NICOLE

Thu, 28 Sep 2006 20:45:22 GMT

I like living the life of a hell raiser so long as it never rises above me.
I'm the Catholic princess knocked up and ugly,
dancing, dancing and dancing and dancing.
Silver and gold, your teenage fantasy.
Everyone wants their piece of the pie.

Sat, 06 May 2006 23:32:48 GMT

My favorite books by people whom I'd never meet at any fancy pants affair, but, rather, in those dodgy alleys you shouldn't walk through, or only if you dare. Something in the drugs and darkness and the drink and the walk, speaks to me, talks louder than the dead and the young with their computer generated suntans, empty hearts, heavy hands, and well executed hair.

I've mastered the written word and horizontal displays of love, the dance, and death, the smile, the fuck. I'm the world's biggest critic and my own number one fan. I'd have my own hand in marriage if such was a plausible undertaking in courts of law and books of love, but for now, I'll see to exactly one dance and a summer romance with the better part of one just like me. You pretty motherfucker, be mine

Wed, 02 Nov 2005 03:31:47 GMT

And that's all we were, a band of rejects who fucked better than any prissy bitch or muscle-bound king of athletic yearbook superlatives.

And we'd die on top of the world, laughing when they got rounder and dumber, more impotent and less fertile. This band of rejects would span time while the kings and queens of yearbook superlatives hurled through time and space wasting their lives on expensive skin treatments and picking on people their own size, very small, very insignificant, very much like you and I.

Wed, 02 Nov 2005 00:42:05 GMT

There are few great living writers and no great living poets. We will be the next good nobodies with our muddy word banks the color of filth and shit, and those endless digital photos of crinkled faces, as we remember with great despondency just how trying life was with our problem skin and cheating fathers. Oh, and all those unexpected accounts of smoking, drinking, snorting, injecting with their nowhere to go and never really matters, added for an edge, resulting in the rolled eyes of the dead whose manic falls from grace were benefits to those who knew them, never filling in the mile-wide gaps of postmodern rebel writers who worship the altars of Bukowksi and Burroughs because those names are hard to forget. Our teenage fistfights and nights in jail and lock ups til sundown are inconsequential, we've got nothing to see here, move along now, move along.

There are no great living next big things among us. We've all got our problems, none more consequential than the next. The sex is okay, the nights long and lingering, the movies mirrors of every one before them. The idols are empty with holes for eyes and knives for hearts.

The bestsellers will be written by boys who edit the university's newspaper and bought by those who were too embarrassed to fuck them the night of the winter social. Their mothers' hearts full with the great joys of success she and her dead husband, a good man, rest his soul, never felt in all their years, oh what a wonderful life we have now, look at him smiling in black and white on the sleeve of his novel, his wife, a teacher, his kids on the receiving end of bullies' fist. That's just how it goes.

We are wasting time and space writing these escapist novels when we should be out there living them, breathing the air of dead beats' breath, heading off to who-knows-where with people better suited to murder little ones than ride shotgun on the greatest, unwritten story ever whispered between Man and the land--the disgusting, beautiful, fucking can't wrap your mind around it land. She's all that's bound to listen.

Sun, 25 Sep 2005 17:31:26 GMT

I've eaten badder boys than you for breakfast and slept with some of life's best kept secrets hidden under my tongue and across my breast. Cross this vessel, hope to die; faced with this test, I will not lie. I've nothing to hide no longer, nothing to confide in among friends or lovers. Cover the bodies and bury our brothers, I'm coming to take the rest that is owed to me, I'm taking you, the dead, the world, under.

Mon, 16 May 2005 04:48:20 GMT

We stripped down to skin, shed these cells, and shook the sheetrock. You may marry rock or roll once you're worn and weathered, older, wiser, but right now, we bind our bodies by these limbs and tie together bits of poems, pieces of lists of things to do and days we missed in the middle of not listening to each other and kissing by the stereo.

Sat, 07 May 2005 01:07:41 GMT

Swapping sasses with a filthy rich stingy millionaire fat face with fat pockets, bejeweled fake theories, money hungry, choking on lockets and lariats, eighteen carat throwaway philosophies written in floods of blue blood ink, and drinking courage on the rocks.

I flock to her shiny things, spin her hair on my ring finger like spun wedding gold, and mold her face between my palms to get a handle on her thoughts. She brought me here, but where's this going? Candlelight dinners and bedside sermons sung from the tongue of princess, phoning in my dirty kisses on borrowed time? I fuck on no one's dime but my own, love, yet I've signed a loan on the Misses' lap like a purebred accessory with a chest to rival the filthiest movies' scene queens.

