French title and pretentious thoughts:
He sat counting the copper coins he had horded. Physical occupation of a repetitive task, to take away the minds pain. Falling in love with an idea. Don't do it. I've told you before. Learn your own lessons. Attachment is a heart's worst friend.
I'll explain it to you again over black coffee and cigarettes. It was once squash and cereal. Remember those days of innocence? When everything was still just the same; really, honestly, it was. Your psychological hedonism has backfired this time.
And she never kissed me whilst sober. And I never kissed her whilst sane. Yet, it changes nothing. Attachment is a heart's worst friend. "Choose your friends wisely." So friends is all I choose to be.
Sunday, 23 January 2011
Sunday, 16 January 2011
Genki Shank
New year, new words.
Raising myself from the bed. Raising myself from her side. This strangers side. Consistent sentences that add nothing new to the narrative. A long night. All night long. I sit on the edge of her bed, where the sheets are most exposed. Duvet half on the floor. Amongst the clothes. Amongst the sin. I roll a cigarette and pour myself some whiskey. Dirty glass, dirty lungs. I move over to the window. Inhaling nicotine and releasing it into the morning air. The stale room would suffocate the beauty of the smoke. I put the whiskey to my lips and drink.
She watches me, as I stand in my boxers marked with the words 'Calvin Klein.' This is my name to her. Might as well be. Might as well be. She observes me. Single piercing, single tattoo, single cigarette, double whiskey. This is me at my most masochistic. Drinking and inhaling my own self pity. Taking on hers. The stranger who continues to watch me, silent.
"What are you?" She asks through lips smudged with lipstick.
"A cliché," I tell the stranger.
&&& All he wants to tell her is, "Care for me."
Raising myself from the bed. Raising myself from her side. This strangers side. Consistent sentences that add nothing new to the narrative. A long night. All night long. I sit on the edge of her bed, where the sheets are most exposed. Duvet half on the floor. Amongst the clothes. Amongst the sin. I roll a cigarette and pour myself some whiskey. Dirty glass, dirty lungs. I move over to the window. Inhaling nicotine and releasing it into the morning air. The stale room would suffocate the beauty of the smoke. I put the whiskey to my lips and drink.
She watches me, as I stand in my boxers marked with the words 'Calvin Klein.' This is my name to her. Might as well be. Might as well be. She observes me. Single piercing, single tattoo, single cigarette, double whiskey. This is me at my most masochistic. Drinking and inhaling my own self pity. Taking on hers. The stranger who continues to watch me, silent.
"What are you?" She asks through lips smudged with lipstick.
"A cliché," I tell the stranger.
&&& All he wants to tell her is, "Care for me."
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