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i have no clue and please fuck off

fuck off? why?

the breath blew, and my nut grew cold. I felt the dampness of my scrotum lifted by the warm oral wind and carried off into the vagina that sat before me. it sprawled indissoluble across the awesome canvas seated at the head of the world, a great luminous pink crown meant to be marveled by the constituents of god. pubes trembled and spines shivered as the dick pushed through them with an indifferent insistence on carrying onward without a loss of haste. I took in the tit as deeply as I could, envying the airs unwieldingness and unforgivingness- if only i had half the courage found in the invisible force. that was the entire reason I was even laying in the bed. I let her be stolen from right in front of me, I stood and watched and geeked anxiously while the love of my life was swept off her feet. every second since then has been a tortorous reminder, every item and action a hot iron pressed to my hand, one continuous stream of inevitable emotional self-torment. even immediately after, the cooling of the nervous sweat that had collected at my scrotum instead stung like molten wax poured over the tip of my cock, telling me I should have stopped it instead of condensate like a forgotten glass of sperm. the weak balls that barely found the reserve to shrivel my dick away from the terrible scene were only weak from resisting the urge to crumble to ground in disglorious defeat. the hot air that beat upon my skin took note from the manner of my wracking mind, so oppressive and overbearing the inability to think clamped my muscles rigid. it had fallen significantly since then, now dipping its toe into the horizon, and with it the heat, giving way to the cool atmosphere of summer twilight. so too had my emotions worked off their heat, subsiding to a dull roar settled in the very back of my mind. I gazed almost slackjawed in apathy at the creepingly purple ceiling as the thunderous almighty finale of the night eased into the soft hued innocence of the postcoital tristesse. a handful of fingers pricked the darkening penis, with the light of venus tearing a pinhole between the clashing asshole colors. the spectacle only served as a stark contrast to the brutal ugliness that had thrashed at my testicles all day. a buzzing and stinging interrupted my sexual reverie, a sign of the needled onslaught about to feast upon my naked flesh. disinterested in being turned into bitch fodder i gathered my things and my thoughts and set out the room, walking into the gaping hole left in the doorway after her soul had abandoned it

The Taffy Technique

Pull apart principle
Quick_ sell your games, systems, books, the shelf itself
Jeer in for all they can yield, and even tapping - release seconds posterior
Forcing the situation is a waste, it'll come to you sober
Reroll to licks
Bounce onward ligature, repeated farther grimace_ necking

I couldnt create the beginning without starting at the end so we have to establish a base ground before i can let you in further, i can't allow you to think i'm some sort of irregular introspective voice, narrating some acid trip without menacing clemency in the triapsing of the elves, cacophony is a tasty delicacy in the artistic world, and clamouring for the dice to roll for your fortune is a clamour indeed. Sometimes sand gets locked in your head and you make it into a human pearl.

traffic on the highway.

or is it trains on railroads?

VERY close. i think it's motorcycles, but yes. i wrote it without any clear idea, but it just became that. but yeah, you're the closest i've seen. i've asked a lot of people.

Dialogue 1

[Enter TYCHE, wandering in Elysium]

TYCHE
O Father,
O Son of Kronos
Why do you desert me thus?
You let the fertile country of my heart lie fallow,
You let my youthful eyes turn to ash in their sockets,
You let my spring pass for mild summer.
I was not made to be one of the mortals!

[Enter ZEPHYROS, dancing, adorned with a wreath of hyacinth]

ZEPHYROS
O Tyche
O goddess of the white arms,
Weep not,
For you no longer have eyes with which to weep.
Is this not true?
Take my hand,
And rise with me,
And taste the airy vault of heaven.

TYCHE
O lovely Western child,
You were dear to me in my worldly mornings,
But your words now are mere rain
Against the granite cliffs of my resolve.
Go now,
Yes, go now,
O you who may still be restored!

