(no subject)
I would want to get involved in so many lives, all of them awash in ruin and girls who are lost, crying on the trams, worried ones, with dead fathers, dyed trashy hair colors, candy to touch, turkish girls with dark rings under thier eyes. Meet them in the Karyoke bars and go home with them. The yellow cat stares at me in the entrance corridor, but it will never tell my movements to anyone else, any other male. Shes mine for that night. Treat her like gold, the softest kisses ever to meet her lips, and taking our time, just holding each other for hours...the dawn turning the minarets golden over Wien. A girl was crying on the tram and wiping her eyes with an emascipated peice of tissue paper, the salty tears soaking the thing until it was saturated. She had sores on her arm and cheaply dyed hair....she kept dialing a number on her cell that never answered....But she was beautiful, a long time ago, right now, in the future even; I kept seeing little peices of her life and I almost said something. What does one say, really, to someone crying in public? Come home with me? I will serve you warm Brandy and and we can talk it all out. Hours and hours of talking and drinking. We can go on the rooftops and sit on the chimney, soft kisses, a little dope to smoke, a sips of liquor, more tiny kisses, your breast just cupped in my hand and the soft kisseing, but nothing else all night, I swear to god. In the morning I will give you a violin.
*
The lawn mover cannot reach so close to the graves- the little tuft of grass that manages to hug the bottom of the warm stone in the sunlight, it should have a name.
Screened porches in darkness, Maine summer, the scent of pines in the air. On a wooden boathouse covered in shingles, each one would be decorated with a relief carving done by hand, so that the house enchanted the eyes. Its screened porch was a place to drink beer at night in the darkness, watching the bats feast on the misquitos that are drown towards the air near the porch by our breath.
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In order the survive the desperate bordom of Winter - which is like a raging hunger, knawing one to death - I would have to build an ice fishing shack. But it would be more than just a scruffy, utilitarian bob house. Fitted with a gas stove, a miniature grill for cooking fish, spice racks, elaborate cubords, and a warm bed for sleeping out the night and waiting for the lines to be hit. I would use fine hardwoods and insulate the walls. Hunting trophys from the summer hang inside the bob house, reminding of the pleasures to come when the ice thawed. Whiskey served in snow-chilled tea cups, when I have guests over.
*
The lawn mover cannot reach so close to the graves- the little tuft of grass that manages to hug the bottom of the warm stone in the sunlight, it should have a name.
Screened porches in darkness, Maine summer, the scent of pines in the air. On a wooden boathouse covered in shingles, each one would be decorated with a relief carving done by hand, so that the house enchanted the eyes. Its screened porch was a place to drink beer at night in the darkness, watching the bats feast on the misquitos that are drown towards the air near the porch by our breath.
*
In order the survive the desperate bordom of Winter - which is like a raging hunger, knawing one to death - I would have to build an ice fishing shack. But it would be more than just a scruffy, utilitarian bob house. Fitted with a gas stove, a miniature grill for cooking fish, spice racks, elaborate cubords, and a warm bed for sleeping out the night and waiting for the lines to be hit. I would use fine hardwoods and insulate the walls. Hunting trophys from the summer hang inside the bob house, reminding of the pleasures to come when the ice thawed. Whiskey served in snow-chilled tea cups, when I have guests over.