Do you believe in now? Do you believe in right now/
How? It’s gone. There is no present.
Preset in the dawn is beginning and end, alpha, omega,
beginning and end.
Everything is ending, bending
to one, running this circus that serves us,
And the clock strikes nine, nine times,
nine seconds after nine. Prime time for our mime,
the silent creator.
No Assholes, a bimonthly literary magazine, is now accepting poetry, prose, and creative nonfiction submissions for its upcoming issue.
Unpublished poets and well as verse veterans alike are encouraged to submit (as long as you’re not an asshole).
Please send submissions of up to 5 poems, no more than 60 lines each, and prose and creative nonfiction selections of no more than 10 pages, to NALiteraryMagazine@gmail.com by May 4th.
Hey guys, spread the word about issue two of NO ASSHOLES. This time around, the theme of the magazine will be “Memory”.
This time around, the literary magazine has some financial backing and will be professionally printed!
I was about to walk through the pearly gates
when St. Peter asked
if I had any questions,
I said, sure, what was the meaning of life,
but he didn’t respond,
he merely pointed his finger at an elevator shaft
with a down arrow.
When I got to the bottom,
it was like a goddamned question bomb
had exploded everywhere
and left the room splattered with
and there were even more
strewn about all over a
and they were hot too,
in my chest
cigarettes and the
assure me of one thing
i am dying
as are you
and the fish
and the cows
and the trees
so shall we toast
to our knowledge
and our death
may never come
A clear drop of sex
slices her shape
in a glass of red wine.
A mouth drinks the elixir
of a big and blessed
piece of occasional love.
A pair of pupils
devour some soft hands
that goes up and down
from head to toe,
to an undiscovered land.
A little secret appears
overflowing it’s light
all over the room
glowing like a star.
And two souls share
a unique mind
without counting the minutes,
without losing their eyes.
At school they attempted to teach me things, but i learned very little; little of any academic value at any rate.
I had Tourette’s Syndrome you see, and was continuously distracted by the demands of my head and body, constantly searching for something which originated in my head and transferred itself downwards in a series of tics, grunts and tension.
I blinked hard, all the time, whilst also tensing my muscles with jerking motions of the forearm; i also had to line up my vision with the end of my nose and locate a distant object through these ‘sights’ several times a minute, all the time conscious of being noticed and ridiculed, because to be fair, i did look odd.
The grunting was the biggest inconvenience, but this was what made it Tourette’s instead of some common or garden tic disorder; the presence of one or more vocal tics. Vocal tics can be one of any number of things, but the one most commonly associated with Tourette’s is uncontrollable swearing, known as Coprolalia, which thankfully i don’t have, but i am often compelled to say inappropriate things in ridiculously inappropriate situations, which I often find hilarious, even if no one else does. This is how my extremely dry/deadpan sense of humour originated, as saying something outrageous whilst maintaining a completely straight face, often confuses the fuck out of people, which i also very much enjoy.
They didn’t know too much about Tourette’s back in the early 1980′s, especially not in a provincial post-industrial town in the north of England.
The school thought me lazy and easily distracted and chose to beat my condition into submission with sticks and heavy rubber sports shoes until eventually i decided to become what they told me i was.
I fashioned for myself a suit of armour coated in Teflon and tailored to the contours of my psyche and fought everyone and everything that came within reach; i was well-defended and nothing was going to hurt me in my bespoke outfit of violence and intellectual intimidation.
Attempting to un-suit myself has proven a little more difficult though, and seems to require a little more than the lubricant and shoe-horn i initially supposed.
So what’s it like this ‘Tourette’s Syndrome’ thingy then?…you ask.
Weeeellll…imagine feeling an extremely high level of discomfort throughout your body, kind of like an electric current, which keeps you in constant motion and never lets you feel calm. Then imagine that as you constantly look around for something to occupy your ever-active mind, your gaze frequently falls upon piles of papers which need straightening or something that needs cleaning…got the image?…ok, good. Now imagine that the straightening or cleaning have to be done repeatedly until they are done right, without any internal indication of what or how right might be. Whilst this is happening, your body needs relief from the aforementioned continuous electric current and begins devising outlets for it, by way of muscle-tensing or grunting or something similar, all of which need doing right.
Building a clearer picture in your mind?…good…then i’ll continue.
So, there you are cleaning and straightening and tensing and grunting; possibly throwing in a jerk of the head or a squeezing together of the eyelids for good measure…constantly…every minute…of every hour…of every day…of every week…month…year…life…
then you get asked to live!
Oh…you know what i mean by live right?…get a job… manage relationships…progress…achieve…learn…manage money…own a house…a car…nurture children…
No problem…easy peasey…a piece of cake…i’ll get right to it, once i can find a spare minute away from blinking, grunting, straightening, jerking, cleaning, repeating and repeating and repeating…
Image getting clearer?…’K?…’K…
you discover that alcohol will help you enormously with your condition as will some drugs, however, you are not informed which one’s, causing you to have to work your way through all of them, only to then learn you have some condition/malady/illness/disease/weakness which removes any ability to control ANY of the aforementioned ‘remedies’ and you use them continuously until you finally skid through the dirt, coming to rest with your toes protruding over the edge of the chasm of mental illness/death, with small stones and dust falling into the void, with only the sound of your heavy breathing for comfort, as the vultures circle above.
Which means that the source of relief has now been removed and, you are informed, must never enter your life again, for the chasm calls and waits patiently, eagerly anticipating your swift descent at some point over your lifetime, all the while whispering to you in your own voice, convincing you that none of this is true and that relief is only £10.00/1 bag/1 rock/1 drink/1 ANYTHING away…whilst you continue repeating and repeating and repeating; wearing down, wearing out
wanting to sleep.
BUT YOU MUST/CAN…NOT USE ANYTHING TO RELIEVE THIS EVER AGAIN…
So…to often hear that addiction is a lifestyle choice and that those afflicted are merely scum, can tend to sting and smart just a touch.
So spare a thought tonight for those who hurt, although the source of their mighty discomfort may not be at all apparent, for they need your love and some level of understanding…for without that they may well become what you tell them they are,
and may well, as we speak, be entering through your basement window with a knife clenched between their teeth; resentment and desperation in their eyes, seeking an explanation…
So…this can be a right pisser to live with, and sometimes, and even though i may wish to get utterly trousered and experience blessed relief, just for a few hours, i don’t, which, i believe, is a legitimately noble undertaking,
when i am in full flow;
grunting and twitching and jerking and blinking and straightening
and repeating and repeating
i really MUST admit
look a bit
I pulled my survival out of
the four-hundred degree oven with
no mitts on and
felt almost high at
the elevated sense of awareness, which
came as I heard my flesh sizzle
while I choked on the vapor,
but still I managed to get the pan it sat on
to the counter without
and now as I sit here
in bandaged hands
in continuous burning pain,
I desperately try to comfort myself
with reminders that one day the bubbly blisters
will merely be scars,
and I hope the valuable life lesson has finally
sunken in that
just because I can handle something
doesn’t mean I should.
If you’re in London, and are male, may i perhaps recommend a visit to Taylor’s of Jermyn street.
Taylor’s is a gentlemen’s grooming establishment; purveyor’s of fine lotions and brushes.
To the rear there is a small barber shop, tastefully lit and finely fragranced; the kind of smell that brings a sense of safety and memories of childhood, and gently buffs the edges of discomfort. Classical music is just audible above the hushed conversations of barbers and clientelle.
I had gone there for a shave upon the recommendation of a friend.
The gentleman who began massaging oil into my face asked, with a light Italian accent
“How are you today sir?”.
His name was Carlo and i told him that i was doing ok and returned the question
“I’m a not a bad” he replied “can’t a compline you know?”
“ah come on Carlo, i’m sure you can find something to complain about”
with a tone which i hoped implied that i was a nice guy; one of the good ones; a touch above the herd but not so far that i couldn’t still smell the dust it kicked up, nor how it yearned for the freedom and solitude of the field just beyond the fence, unencumbered by the concerns of money, health; the illusion of contentment and women.
“Well, i could a compline you know, but who would a listen?”
“me my friend” i said.
Carlo had arrived in England at the age of eighteen hoping to kick up a storm, as young men often do. He had met and married an Irish girl and they had been together for forty-two years. The barber shop he owned for twenty-seven years had been forced to close due to the demolition of the building. His search for alternate premises had proven unsuccessful and the cheapest lease he could find was £50,000 per year with a further £50,000 required to “do it up a right”. Having accepted that the dream was over, he had come to work part-time at Taylor’s and had never visited Jermyn street prior to being interviewed.
It wasn’t somewhere that someone in his position would ever find reason to visit.
As he spoke, he continued with his work; foaming and, working the blade with confidence. His hands held my face firmly; stretching the skin like putty. As he worked on me, i watched the concentration in his eyes and felt the breath from his nose on my forehead.
After the initial conversational flurry concerning his life, he occasionally spoke, but was mostly silent.
I admired Carlo’s courage, first in leaving Sicily as a young man to take on the world, but more importantly, upon discovering how the world worked, his ability to adapt, yet remain upstanding.
I wished this man were my father.
My father collapsed thirty-five years ago when my mother left him for alcohol and another man. He has not had the ability to soothe either himself nor anyone else since.
I walked away from Taylor’s with a smooth
face and a lighter
my soul too,
This morning i woke up feeling pretty broken. My head was filled with everything and nothing and the static whirled round and round but never settled on anything concrete…to the point where i entered a state of what i call ‘analysis paralysis’, which found me struck dumb and immobile. I felt utterly stupid, as though i never had, or would have, anything useful to say ever again, my whole being felt tired; exhausted, and incredibly weary; the kind of weary reserved only for the damned.
On my way to work, i listened to the new Gil Scott-Heron album ‘I’m new here’. The album is book-ended by a track entitled ‘on coming from a broken home’, which finds Gil pondering the question “is a home broken just because someone says it is?”.
Gil was of the opinion that although his father left home when he was young and he was sent south to live with his grandmother, the amount of love given freely to him by this amazing lady who “had more than the five senses and raised everyone she met just that little bit higher”, the home he lived in was far from ‘broken’.
My home was broken before i was born.
My conception was to mend this, in the eyes of my parents, but didn’t.
Yes, my home was definitely ‘broken’ and i felt this from the moment i came into being.
I felt very frightened.
I also felt at fault because i was stupid.
As a child, my peers and i were tested for our IQ scores. My parents (my mother and step-father) were called into school to be told that i had scored highly and they might wish to seek special schooling for me.
I was scared by the phrase ‘special schooling’ but the teacher assured me this was a good thing and i felt a little better, as though i’d actually done something good.
On the way back to the car after this meeting i tripped and fell over. My trousers got dirty and i had torn a hole in the knee.
My mother hit me on the backside, hard and said three words, with force;
“You stupid boy”
and because she was my mother and all of my world then; i believed her.
The teacher must have got it all wrong, and all this talk of being “as bright as a button” and “gifted” was rubbish because my mother was never wrong.
When i won a scholarship to one school but not another, this was also due to my stupidity and lack of foresight due to the extra travel involved.
At this school i immediately wondered how all the kids managed to keep up with the lessons and concentrate for that length of time, because for some reason i couldn’t and quickly became labelled ’stupid’ and/or ‘lazy’. This wasn’t quite right though, for i tried to meet expectations and wanted so badly their approval, but i just didn’t seem to fit.
I soon decided that i must have been stupid and/or lazy and began to become what they told me i must be. I also became mean and beat people up and had others do my work for me.
I soon picked up another tag; ‘Psycho’.
I was a lazy psycho.
I was not expelled due to being ‘gifted’, but i didn’t feel gifted and no longer wanted to be gifted if it meant everyone was angry at me all the time.
I still felt very frightened but would throw a bottle at anyone who suggested as much.
Being raped at knifepoint by three teenagers at the age of ten in an attic room was stupid of me, or so i was told 25 years later when i finally shared this with my mother; i should have fought them off.
At 32 i was diagnosed with Tourette’s Syndrome (which had caused the learning difficulties at school; kind of like ADHD) but stupidly should have spotted this sooner, according to my parents.
So, is a home broken just because someone says it is?
I buried my mother on June 19th 2010 and stupidly;
i forgot to cry.
I love you mum and may you forever rest in peace.
Fade into the back row, the show goes on untouched.
Mis-en-scene arranged. But it fades away.
Foreground becomes background. The spotlight shines for her.
For a brief moment, soliloquy is shared, and the audience applauds.
I’ll write for her, of the stage we set.
I bet she let the curtains fall.
Encore, replay, but in dismay, not today.
In her play, I’m just ensemble.
Tragedy, bringing me down like gravity.
Now I’m grounded, surrounded by what makes me unfamiliar.
Traffic lights, stop signs, one-ways.
The path grows dim as the lights fade.
I’m afraid I’ll always say you’re the one that got away,
but all my roads lead to you.
Say, ask me your query.
Feed me a quarter, I’ll give you my two cents.
But the morsels, a ghost.
It feels forced, faked almost.
I can’t make what was taken, the taste of you.
I knew what it felt like once,
now I play vending machine
waiting to be restocked.
The room goes black, swallowed in shadow.
I smile and admire it, the wall I can’t see.
You see, for me, a certain lack of clarity is all I need.
I’m glad we still have mystery.
There have been times in my life when i have laboured under the illusion that events should fall evenly into place, at the right times and as neatly as possible; i no longer believe this to be the case.
After all, who writes the ‘shoulds’ and ‘should not’s’? Who’s framework, or world-view, is being followed and by whom? WHY ‘should’ anything go according to anyone’s ‘plans’, especially since most of us can often NOT adhere to any sense of order or ‘rightness’, yet expect this from the rest of us.
My mother had been battling cancer for five years; they talk of surviving cancer, but they fail to speak of the quality of that survival. The reality is that, after diagnosis, there is often a serious operation to remove whatever has developed up until the symptoms have become apparent; in my mother’s case this operation was a hysterectomy, with the possibility of a colostomy bag since the cancer may have spread from her ovaries to her bowel. Couple this with chemotherapy; the poisoning of everything in the body, in the hope of poisoning the cancer, and the quality of a person’s life diminishes greatly.
The one thing she DID NOT want, was a colostomy. She said she could bear anything else, but not that.
As it happened, they did not need to cut any of her bowel away during the hysterectomy and had managed to relay this to her in theatre; after she came out of surgery i went to see her in the high dependency unit, not expecting her to be conscious, but she was aware enough to say two words…”no bag”…and then go back to sleep. I stroked her hair and left through the double doors.
After her operation, she immediately started chemotherapy treatment, which resulted in her losing all of her hair. She pretended that this did not bother her, but ANY woman would be upset by the loss of their hair: hair defines people, especially women. I was able to help her by shaving her head when nothing remained but random tufts, gently rubbing the foam in and gliding the razor from brow to nape whilst we talked about this and that.
I did this for four more years and watched her become paler and more uncomfortable. The discomfort then gave way to pain, which was constant and chaotic. It would strike her randomly and in different areas of her body; occasionally she would cry out and then look embarrassed, as if there was someone she might be offending; not me, i can assure you, i only wished to swap places with her and make it ok, but couldn’t.