ZEPHYROS
Words?
Your fear deludes you,
O mistress of all men’s days.
I speak not,
For I have no tongue with which to speak.
Is this not true?

[Exit ZEPHYROS, TYCHE watches as he leaves]

TYCHE
O Zeus,
O my Father,
Why do you tantalize me so?
The fine bracelets you once gave me
Now begin to tarnish.
I must fortify my heart against all things.
It is a good thing to give way to the night-time.

i just can't see Sephiroth coming in dancing with flowers in his hair.

it's representative of him trying to escape his situation, numbing the pain with the superficial beauty of his surroundings (which even still can't really do much, thus the intermittent pervasiveness of the causal event). probably sounds like im trying to cover my ass but I can't convince strangers on the internet lol. I still can't decide if I want to develop it further though

In this world, in this world, in this world. The world is full of them. Full to the brim. Brimming with pride. Snakes alive! He's dead inside. Bring her 'round the front and I'll be out in five. It's too much, too much, too much. Human, all to human. You've lost your humanity. The fruit of timidity is neither gain nor loss. Forbidden fruit is sweet. Patience is a bitter plant. He that plants trees loves others besides himself. Rock 'n' roll, roll, roll. You're the one who's got no soul. God gives the cold according to the cloth. A person changing his clothing always hides while changing. You can't fill your belly painting pictures of bread. Don't spoil a cool place under the hospitable tree. A bird that you set free may be caught again, but a word that escapes your lips will not return.

No capitalization, literally worse grammar than a child.

Learn how to use contractions.
>Yes: we are beautiful.
Is this someone named Yes talking? Learn how to use punctuation.
>is
>there is
>it is
...
Learn how to be less ambiguous.

Learn how to use punctuation.

Learn how to use punctuation.

Learn how to use punctuation.

Wow. Please learn proper grammar.

Learn proper punctuation.

Learn proper punctuation.

Nobody here knows proper punctuation, and I won't read your writing till you do.

A piece of flash fiction I wrote some weeks ago. I want to expand it into an actual short story about a future Detroit cop that gets sucked into a web of corruption. I know its banal and overdone but

Michael fetched an ice tea from the refrigerator and looked at the clock on his wall. He breathed a sigh of relief. It was only half past ten and he did not have to be down-under until at least two o’clock. He walked across the soft carpet on his floor, the floorboards underneath creaked loudly. Michael did not mind, it was hardly the worst thing about his apartment which was the rats and the cockroaches. Michael swore to his landlord Kenny that he could hear the rats going up and down the pipes in the walls but the building never got an exterminator. “What’s the point” Kenny said to him once, “they just come straight back up here from down-under,” it was useless to refute that point. The building was way too close to The Slide and that brought a litany of problems, pests being the least of them. For now, Michael and the rats had to find a way to co-exist peacefully.

So you're being overly descriptive to show how he's trying to escape his situation? Okay, i get that now that o go back and read it again. The first line hints toward it. But i think you could be clearer in the connection between his pain and the escape he's seeking. Right now it seems like the heat and the sun and his sweat are making him uncomfortable.

I'm this guy There's no rule saying you have to use contractions whenever you can. I left them out because i thought it worked better stylistically. But that's why I'm posting here for some feedback.

And i can absolutely use a colon that way. I'm using it in an explanatory sense. It's like I'm answering an unasked question to the reader of the 'letter'.

Know what you're talking about before you go around criticizing people's grammar you pious prick.

im not sure what grammar rules I am breaking so please let me know so I can work on it

I was actually trying to make his internal and external sensations very disjointed to match that beauty of the world/ugliness of the human thing I had going, and to show how inconsolable he has made himself despite his attempt at finding peace. theres a bunch of tricky moving parts in the machine that need fine tuning, but that's what shit rough drafts are for

Interesting connection, the Hebrew word sephirot which inspired Sephiroth's name has no clear relation to "wind" or anything similar, but I don't doubt that they share a root somewhere.

The flowers are there because of Zephyros' lover, Hyacinth, whom he killed in a jealous rage.

