Free Writing: Surrounded By Horses.

28 01 2012

Yawn the heart shaped box won’t open for Courtney or you or me, super glued like a maxipad to a jr. high locker room high alert like a too short skirt and some very horny dudes who got the blues. Why do they care about women’s underwear? A little skin. Some freckles to bare. Fortunes on the floor. Not believed. Un believed. Unbelievable. Why a cookie would know anything is quite absurd. Wire mouth shut in silent groans of menacing pleasure claws scrape against drywall to protect the back of the nameless gentleman. A scholar in his own right, but never right around me. As in wrong, not off. Though he gets off way more than me. I’m denying myself pleasure because I’m a masochist. I also like power. I need to find my own kink. What gets me off. I should really just go for it, whatever I’m thinking. Why the passivity? I need sex all the time, to ease my mind. Orgasmic minds think alike on beaches of broken dreams pain in power powerful pain ecstasy escaping lounging on a cloud of back-breaking sweaty Mexicans with scars on their abdomens and cigars half smoked laying on truck beds. There isn’t beauty in the break-down but the re-building. The realizations. The consternations. The interweaving fabrics of lies and make-believe. My knuckle with marks from a night of belligerent farts choices are like whispers said in the dark; secrets shared with no one, you’re all alone with your choices. Like Patti Smith’s horses. Wild or tame, either way, you make them every second of the day. And no, there are not erasers. And no, you can’t turn back. And no, you deserve to be alone. Because you don’t even know who you are so why should anybody else? There are never cries for help when the heart shape box comes undone. There are never cries for help when sad songs go unsung. There are never cries for help. There are never cries.

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