Nights Like Bukowski's

such evasive moments:
they escape by miniscule means.
the lack of color
is thrown into the crevice of hidden pastels.
and her grievances,
which parted the Red Sea,
(layer upon scalding layer of the moribund adolescence)
ceased to pelt the weather-welted body,
giving way to the solid beige grace of my sandals:
pure in their arbitrary sanctions…
of love, of lust, of promiscuity:
the balance.
“and on your machine
“I slur a plea for you to come home,”
my eyes forever bind themselves to that quiet pattern,
upon which I blithely loll around for an eon
slightly pixilated and jaded…
and that’s all I remember
of this autumnal season of ambrosia;
which sent through me chills
of glistening gold and amber.
the caustic clock does chime:
tick, tick, tick
tock.
contentment fades
into the ever resilient nostalgia

____________________________________________________________________


Virginia is the insidious backside of heat--it is a pseudo-cold state and I will consume anyone who specifies otherwise. Why did I begin this? Who is there on this vast community of pathetic people who travel after the title of writer--such is their trajectory of peasant faith and simple diction, clear confusion and lusty dependancy-who will read this? I suppose I can say the same for myself, but when did you all start seeing the bright, exuberant lights of "WRITER" written among the stars? Here I was, thinking they were all detached, isolated bums...but you all seem charmingly indifferent. I dare you. Prove me wrong.

Goethe has me stumbling, Nietzsche has me raving, and Ginsberg...Ginsberg has me desperate.

Nietzsche...I wrote this year's literary research paper on Nietzsche, more or less. I am petrified that my teacher will view me as something worse than a post-feminist fraud posing as some Riot Grrrl reincarnation--perhaps as a cunt hater. But I am no cunt hater. But I am no cunt-hated. I am a girl who is respectful of her sex, although I can smash it up in your face if you get me angry.

Every night does seem a little bit more like Bukowski, and these days he is my holy bible. I am the destitute church goer at his hobo temple of capitalist hate crimes.

My lips are burning because I have been chewing them on for days, as I chew this food, simply to fill in the pratfall of unmotivated youth (namely, me). I find no taste for it. I chew, and I chew, a blade of grass and McDonalds cookies. Later, I will study the fat on my body and I will consider the compensation of vomiting: the pros and cons. Considering those of abortion are a subject of the past now...no, I will not let my mind focus on that. Life has whispered seductively in my ear that self-discipline is the guide to eternal and internal rest--I have believed her, the cradle-robbing bitch...the filthy, rotting stealer of adolescence. I try not to focus on the repercussions: to me, there is none. Tthe elimination of this flesh would be my best attempt at a better destiny, right now, now, now. But I will not. I fear that my body has no motivation and my limbs strain from even the thought of the emotions constant in such a process as making bile rise. Instead, I favor chewing on my lips and walking around from television to computer to book to bed and back. Mainly, I chew on my lips. They are chapped, stained pale by the kisses of 1000 liars, and red because the flesh slightly appears. I feel I might have gone too far with this lip-biting fad.

Where are the good old days of teenagers copulating shamelessly to the spectating eyes of old women who preach abstinence (hoping a pamphlet will decrease world population, and overpopulate Christian heaven), you say?

I have eaten those days--through alcohol, existentialism, pictures, and memories. Now I simply think, content in poor misery.

My ribs are showing, and all I can think about is how, if I'm so artisticly dim-witted, nights aren't turning more into Bukowski (?). I'm not the real thing.

I'm seventeen and dying from a fraudulent and self-diagnosed form of insomnia. I'm just scared of sleep.

Nietzsche has me raving, and Ginsberg...Ginsberg has me desperate.