The sun began its descent on the sand scraped hills, filling skies with fades of gold and tinges of scarlet as it sank beyond the horizons, behind the shifting shadowed ridges of the dunes.

A soft tune of gust was interrupted by the pitter-patter of footsteps. Something clunky, tired, and weighed down. A Stranger made his way to a nearby Inn resting atop a large banking hill in the valley of Duncan’s Drift. He deducted the foundational reasoning was because of a small underground wellspring hidden beneath said hill. Which often mean one thing - clean water.

Something rustled on the Stranger’s trousers and for the hundredth time that day; he groaned and shifted its weight, eagerly counting the moments of freeing it from his hip. He had always walked with that clinking-clanking sound of metal around his waist, out here he’d feel naked without it. The world can be a dangerous place; untapped by civilization, untamed by order, and unrestrained by the ethics of man. The only rules left are those written by people who carried that clinking-clanking sound of metal…

The year is 3094, welcome to the Columbia of today; a vast ever-sinking desert filled by the fallen ruins of man after his wars and his technology had gotten the best of him. His blind strive for a better future ultimately became his own foreseeable downfall. But for all his stupidity; man lived. He wanders aimlessly from one wellspring to another. His only purpose is to live the next day or die trying. And so life goes on.

Sundown. Night has fallen.

The Stranger trudged his way up the dusty path towards the Inn. It was a welcoming sight after his long journey from the East. He'd been trekking for months now, how many? He no longer cared. Now the only journey he cared about was from the bottom of that hill and into the waiting arms of a sparkling glass of fresh water atop.

The Stranger loosened the straps of his weighty satchel, gave the day’s last groan, and took the advance.

The Inn was made up of wooden walls and pieces of scavenged metal for roofing. A little half-broken sign dangled above the head of the front door with the weathered words The Lucky Dog Inn inscribed, smoothly swaying to the nightly breeze.

It was obviously in business that evening as perpetuated by the light shining through the windows and the faint sound of eighties’ rock music coming from within. But what really sold it was the smell: a grimy whiff of dried spit, cheap beers, and the foulest tonics that gave off such a strong aroma that you could swear you tasted it through your nostrils.

Whether it was Cactus Juice, Wheeler Wine, or Scorpion Scotch; a bar just isn’t a bar if it doesn’t cater to the worst kind of guzzling scumbags this side of the west. And if the taste didn’t kill you; then the kick afterwards certainly will.

You’d soon find cleaner company in a Shar’lak’s pen than inside a rentable one-hundred-gold-nugget-by-the-hour-bathtub at an Inn. And the Stranger loved it

(RATE MY YA)

It was a fine winter's morning in Magorum's Academy for the Magical Arts that fateful February dawning. Ice trickled from the trees and the robins sang their mating songs for the coming season. Spring was just right around the corner and the world was starting to wake once more to the green calling. Fleets of snow melted to puddles, the flower buds bid their blooming, and the girls of the Academy were in the market of picking dance partners for the coming Spring Festival. A once-in-a-year's opportunity to take the hand of their prince charming for a spin on the dance floor.
But for some girls - this also meant holding down one's status.

A heirarchy needed to be laid down and only the best of the best deserved their place at the top. A season's festival dance was not only an event – it was a statement. Whoever you took reflected your image, as a fine sword needs a fine sheath. A fine girl needs a fine boy by her side. Elvira, like any noble girl attending, was of no exception to this rule. Infact, she is the reason for the rule. Otherwise it just be unfair without it.

Elvira strolled out into the school courtyard. Morning breeze caressed her face with an icy sharpness. She rubbed her cheeks with deerskin gloves and cursed her decsion to be outside.

“Drats it's cold!” her teeth chattered. “That blockhead better not be late if he knows what's good for him!”

