Semi-Daily Scribbles
Carving out a corner to post random crap.
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Category: Perception
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Another bitch looking at me. This one's brown. GO THE FUCK BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM. Where did she get $$$ for that computer? Stole it — bought it with $$$ dealing drugs — sucking dick. That welfare cunt is looking at me again. Maybe she likes my coat. What the fuck??? She's looking at…
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Chéri, listen up. You've always done a good job with that. Scoot a little closer. That's it. Well, I had the dream again. Zoë's head has much to say. I don't need to tell you how much. You know … you know? The world! The monsters! You. You with your straight spine and head harder…
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Leesa frequented the Food Court every day. The mission at hand was to record the stories of the people she saw, like the middle aged lady who talked to an empty chair. Leesa also observed the teenage boy who wore an Eisernes Kreuz on his tattered camo jacket, his head bent, surrounded by multiple black…
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I'm supposed to be moving day-to-day command center operations from the head to the heart, or so sayeth 2017. Never been much good with plumbing the murky depths of Feelings and Emotions. Too many bends in the pipe. Reckon emotivity is good for something, but what an awful sticky thing. Way easier to let that…
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You have no discernible shape. You are all pulsating gray matter and no body. I want to give you form. I want to give you a frame from which to hang your sentiment and shame. You rise and roll right up over me. No string, no tail. Nothing to grab onto at all. My hand…
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And like o.k.: There's this particular writer whose work I've read and enjoyed and whom I find interesting and irritating all in one big, messy mouthful of come-one-come-all (talkin' bout chyoo JD). Yeah so, brutha man goes on about fat folks in his stories and he himself is pretty thin (cute, though – I'm shallow,…
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May 11th, 1996 was the day we met. Me in purple velvet bell bottoms bought at The Potter's House and a little, lacy cami (a doily, really) to cover the upper bits. You in lederhosen and a grey t-shirt with the name Stuckey's stamped in red letters across the chest. A downpour, a shallow stoop,…
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The awareness of the brain lost in thought, the knowledge of the body at home in this lunchtime dream drenched in milky sunshine, is preferable to the bite and sting of the early rise, the long bus ride, the musty insides of the shoe repair shop. Lara Milford, on this day, decides to go by…
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The Filchers don't care. You are just in their way. We're not real to them. Things, though. Things breathe, and feel, and transmit messages to us when we're fast asleep. Take that house on the corner, for example. It whispers a reedy greeting each time you pass by. "Hallooo Yoo." Things know us by how…
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doors are madedoors are foundperception dwellsunderground voices once hearda four-letter word nine months' worthof onenasty hang is a memory best kepton hold (cue the music)
Semi-Daily Scribbles 