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BeatYour hips roll like the turntable spinning, the sharp point grinding its smooth hollowed grooves, gleaming in the spectral schizophrenia of lights dancing under hot air. Breaths rise like it were freezing, but the sweat slips off your breasts. We squint like myopic owls caught in a nest of night and heavy heart thumping beats. The music has worked its way into your throat, like vomit bubbling up from the bowels, gut—Beat
But the steady electronica, cyber magna-fidelity works its way downward, toward your base. Spinal tap. Like a
virus. All intention lying in consumption. To
by ~hopefulnotes
French-Kissing a Gay BoyIt was useless. Even from the beginning.French-Kissing a Gay Boy
You wanted bigger, better things; brighter, shinier. I wasn’t glowing with enough art and jazz to make you pop at me like you pop at your college friends, who don’t shower for weeks— but the smell looks good on them, and their words sound good out of them, and the world is fresher through their eyes, and you think that maybe MAYBE if you hang around them long enough, their eyes will leak like a viscous soup into yours, and form a new orb, a new world. A better world where the bridges aren’t just for walking on, but they arch
by ~hopefulnotes
The Way that We TalkThe way that we talk when we talk dreamily and irrationally about the houses in our future, filled with friendly ghosts and secret rooms filled to the brim with adventure, I think what we really mean is that we want a houseThe Way that We Talk
filled with love, but our tongues just
can’t roll over that
shame in dependency.
And when we, you and I, spill our guts over keyboards, ball point pens, over coffee and cake, over scraps of old paper; scribbled on, what we really mean is:
We’re weak.
And the way every time I see you
by ~hopefulnotes
Holiday My mouth puckered like little pink prune-wet fingers around the white alabaster of a cigarette. My slightly parted lips breathing out smooth, cool silos of smoke; I could feel it breathe through my tar-stained teeth like cool chit chat and brooding intimacy. I could feel my bones, ribs, falling in on themselves, and growing tired as each moment passed, listening to my “friend’s” superfluous comments—combat of letters, syllables—words. I dropped the cigarette, half eaten by oxygen, onto the ground and grinded it in with the shiny tip-toe of my flats. The air pulsated with the first snow of the season,Holiday
by ~hopefulnotes
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Devious Info
- Current Residence: Massachusetts
- Interests: breathing
- Favourite movie: Rushmore
- Favourite genre of music: alternative rock
- Favourite poet or writer: Nabokov
- Favourite game: Starcraft
- Personal Quote: I listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.
- Website: http://www.livejournal.com/users/shahrazad_x
- AIM: hopefulnotes
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hah... not that i do anything here anymore but look at pics.
i'm not too talented in the arts department anyways, besides music if anything
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when you are lost and gone i will be lost and here
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I kiss your hand, wishing I could Snap every finger...
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