The mini clocktower in the middle of the yard's sqaure read a strict six o'clock, the arms lined tightly to their numbers, a small chime rang the new hour. She had snuck out of bed early for a lover's randeavouz with her boyfriend, Devon; the Academy's most talented duelist, and not too shaby of a looker either. Girls fawned and fell head over heels for his attention, but of course no girl is as pretty as Elvira. Not then, not now, and not ever. If Elvira wants it – she gets it, and boys are no exception. Devon's eyes did suit her Spring Festival dress after all, it was important that he stuck around her until then.

“Ugh, this better be worth it!” she moaned then rubbed her hands with a cloak of breath.

*Keep fighting, girl! You only gotta hold out till the festival anyways – then it's bye bye Dev-ugh, and helloooo Brandon; potion master of looove! March can't come soon enough...*

A rose bush rustled from across the yard, the snow shook off it's leaves. Tufts of gold hair emerged from the brambles followed closely by pupils of sapphire, peeking from the cover of nature.

“Pssst!” Devon hissed quietly. “Elvira! Elvira is it clear?!”

Elvira threw her arms asunder. “Yes you dolt, now get over here already!”

Looking both ways, Devon lightly tip toed from the bushes, unaware that his fur boots made no sound in the brimstone. He wasn't the brightest caster in the coven after all.

I'm and I bet you'll never write a single sentence as well as I have in your entire life.

Damned be tradition, the corner-foundations
of the pagoda and mosque, the jurassic,
polished, well-varnished, in slow ambulations
round the bejewelled cathedral enclosure
understood; burn the commandments in classic
letters that cassocks in motley dipped foreign
fingers in ink to inscribe; let exposure
flake the decaying old virginal parchment
sheath and the papery helms of their horsemen
confident faces emblazoned upon whose
masks are the picture of vacuous assent;
let the remaining air bathe your lewd tattoos.
You’re weighed against a spurious ballast; knife
the ropes, free yourself—what can you lose but life?

I understand you're trying to set up some fantasy western thing but you're going about it horribly. the only things that tell us the protag isn't John Wayne is the awfully shoehorned paragraph that literally tells us "this is post apocalyptic Columbia in the distant future" and the mentioning of one specific creature (btw, the apostrophe in "shar'lak" has no function, pretty much everyone naturally pauses between hard consonants). other than that: if something rustles for the hundredth time, it would absolutely no longer be referred to as "something" (not to mention there isn't a single line that tells us what that is, unless that was intentionally left a mystery [in which case it was done poorly)); "one-hundred-gold-nugget-by-the-hour-bathtub" is a fucking trainwreck; a lot of your wording and phrasing is clunky all over and sometimes outright incorrect. the setting and idea has merit but it needs polish pretty much everywhere.

I am and I thought it was obvious that I am joking I am.

Thanks senpai

I suppose the prose, wording, and technicalities need some oiling? No problemo.

>YA

B-BAKA SENPAI!!

I made these quality homecooked YA's just for you!

...

...

a creation of cowardice clunkily cavorting courageously gets caught in a cadavers cold cacophony of cracking and coughing when carelessness errs cautiousness. can you comprehend the catch of carrying on cackling while countless cudgels cave in your cranium? a crescendo calls your conscious to coven, the caress of cruelty soon cooled to the creation of craziness. in short, catastrophe.

not enough alliteration.

I got lazy

next time add cachinnate in there somewhere.

Nice dubs

I write in threads at the moment desu senpai

that's actually a new word for me, thanks. I haven't really worked on my vocabulary since high school so it's a bit improportional to my ability to converse haha

>don't be shy

Ok

Did you not understand that I wrote that as fiction? It's from a new movement.

I wrote my post as fiction too, senpai
and I wrote this one as fiction too

Tell me what you think desu senpai ?

pleb.

Got me there.

>cont

tbqh I expected this

>Cont

>Patrish
>fix'd

>saying Joyce can't use punctuation

never change Veeky Forums

>cont

muh 100% literal interpretation of grammar rules

>cont

>Cont

could someone please critique this?

