rainbow powder along the
gently wicker basketing landscape
as I turpentine around and
kiln you on the forehead.
Good night, I stain, windowing
you down the path through
the trees toward your sweet
sap bed. Requiem well
dear, darling
I legend you
because I'm stardust
to sleep in the
flashbulbing quiet, wastebin
for dreams to enmity
from the prehensile froth.

Welcome to the woods of Alaska.
If you see a wild animal, please
assume the fetal position.
Should the UHA, or
Unidentified Hostile Animal, continue
slowly sing the ABCs.
At the end of the song,
leap up suddenly, arms spread
wide, shouting
Most animals will have lost
interest or been frightened
away by now. However,
in the case of particularly
hostile animals such as
bears, moose, or
cranes, it will
be necessary to follow
a further set of directions.
Face directly toward
Washington D.C.,
regardless of where the
UHA is standing, hold your right
hand over your heart,
and sing the national anthem.
Twice. Be sure
to remove your hat
if you are wearing one.
In the event that none
of these suggestions have
frightened away the
UHA, please
remain calm.
Now, let’s make masks of our
spirit animals!

Eighth Grade Jean Pockets

Yesterday, my best friend
asked me for an eraser. So,
I reached into my pocket
and pulled out some
nervous laughter.
Whoops, that’s not it,
so I reached in again,
pulling out a reflection
of the moon. We stared at it
for a while, the image rippling
like a liquid bone looking glass.
It was pretty, but you can’t
erase your words with a
reflection of light, so I reached
in again, dug to the very bottom,
and pulled up a handful
of dream’s dust. And we
could see everything, the
black-clawed fence
crawling out of the earth,
the garden adorned by
a cloud of pink petals;
the glass orbs leading the way,
each a speck of dust
shining like a miniature
sun for its own tiny
solar system. And then,
it all spilled out of
my pocket, skies that
cover worlds in a gentle
embrace, worlds that nurture
life in its womb, life
that unveils reality
from its folds. And
there, in the cloud
of creation I pull
out of my pocket,
is that candy-pink
destruction, dancing
holes through my ideas.

Destiny is two sisters and one
mean mommy staring
into the window of their
house. Destiny
is what is hiding
in the dark, the
night that falls around
the house two sisters
and one mean mommy
are staring into. Destiny is the
teddy bear
dressed in a royal
cape and crown, staring
back gently as the fluffy,
glass-eyed harbinger of the Great
Destiny is one sister
spreading her fleshy
wings, flying off
with her sister toward
the sun over a crusted
ocean. Destiny
is one mean mommy
and her slow procession
of tears away from
the house, searching for
signs of her
two daughters.
Destiny is inscribed in
the aged wooden frame
of the front door, smoldering
in the remnant flames.

Five-Years-Old and Past My Prime

Okay, what,
what, what are you doing?
Stop staring at me like that,
it’s creepy. You know,
it’s nice to get out sometimes,
maybe go to that park
instead of looking at pictures of it.
Don’t go on Facebook, do not
go on Facebook—that’s a half
hour gone just looking at your friends’
friends. Great job.
What, going to Tumblr now?
More frivolities, yay! You know—
oh my god, is that a hand? Click away,
click away right now. Gross,
I feel dirty now, thanks. Just
because you can reblog it doesn’t mean you
should! Hey, your friend Latte is trying to IM you;
maybe you should respond, I dunno,
maybe. A little bit of human interaction
is always good. But hey, what do I know?
All I read are stick-figure webcomics
and Wikipedia articles.
Fine, you don’t wanna listen to me? I dare you
to try watching Lady Gaga’s latest
music video. Oh, nothing’s loading? You can’t
sign into LiveJournal? Twitter’s down? Well,
screw you. Maybe I have needs too. Maybe
my battery won’t hold a charge for more than
two hours anymore. Maybe my paint is starting
to rub off. Maybe I don’t want to like
Paula Deen’s Facebook page and stare
at pictures of butter for an hour.


homoerotic: (Default)

August 2012

12131415 161718


RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios