And now for something completely different...
...the different thing being that I am actually posting something. It's been since like Novemeber. How upsetting. I had set out to do this a bit more often, but it just didn't work out that why. While I would love to fill you in on what's been going on and what's new I realize that just isn't the point of this blog. If you want to know what's new...give me a call, send me an email, concentrate really hard and send me a telepathic one. No, this is just for random musings, observations, and well whatever I damn feel like posting.
I start a create writing class earlier this year, and it has become a bright spot in my week. In the interest of not having to create anything new for this entry, I am just going to post something that I already wrote. So when it's all said and done, I will have exercised my fingers, posted a new entry in 2007, and shared a little piece of my heart. JOI! ENJOI!
The Thinker
Perched, posed.
Carved right from the bedrock of sed(destr)uction, he remains locked on the edge of his mattress, grinding it down into the matted and stained carpet. Just three visitors are allowed after hour's access: one crimson coke can with a belly of fired sugar water, one dying cigarette with a penchant for life, and...well there's no need to mention the third - it's something we do not talk about anyhow.
The oxgen in the room churns slowly through dimming cherry of his cigarette. A long, frail tail of ash extends from her glowing red core. She throws plumes of smoke into the air, begging for attention yet receiving none. Tendrils and halos move about, still keeping appointments with last week. They waft just above his head, encircling his shaved scalp. Places where stubble should be only reveal expanses of smooth skin untouched by expression.
His eye, a sick color of steel as though made from a flu-ridden girder, glimmered with no life - just sickness. Eventually, his left one would deny allegiance to the right and wander about on its own - whispers from Picassos gather at the window, unable to gain access.
Here he is - miles from stable and somehow moving in the wrong direction. The space of motionlessness is the wedding night of echoes and ghosts. Their fornications yield doubt after nameless doubt. The Thinker lies in wait and waits in lies. Tiny exhales read like beacons. This week long stench does not manifest itself in pits or crotch - just concentrates in tiny wasp breaths.
The wandering eye will evetually detect a presence and the ghosts will stiffen mid-orgasm. No greater relief exists than the second following the click of the door between us - no greater relief in either of our hearts.
I start a create writing class earlier this year, and it has become a bright spot in my week. In the interest of not having to create anything new for this entry, I am just going to post something that I already wrote. So when it's all said and done, I will have exercised my fingers, posted a new entry in 2007, and shared a little piece of my heart. JOI! ENJOI!
The Thinker
Perched, posed.
Carved right from the bedrock of sed(destr)uction, he remains locked on the edge of his mattress, grinding it down into the matted and stained carpet. Just three visitors are allowed after hour's access: one crimson coke can with a belly of fired sugar water, one dying cigarette with a penchant for life, and...well there's no need to mention the third - it's something we do not talk about anyhow.
The oxgen in the room churns slowly through dimming cherry of his cigarette. A long, frail tail of ash extends from her glowing red core. She throws plumes of smoke into the air, begging for attention yet receiving none. Tendrils and halos move about, still keeping appointments with last week. They waft just above his head, encircling his shaved scalp. Places where stubble should be only reveal expanses of smooth skin untouched by expression.
His eye, a sick color of steel as though made from a flu-ridden girder, glimmered with no life - just sickness. Eventually, his left one would deny allegiance to the right and wander about on its own - whispers from Picassos gather at the window, unable to gain access.
Here he is - miles from stable and somehow moving in the wrong direction. The space of motionlessness is the wedding night of echoes and ghosts. Their fornications yield doubt after nameless doubt. The Thinker lies in wait and waits in lies. Tiny exhales read like beacons. This week long stench does not manifest itself in pits or crotch - just concentrates in tiny wasp breaths.
The wandering eye will evetually detect a presence and the ghosts will stiffen mid-orgasm. No greater relief exists than the second following the click of the door between us - no greater relief in either of our hearts.
Labels: Finally, Ripe Fruit, XBF
posted by Josh at 7:00 PM
1 comments