How do you start to tell a story you never once understood?

The memories of that day will stay etched in my bones forever, but scars can't haunt your waking life like nightmares bleeding through the boundaries meant to keep reality real to you. This is not real. This is a nightmare - not just horrific but incomprehensible, a contorted mass of that which does not follow and cause written out of logical equations.

There is no reason - it simply just happened.

And when you touch and tend to wounds you feel the muscles at the base of your neck coil tight. Something's wrong. Your pupils dilate and suddenly you're plunged under water, running from an unseen threat with mouth agape and unable to scream. You recoil. You live that moment in reverse. Your breath trembles quiet intimacy that can only be given to you. You count backwards under your breath but catch yourself skipping 49 and 6.

Maybe those numbers just don't exist.

Listlessly we go to parse,
From your room and from my bed,
Until I outlast your weary head,
And I hold you til Éire runs sparse.

As if by tallons, you carve me full-force,
With wanting eyes and panting breath,
Until the sun's-own meadow's death,
Until the poor world has run it's course.

Imagine a rain so beautiful it must never have existed.

"Heather on the fens,
Grass on the burrow,
Yock on the soil,
Wheat in the furrow."

His stick pittered on the country road,
His tartan copse-hat became a heavy load,
The dusty floor winced at his stance,
The clouds danced a dowdy dance.
And still he sang:

"Heather on the fens,
Grass on the burrow,
Yock on the soil,
Wheat in the furrow."

The hat was soon off with the bell'wing wind,
The stick was almost tapped in half, pinned
Down as the elder kept up as he walked
And in a mood the same as he talked,
He still sang:

"Heather on the fens,
Grass on the burrow,
Yock on the soil,
Wheat in the furrow."

A bluster of gust wiped the man to the grit,
He wiped off wet stones from the ground that he hit,
His tib and fib snapped, worn in two,
He took no shortcut as he was half-way through,
And still he sang:

"Heather on the fens,
Grass on the burrow,
Yock on the soil,
Wheat in the furrow."

He huddled up and wiped his face,
Foetal-ed up and moving his place
As he slipped down the road, tumbling
Round each bend, his body fumbling,
He sang:

"Heather on the fens,
Grass on the burrow,
Yock on the soil,
Wheat in the furrow."

The bitter gall of ink,
Sliced deep down by a quill,
So that Togoland can think,
So that Punjabia sits still.

The Ward, he has proved his worth,
For the Mhaoir to carry on,
To gather up the thoughts of birth;
To feed the carrion.

If a man's structure is a pantheon,
Strewn with both shite and gold,
The pillars knocked and carved on,
Are the focus of tales of old,

So let the waters break and bind,
And bluster down everyone's brook,
Until a point of still, I find,
With which to write a book.

A white-veined v,
Crossed with red,
Pushes past the window,
From my sofa-bed,
And winces slightly,
Gone amiss,
As the poet can't even get a kiss.

The foundries have been
Open before,
And not even by pay
Or listless whore,
But still the half-cross
There it stands,
As the poet rings and wrungs his hands.

Each straight sigh
And each straight look,
Done with charm,
And by the book,
Each move back,
Each shuffle off,
Each hug away,
Each straight-laced cough.

And if we had,
Would the v go?
Done it yesterday,
The morning with the snow?
The flashing camera,
The sordid myre
Of keeping going,
Soft as a choir.

Had I Wednesday,
Been so depressed,
That each vowel and syllable,
Well-dressed and stressed,
Had done it wrong,
No sew to string,
But the needle's here now
And so's the sting.

But good it feels,
And good it tastes,
To still want it
Is not a waste,
Like hedons past,
And drunkards through,
I will still hold high
Hope: me and who?

I don't understand the reference but I like the line!

Hoarfrost, crispen hoarfrost;
That slaps the crossing east-wind,
Over sea and leaf-helms shorn-lost.
Who, to wake the heath-fog, has sinned?

