my great uncle lost his leg in 1917 sometime just before the new year. a german shell and a handful of shrapnel took it from him is what i've been told. poof and it was gone (like stardust in space) and millions of his atoms settled between the grains of earth and mud and snow. man to mist in a fraction of a second and i find beauty in our bodies nothingness. max said it was a boys right to become nostalgic between drinks and all my letters form words like wine and beer and honey lips. sometimes these words seem flat and i wish i could place them into your dreams just the way i'd like but so many of my thoughts are impossible to say due to their insignificance or significance or simplicity or such and such. like how sometimes raspberry jam brings to mind thoughts which hurt my heart and how impossible it is to push someone else's kiss out of its place. i fear that nostalgia will make these words one big ugly mess sooner or later or at this very moment, perhaps.



















"hey, that's a pretty good idea. i'll give you the moon, mary. well then you could swallow it, and it'd dissolve, see? and the moonbeams'd shoot out of your fingers and your toes.... and the ends of your hair..."



sincerely disregard this drunk sentiment

your eyes were a gasoline green which burnt my insides
you seemed keen but fake and i knew and wished and hoped it was not over
you wore a blue and green dress (the one you had on the night before)
and the floor was cold under my feet and i could barely speak
with words like "if you say it's true than true it will be" 
all for a pseudo-boy who wears a blouse
who wouldn't loose a wink of sleep either way
my friends call you a whore (i have started to as well)
i miss you less and less you know
merry christmas


christmas er whatever.



In keeping with the mexican theme this christmas eve, enjoy the tune above! When your done with that watch uno through ocho of Doin' It Baja! Best fucking video on the internet. Hopefully your not stuck at work like I am. Are bars open tonight?

can i picture you naked?

this is what dreams are made of. this right here. your finger tips on the warm shower tile or the feeling of your toes on the hardwood floor. the flicker of that light bulb when you open the fridge (your mom had made shortbread cookies, their in there somewhere) and the smell of the christmas tree in the living room, its a pretty one this year but whats the point (there is no point). so whats a boy or girl to do? love like hunger, love like fire, love like my first mouthful of gasoline while your lips taste like froot loops. we could fuck, or not, it's not that important and tracing your spine with the tip of my nose is better then reverse-cowgirl in the kitchen anyways (i saw it in a movie once). your skin is the colour of my dreams and an arctic snowfall and if your freckles were words you'd speak with the utmost eloquence. i'm glad i can picture you naked because your shape deserves the attention.




i wake up and make toast with jam (the last of the jar that her dad had made) and its cold out. a manitoba cold which resembles near frost bitten ears while wandering frozen lakes. but the cigarette smoke still burnt my lungs which duplicated the feeling of scalding hot toes in the shower after a cold walk home (from somewhere not so near) and i search for words like always. a is for asymmetry like charlie brown's tree, and b is for blowjob and c is for candy or cunt or caryatid (an architectural object which is reminiscent of a female shape) and i'll attempt to string them together in a meaningless mismatch of melancholiness (m). I'd build you a house, large of course, and close to the forest, near that stream perhaps. I'll trap the heat of our summer in my palms and pockets (save for the ones of which escape through my poorly sewn patches) and fill the rooms and drawers and cupboards and cups until you insisted you saw the glow of this warmheartedness ("it feels like you." you stated in a sigh between dreams and the morning). and i swore you would never feel that cold again.

  
i sincerely saw your skin for the first time. and at 5:45 in the morning it snowed (and snowed and snowed) as i stood on the porch staring at my untied shoe laces i declared you wonderful in my mind. my cigarette smoke agreed (as did the socks, trapped between the sheets, near the bottom of the bed) and i curled my toes to remind me knees to remind my stomach to remind my heart to quiet its beat because the neighbours need sleep as well.


like an attractive girl reading your favorite book on the bus and our hearts lay open on the table at salisbury house and it's three a.m. and we poke and prod about how they all don't know what love is
no not even sex
'cause    how could   they?
i wrote more words but swallowed them whole so you'll have to tear apart my insides.














so i've got the flu. for some strange reason i craved this glass of milk even though i rarely, if ever, drink milk. i then spent the next forty minutes starring at it in a flu-induced delirium questioning if i've missed out by not warming it up and making it into hot chocolate. being sick fucking sucks. 
"and it just made sense. to sail away and forget that part of my life. so many men had done this in the past for the exact same reason. for centuries i bet. the loneliness, the scariness, the harshness out there. it's like the ultimate comfort and cleansing for a man's soul. but when i got scared, i always hoped she was thinking of me."















































she'll loan you her toothbrush she'll bartend your party






and i do these things to avoid the thought and i avoid the thought because that thought makes up my everything. i try to be brave (undaunted or perhaps lionhearted) and i try to move on but i'm sharing my dozen bottles of honesty by saying the pain (torment and torture) has not left me.  i wish it would and i know it should but i can't seem to make it happen because she was my everything. and i know this makes me frail and i know this makes me weak (wasted or wavering) and i know i have no excuse. i sparked flames in my heart to watch everything turn to dust (soot and earth) so i'll allow myself the bitterness. my clothes never fit right and i'm sure i'm not your type but it doesn't really matter because i could (should or will never) let myself trust what your freckles (between your eyes and just above your nose) promise, stated or otherwise. living well is the sweetest revenge but a lie of my wellness makes things worse. i'm twenty something, wasted, and shirtless (bare-skinned or blatant) and as i've said before she's made me feel worthless but i know i'll be okay because i am okay but i'm not okay because i lost my everything. but for fuck sakes i'm positive (definite and certain) i'd forget it all for you.










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