One day, i decided that i had had enough. I know this is an incredibly selfish thought process, but don’t judge me until you’ve experienced it; it was just unbearable and i couldn’t stand it for a moment longer.
So, after seven and a half years of continued sobriety, i prescribed myself one bag of heroin; twenty-four hours off from this relentless torture, which prevented me from sleeping and mocked me constantly for my inability to protect my mother from the kind of pain which can change someone’s personality, rendering them unrecognisable and grotesque.
The problem is, twenty-four hours is NEVER twenty-four hours: it starts that way with promises to self about being sensible etc. but when it comes down to it, the worlds’ most powerful painkiller does EXACTLY what it says on the tin, so why would anyone want to return to the kind of pain that changes breathing patterns?…not me that’s for sure, and after seventy-two hours, i was in up to my knees, with not a prayer of getting out of there alive.
Oh yeah…and i started smoking crack again too.
Sitting around a bed waiting for your mother to die is a surreal experience. I have sat around several other beds in my life, waiting for other people’s mothers and fathers to die, but never my own.
During the two days it took my mother to pass away, after being admitted due to being rendered insensible due to the cancer shutting down her organs one by one, causing the toxins in her system to begin affecting her brain, my small family positioned ourselves around her bed, and talked.
Talking about real things is not something that historically, my family does well; especially my grandmother, but there beside the bed, she began to open up and talk about her life.
She told us a story which will remain with me forever.
Sixty-two years prior, when my mum was just five, my grandmother had called her from the garden for dinner but received no response. She began to panic and could only think of one place she could be, which was at the house directly opposite, where six siblings lived, whom my mother often played with. She went over to the house and discovered that none of their children were home either, and could not be located. The adults formed a search party and began to walk down towards the river.
This happened in Bristol, which is on the border of the counties of Somerset and Gloucestershire, which are fairly rural, and were more-so then. So the concern wasn’t so much about anyone ‘getting’ the children, but more about natural hazards, such as the river. With this in mind, the adults stepped up their pace and their levels of concern, and marched through the fields in the aforementioned direction.
About halfway there, my grandmother happened to glance to her left, which took her gaze downhill across more fields. She was able to make out some figures down there and called the other adults over, who then joined her in her astonishment.
Down below were the children next to a waterlogged field. All but one were sitting in a row on an area of dry ground next to the water. Their attention was taken up by one of the other children who was standing in the middle of the water, stark naked and ringing her socks out defiantly. This child was my mother, who it seems, had led the other children ‘pied piper-like’ through the fields to do something slightly more interesting than playing safely in gardens.
My grandmother described her as being ‘elfin-like’ in her nakedness, and standing on one foot. This image remains with me and always will, for my mother was an extremely mischievous lady, and it seems, always had been.
Now, addiction doesn’t provide you with a gentle nudge, saying something like “any chance of you nipping out and feeding me, some time in the next forty-eight hours”, it gets hold of you by the hair and shakes you about for a bit, before demanding “get me something NOW you cunt, or i’ll make you so ill you will wish you had never been born!”. So, sitting in my mum’s room, with the doctor having previously stated that the end of life process could take several days, and my nerve endings beginning to jangle and sweat beginning to pour off me, i decided to phone some twat, who i didn’t like in the slightest, and ask him to bring me what i needed in order to remain somewhat present at a time when i should not only have been present, but should have been a source of support and comfort. This, sadly, was not the case.
My grandmother, my wonderful ex-partner and a close friend of the family decided to go home and get some rest somewhere around seven-thirty in the evening, which saw me immediately send a text to set the wheels in motion for me to meet the guy outside in about twenty minutes.
I saw the visitor’s to the exit, which was on the other side of the hospital, and then waited.
It was right on the stroke of eight-o-clock, as i sat in his car, that i received a text from my ex-partner, who in turn had received a phone call from the nurse in charge, asking everyone to return to the ward as a matter of urgency.