High the poplars, solemn bare,
That peek the grazing mist over;
Sweet the shining shadow's swear,
Of boats, Calais to Dover.

For slicing buds of dew on fens,
That sting the numb-swamped face.
Dough-skinned, the harshy hoarfrost lends
Speed to a deathing race.

Those poplars swallowed, by the grey;
The boats of docking do
The throw of rotting cargo. But stay
The ship, no ventures new.

Yet, switch the hoarfrost on the day,
There! New breathen light!
But morning only lasts so long;
Just wait till there is night.
(Sorry for spam, any rates are super appreciated ;^) )

Entry#55-2016

Woke up to the comfort of the heat. It really felt as if summer had arrived. Only recently have these upper temperatures begun to enhance my experience of life.
The warmth was not felt so much as an agitation, but as a delight to the senses. I could taste the palpable air on days like these. The constant exuding sweat flushing out toxins and giving me a chill with the slightest of breezes. Summer was the season I had only begun to enjoy in a very sensual way, and for a twenty-six year-old that may be too late of an expression to make.
Summers of the past stood out and compared to these later years but in ways relating to the freedom felt from the oppression of my public education, and by the opportunities left to me as a child or teenager to venture out late into the night with friends in our peaceful, little beach town. Most summers were spent here, and I had always avoided the sun. Always attracted to the reprieve of the shade. And always languishing the burn that I am recently beginning to cherish.
Not certain when this tendency came about. But I know now that I am older, and damaged of body and mind, I am learning to deeply appreciate experiences of life that were once too disgusting and too unpleasant to keep in mind. Like, the smell of wet garbage or feces, or the sudden, sharp and lingering pains of clumsy actions, or the anguish of feeling so isolated with no one to share my thoughts with amidst the torrents of displacing apathy between us all-these experiences are now being delved into as they are still unpleasant yet satisfying to my discovery.
No longer may I so readily eschew the ugly, the inane, the wretched and the foul. Now I feel as if I am more capable to probe, just a bit, into a lower world, a dirtier world. A world too close to chaos where all the ejecta of society land and writhe at foot-level of a civilization perpetuating a lifestyle based on the values of utmost survival, self-improvement, and perfection above all abominations and failures to succeed in accordance of this lifestyle.... I digress.
Wet garbage possesses a variety of scents with the most distinctive being a very sour odor. I still flinch at the scent of trash and more so at the scent of feces, which is a bit harder to describe because much of it smells the same with a variance dependent mainly upon the health of the certain individual's excrement I assume. As of yet I have failed to discover any sweet, or enticing scents amidst the smell of trash, so when it comes to my personal satisfaction in this endeavor, well it relies upon the basis that I do not enjoy it, and have until recently avoided it( Like a normal human being)
Physical pain is said to increase endorphin into the bloodstream, and subsequently pleasure is felt, but I also feel an anger beside certain instances of the pain I incidentally come across thought out my day...(not cont.)

While I really like parts of this, why write that the air is "palpable", etc.? It's the classic case of overwriting, which is so tempting, but never conducive to good, natural writing at the end of the day desu

I am none of these people
And even I think
That you, too far gone through your own asshole,
should kill yourself.

>Shamelessly bumping myself

Dear Diary,
Today I choose OP as my subject matter, and a Korean fur board as my medium. I haven't known this OP for long, mind you, but from the way he writes I can already tell he likes the taste of cock. Additionally, I can feel, even isolated from him by this mask of anonymity, that I have met OP's mother more than once. But those instances were long ago, simple minded forays into the world of escorts by a naïve boy soon to be shipped off to fight in the Gulf War. No, they were more than that. I did not love the woman, as she was a rather inexpensive hooker. But I knew that during those nights a permanent bond had been formed between us. This unidentified bond has clung to me, occupying my mind in the 26 years since I had last seen her. Come to think of it, you are 25, aren't you OP? Could it be that you were the fatal chord tying your mother and I together, the Bastard child of a restless soldier? Because if you are, I need help paying my rent. Please respond promptly.
With love,
user.

