""Don't push it", she said, as if I could do anything but, with you running around in my head. Kisses became evidence that you meant to leave me, and I would have preferred slaps, to the uncertainty of nights between your thighs, if I weren't so addicted to your fucking body."
She paused."That is the worst fucking writing I've ever seen - and I've read Daniel Steele".
"Daniel who?"
"Steele. She writes harlequin romance novels."
"Ok."
"You know the type that I'd like to read, if I weren't so busy trying to harlequinize my reality."
"Is that a word?"
"Shakespeare created neologisms - why can't I?"
Their conversation dangled (yes, like the Simon and Garfunkel song), as they sat on the couch, his laptop lying between them - and as she read her novel, he reread his words, and found them lacking; her kisses no longer seemed real, and he began to doubt that she loved him.
What kind of a girlfriend doesn't like your writing, anyway? Not one he needed - but he was so addicted to fucking her body.
Sunday, September 15, 2013
Free Writing
They say that Israel waxes and wanes like the moon;
the bright orb leans against the blue sky;
I am enveloped by your black clouds,
mists winding and unwinding from my thighs,
two thick sticks that once held light inside me,
but now it is only when I feel you release,
that the emptiness decreases slightly,
a silver sliver worming its way through the hollow,
in a way that a burrower might forge an unkosher sukkah, or a hobbit hole:
If Israel is a menstruant woman, will God not nibble the crevice of her neck,
or bite her thighs?
Will His lips not touch her breasts?
But the purity must be preserved:
Let us hang a white sheet between us,
lest I stain you scarlet, as I stained your couch,
that time I was a week early -
and let us not touch each other,
lest my moon stop shining.
I could not love you because my lips could not speak,
there could be no becoming, the small act of creation
formed with each letter, like a kiss -
and what world have we created between us,
this little couch, and those tiny burgers,
and silences to light our journey,
which once was lit by the moon of our stomachs,
waxing and waning into each other,
hushed "I loves you"s breathed into the dark,
the breath of being, and I nurtured your seed inside me,
and then resorted to cliches,
when the love could bear me no longer.
the bright orb leans against the blue sky;
I am enveloped by your black clouds,
mists winding and unwinding from my thighs,
two thick sticks that once held light inside me,
but now it is only when I feel you release,
that the emptiness decreases slightly,
a silver sliver worming its way through the hollow,
in a way that a burrower might forge an unkosher sukkah, or a hobbit hole:
If Israel is a menstruant woman, will God not nibble the crevice of her neck,
or bite her thighs?
Will His lips not touch her breasts?
But the purity must be preserved:
Let us hang a white sheet between us,
lest I stain you scarlet, as I stained your couch,
that time I was a week early -
and let us not touch each other,
lest my moon stop shining.
I could not love you because my lips could not speak,
there could be no becoming, the small act of creation
formed with each letter, like a kiss -
and what world have we created between us,
this little couch, and those tiny burgers,
and silences to light our journey,
which once was lit by the moon of our stomachs,
waxing and waning into each other,
hushed "I loves you"s breathed into the dark,
the breath of being, and I nurtured your seed inside me,
and then resorted to cliches,
when the love could bear me no longer.
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