I had just finished smoking a pipe full of crack when i received the text from her. I seem to remember quietly saying,
“i think my mum has just passed away” to the dealer, which was followed by an awkward silence, eventually broken by him asking,
“can i borrow your lighter, and could you put a bit more on this pipe for me, seeing as i came here so quickly”.
Also, he had run out of heroin about an hour beforehand, which meant i had nothing to help me come down, as i darted out of the car and walked off in the direction of the hospital.
As i walked through the double doors back on to the ward, the nursing staff, as one, all strode towards me with purpose. As they approached me, they wanted to know what i knew, which was nothing, but i guessed everything. Once it became apparent that i was prepared for what awaited me, they allowed me into my mother’s room.
My head was pounding with the after effects of the crack i had just smoked and the fear and paranoia, which is a characteristic of using this particular drug, and which heroin helps neutralise, was beginning to take hold.
I walked in to see my step-father crying by the bed, which contained my mum who was sitting in the same position she had been in when i left her, with her mouth open, but no longer making the rattling, wheezing sound she had been doing earlier.
The room was quiet and i knew my mother was no longer there.
The nurse came in and asked if it was ok if she opened the window, which apparently they do in all situations such as these. I guessed why, and then wished i hadn’t.
In life, there are times when the ‘solution’ to a problem causes ‘problems’ much more severe than the original problem. In my case, i have to live with the knowledge that the temporary solution i sought through self-medication, had created images and feelings so unbelievably horrific and painful, and with which i must live, until i eventually cease.
At which point, i may get the opportunity to say i’m so terribly sorry.
After about forty-five minutes, my grandmother decided that it was undignified for my mother to have her mouth open and tried to gently shut it. She was unsuccessful, so my mum’s mouth remained open, along with her eyes, which were opaque and contained no spark.
I sat at the end of her bed looking at her and noticed her feet were exposed. I covered them, as i knew she hated being cold and then thought about the fridge they would eventually place her in.
Finally, i cried.
I cried for myself, for i was scared and lonely and wanted my mum.
I cried for her, for, no matter how flawed, she had fought my corner and loved me unconditionally.
And, i cried for all of us, because what will become of us?
My mother held my family together, and since her passing, my step-father no longer speaks to me and my grandmother has clearly seen more than she wished of this lifetime.
I have since then, received treatment for my addiction, which is scant consolation as i sit here tonight, writing this, trying to find my way
in the dark.
It was in New Orleans East
and was a job i didn’t like
amongst other jobs i didn’t like.
It was an enormous parking lot;
i was to inspect rental cars
before they went to auction,
make a note of damage;
cigarette burns on the upholstery
dents in the fenders
New Orleans is hot and
this was the hottest place in New Orleans.
The tarmac reflected the sun
onto the cars and
the cars were made of steel.
Everything burned to the touch,
but the routine was simple;
open the door, burn my fingers,
turn both engine and air conditioning on
then close the door;
stand in the sun for five minutes, then
climb in and shut the door.
Inside was wonderful;
cool air blowing on my face,
watching the heat shimmer off the hood.
I would take my cap off,
smooth my hair and close my eyes,
the ring of sweat and the red line on my forehead
It took about fifteen minutes per car, this inspecting,
and required me to hold my breath between cars
to prevent my throat from burning.
I remember, it was a black Cadillac:
I sat waiting for the cool air to kick in
in my maroon leather world,
listening to the sound of the fan,
as the backs of my legs stuck to the seats.
My partner, Harry, was three rows down
and to the right,
i could see him kicking a tyre.
I rolled a reefer;
a twig pierced the paper;
i cursed and started again.
I turned the air conditioner down
and the radio on.
“Kurt Cobain was found dead today
above the garage of his
Seattle, Washington home,
he was twenty-seven”,
they announced on WRNO.
I turned the radio down
and the air conditioning up and
listened to the fan.
My word-view instantly altered;
i felt alone
and i cried from my gut.
I have only ever cried this way once before,
in December 1980.