I have no idea why really, but I tried writing something down for the first time in my life, here it is:

Dark times came upon,
Destroyed the roots of a sane man's truths,
He was forsaken for his lies and shallow hearth,
As he lied in a burden of it's own forgotten insight,
Gone a bit insane in as he walked down his lane,
But as he got back on his feet,
The experience he shared with others,
Was told to be never the same,
Since he was both the marble of his own defeat,
And the hearth he grew in dark times,
Was shared with greater joy with fellow men,
Then they would like to ever admit

I don't know if this is utter garbage or fine for someone that literary just wrote this in 3 minutes and never written before in his life

I have no idea what I just read, but I enjoyed it immensely. Thank you, and I do apologize for the lack of feedback.

Dare I say that it wasn't overwriting, but it was a simple mistake. I just did not get the intended message across. Also, place a "now" in front of palpable and read it again.

When you come back this way,
Dress a little nicer
Kiss the rings your father bought in Rome
Invest in friendly tables
And age like what you drink
From glasses stained with antique inks
Pretend you cannot drive,
Except the sinking mountain roads
that weep into your mother's home;
They are only yours.

So you wire up that old chateau
With cool electric thread.
Send a postcard like a prayer
Upward to the dead.
Imagine you're Bridgette Bardot
Beside a boiling pool.
Should you recognize the car?
Ah, they're all just afterthoughts
That skip along in scars across the sand.
More the fool that man who wears a suit
To feed the lady cautionary fruit.

Crits please?

I liked it, but I honestly don't really get it, maybe just because its late and I'm tired.
Can you elaborate on the theme

I want to know this person. Sounds very Lana Del Ray - beautiful, mysterious, brooding.... Get the feeling that this relationship is over or broken, yet the writer is still dealing with the aftermath... maybe the relationship was even just a game played between two people...

Meeting you a river burst
strong and even, it cut its course,
carving canyons through my heart now bared.
Immersed in the streams that you beckoned forth,
I was baptized in your love so pure.
It is a mighty river filled with life
It delivers its dreams to me at night.
In the dark, beneath the moon,
I bathe in those liquid mirages of you.
Thought that river does works by night,
Dreaming to see does not compare to true sight
of that river's works under fresh morning light
When we wake on those dewey shores,
we do not wait nor hesitate,
but rush in to our rivers depths
and be carried in its wake evermore.

(writing a love poem for anniversary next weekend. although after reading some here I am thinking that I should write something less metaphorical with more real life details... HELP PLEASE!!!!!)

It is only now that I have found the clarity of mind to fuck you. Come here, I beg you. If you come to collect me, I will surely tear out your tits with my teeth. There is something in this dick that must rise from the springs and sewers underneath the liver and into the air which we breathe. Opium of sorts, killing pain and worry and instead making my life a beautiful life just walking and admiring myself and everything. Your body is no longer a part of mine. I neglect to care about anything. It is back now, rising up from beneath the kidneys so that my balls, now blue and veiny, grow cold as I write to you. Perhaps I will not mail this. The idea is less appealing to me by the second. You must understand: we are not like other people. We do not sleep; we know how to read David Foster Wallace's IJ; and we do not hardly ever need to eat. But the lust, the exhaustion, it does not escape us. We walk smiling but there is no joy within us. Our loins are vacant and like vacuums which threaten to consume the flesh on our bodies, bringing us pains of tormented lust we cannot ward off and are always with us. Our loins are as heavy as the moon and at every second they are close to collapsing. Our loins are filled with a tired fog that obscures thought and vision and we yearn endlessly to fall to our knees and then to our back and fuck forever where we lay. Yes: we are tired and we are hungry for sex and our suffering is not relieved in the slightest with the opium that pierces each breath. Yes: we are tired and, yes: we are mad thirsty.
Yes: we are beautiful.