expectation

i stare
persistent
out my window
expecting a cock
to pop out
of somewhere

office poetry

i'm sitting at the office
burping lunch
feeling bad
down and dirty

the sun is out
a beautiful day
for taking a stroll in the park
but i'd rather
not

i hate being controlled by want

tear

tear as in torn is the same as
tear as in teardrop

xxx

i was walking down the walkway
looking up at the trees
listening to joy division

flame_fade

i don't know. i don't want to sleep with him so much anymore. hell, i don't wanna sleep with anyone as much anymore. am i getting old at twenty-six? i'm i loosing stamina? sex is so tricky. the more i have sex, it seems, the less i understand it. i'm a few houses away from french chef. the café is closed. i didn't see him inside. i walked by again a few days ago. should i make a move? make something out of absolutely nothing? put myself in a mess of a situation? taint?

am i just bored?

caught

yesterday my flatmate and his girlfriend caught me jerking off to (straight) porn in the living room. no comment.

07

tori amos song: "some things are
melting now..."
melting
showing the insides
the idea we have and call
true nature of things
in this case
icing more than ice
this thick creamy sugary
thickness
i've been spreading over
myself and my life
in this last (i hope)
phase of late adolescence
(adolescence-come-late)
i'm writing in tiny secritive
font like i did in the
late nineties
my head hurts
i feel slightly feverish
dust is gathered under
my bed and at the
corners of my bedroom

i should say our bed
and our bedroom
(we just had unprotected
sex, right before lunch,
i came inside him).
we didn't leave th house
all day; well i sent him
out to get beer and fanta,
i stayed in and made
leftovers and finished my
book (reading).

our two-year anniversary
is coming in a few
days. and its his birthday
in two days. the house
is a mess. i get these
anal attacks and clean and
tidy and buy plastic
containers but it only
lasts a while and soon
the shit is pilling up
again. the sex is o.k.,
though. better these
days.

i'm letting him top me.
he's getting the hang of
it. overall we're not doing
that bad. problem is
no that bad isn't
good.

my awful french

scribbled on the back of a notice from the bank, in my awful french:

je viens de te
régarder dans les yeux.
tu fumais dan la rue,
et je pasais devant ta porte pour te voir,
peut-etre. tes yeux contient
tout, et à la fois rien,
parce-que je ne sais pas
qui tu est. surement
je n'en saurais jamais.
meme pas ton nome.
le monde est plein d'
impossibilités, comme
toi. j'ai eu envie
d'écouter chansons
francaises en te
regardant. j'ai mis
c'est merveilleux de
edith piaf. et toi,
toi aussi tu m'as vue?

i just
looked at you in the eyes.
you were smoking on the street,
and i walked by your place
to see you,
maybe. your eyes contain
everything, and nothing at the same time,
cause i don't know
who you are. i'll probably
never know, not even your name.
the world is full of
impossibilities, like
you. i felt like listening to
french songs while
looking at you. i played
its marvelous with
edith piaf. and you,
did you see me too?

waltz

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plot

ok, i'm being abstract. besides, i haven't introduced myself. this is a fucking blog, not a book of haikú. i am young (not really that young anymore), gifted (moderately) and queer (despite myself). i think the world is going to crap. its not life itself that sucks, its how we decide to carry on with it, a problem of manner, of style. i have a boyfriend of two years who's just cute as a button, but i'm growning tired of his cuteness. yes, there is a third character involved. the fruit of temptation. a french cheff who i'm obsessed with. he's got blue eyes, a sexy little beard, and a collection of hipster hats that fit him just right. he has the deepest baddest turn-me-on stare i've seen in a long time, the ones that go straight through your nuts into your heart, making you feel you're a 14-year-old girl from wisconsin.

and here, you see, is my dilemma.

when

i can't say, when it was i stopped loving you. i don't know if i have. its like wanting to quit smoking. in theory i have, but in practice i haven't. like i've quit smoking but still smoke one or two fags every now and then, i've quit loving you, but i still get love spills every once in a while. i don't think its enough. is it enough? are we at the butt of our love? have we totally burned out? is it just the taste of each other in our mouths? ashes? craving?