It was 1994 and i was twenty-three years old.
Later that year i moved to San Francisco
with my wife.
I am now forty years old and
no longer married.
I no longer remember what
my ex-wife sounds like,
why i married her.
But i do remember
that lot in New Orleans East
The balloon pop
sounded like a gunshot,
well, not really,
but he’d never heard one before
so his best frame of reference
was the muted sound
similar to the bang
on cop shows
so he jumped,
what, what, what was that,
as he looked out the window
to see a BBQ
across the street
where three boys, probably between
eight and ten
were collecting up the helium
and squashing it
against the concrete, but
it didn’t feel like any pressure
had been released.
takes me out
Makes me want
every part of yourself…
I’m going deep and down
like a heavy anchor
feeling the sinking
of this forgotten boat.
I’m seeing the abyss
I’m touching the hell.
Why I can’t be better?
I just need to catch some air…
I’m going deep and down
with any single hope
screaming in silence
for a little piece of rope.
By Florencia Soledad Gatell
Self loathing unloading the defenses of my mind.
But you can’t afford to hate you, can you?
Pity never serves me, but unnerves me,
because I realize he can’t be trusted.
No one can. Not anymore.
I sat in a traffic jam
breathing in the fumes
of exhaust smoke
on a Friday afternoon—
an all-too perfect way
to end the day.
I’ve got to get out of town,
I thought to myself,
and then thoughts turned to
actuality when my girlfriend agreed
to join me
on a weekend journey
to the state park.
Back to nature,
a breath of fresh air,
we kept saying to each other
as we departed car full of camping gear,
but once upon the grounds,
we couldn’t get the tent to stay up,
and as I wandered off
to the creek
to catch us some dinner
to cook up fresh,
I realized I forgot to charge my iPod
so there I sat
in monotonous silence
on the muddy bank
with an ugly stick cast out.
Nothing was biting at my bait
and as I swatted away the horse flies
and left red handprints on my arms and legs
from slapping at mosquitoes,
I wondered how humans could possibly
still be considered animals
as I longed for the long
She made it fifteen minutes without playing that fucking song.
Every day after she woke up, she would head to the lobby to get the paper, hoping she couldn’t still smell his cologne in the elevator.
She always did.
She knew they were finished long before they broke up. She was fine with it. Defective robots, they were one malfunction after the other. But she didn’t expect him to wind up in the same goddamn apartment complex.
Instead of beating angry thoughts into the walls, she sat back and played that “Waltzing Matilda” by Tom Waits. It reminded her of walking down strange new streets, back when they were happier. She felt the warm sun on her shoulders as they drank coffee by the gallon in cute little cafes.
Trying times, but memories she couldn’t let go of, even if they involved him.
She would try not to imagine someone else’s legs wrapped around him, in some quaint, airily decorated apartment in her building. She pushed the image of some neighbor kissing his sharp chin from her head.
She didn’t want to move, but this town was too fucking small.
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I suppose that I’m the kind of person
who thinks entirely too much.
You know, about big things, and
little things, and
Mountains make molehills,
and vice versa, priorities
My mind is mired in endless doom,
so that it may never be quiet,
when I need silence,
the very most.
The thoughts cascade in a malicious
parade, down every cracked
and cobbled corner
of my worried mind.
The mania itself is a diatribe
against a body sick with unrest.
With you, it’s no different:
a physical cure with
When your breath is trickling through,
the rusted drainpipe of my spine,
your pulse rattling in my veins.
It’s a simple thing, really: just
a single dimple and I’m shot dead,
or otherwise arrested by
the ululations of your laughter.
And my bones ache inexpressibly,
with the baser desire to be fulfilled,
by you, your caress, your mouth
While my mind yet vacillates,
like a star on fire.
In your bed, beneath sheets, unsoiled
as any two lovers could be,
still, I remain thinking,
Your hand upon my knee, all
the world melting, and me
nothing at all.