Between this horny housewife, her addictions to prescriptions and chic boutique fashions, me and my cash-hungry honey and the mound of money we fuck on, I'm half gone, gagging on a wad of dough, going gaga over my glamazon wife in the throes of cashin' out. I spent this life the misunderstood mistress, passionless, crashing the drink cart on the way off the shallow end of these severed hearts.

Fri, 01 Apr 2005 05:06:06 GMT

I'd spread my legs like a stretch of highway and fuck to the hum of horns and hearses delivering their dead to the open belly of the earth. The verses I birth twist and tangle, graze my ankles, raise my skirt and dangle death in front of me with a certain charm last seen leaving town with an actress from The Golden Age of Hollywood.

I've stood at the foot of many men's beds, but never have I shed my clothes and winter skin like I did the day the cars collided.

Mon, 21 Mar 2005 08:35:27 GMT

You're the proof, you're the picture of that bitch giving our boyfriends head with Invisalign and cuddling in the silences between him painting your face with his family tree and leaving his band's CD on your nightstand, as your sinful sendoff leaves you mending the pieces and bending backwards easing out of that dress.

You lead a messy life but you know it. I keep throwing up hearts as a conviction of my normalcy, but you didn't think I believed that hunky-dory horseshit, I'd hope. I'm as fucked as you, baby, I've just blame artists and live among these roped off masterpieces in search of a horny roommate and running water.

I could run away and blame it on fate, but fate's just another excuse to run the relationship into the grave while blaming it on a force bigger than your being just to justify the means to an end. So when you find a suitable suitor and home to hang your heart in, you shoot me a signal in the stars and hope that I'm praying upwards that night.

Sat, 12 Mar 2005 05:27:33 GMT

Why do we only call women beautiful after they've passed on, moved on to making time with a cold marble slab and a touch of divine intervention? Who's gotta die around here to catch a case of Roman hands and Russian fingers? I can't figure out which is worth it--to live a happy ugly life, or perish in a dashing shade of death.

Mon, 07 Mar 2005 00:22:03 GMT

This change in seasons makes me unnaturally shakey, delightfully nervous even. I'm forced to have a reason to feel alive when death's been such an impervious motherfucker of a force. For so long, forever, she's run through me full course. December brought me death in a letter, and January felt only slightly better than drowning, or running, or shaking, or breaking up and moving out. A death March down through the days of the calendar, and here she is now, out of breath, out of her mind and finding solace in obituaries and Dear John notes waiting to read hers and write her own.

When it rains, it pours and I haven't got a boat or a chance.

Thu, 03 Mar 2005 07:32:33 GMT

What's that you're scribbling? Always scribbling, always thinking up plots and blueprints to make human beings extinct by talking them down to thoughtless one-dimensional cardboard cutouts. What are you writing, what is it? What's this one about? A struggling artist? A modern martyr from the Biiigggg Apple,, darling? The Type A father grappling and wrestling with his thoughts, his debates with the devil, and dates with women far more evil? How's this, how's this...Make him pay his child support, fall for a quirky 20-something with the interesting haircut, and run himself to the ends of the earth looking for meaaaaning in life all the while cutting himself lose from the rut, the griiiind, the mad mad world? The screw-up, in the end, darling, always gets the girl. Whaddya say?

Well, darling--I can call you darling?

Go on.

See, it's a love story. Where all the characters fuck like the wedding night and fight like it's their last hours and they'd like to save the world, you know, if time permits.

What are they saving the world from? From going on? From spinning? What's the harm in spinning sometimes? Haven't you ever knocked yourself dizzy and stupid? You're still here. You're still sitting here writing these books and looking into people, who...well, darling, sometimes what you see is all that matters.

Now now, if that, if what you say is the way in which, in which, well in which lovers should behave--floating face first on the surface, a comfortable stasis wrapped up into the hands of every person we deem fit--if that were true, why isn't this world drowning in the bodies of those lovers and children and riding off on the American Dream, screaming something inappropriate and deliciously indelicate like "Fuck the world!" Why not that, sir? Why are so many faces contorted into uncomfortable ropes of unhappiness? If everything were as simple as you say, where does sadness come from?

But all the best stories end unhappily. If I were to unravel the threads of the why's, what for's and how come's, I fear, well I fear the world would tumble down off its axis and crumble at your feet leaving nothing but the manuscripts of men in love and the ashes of every relationship failed by the quizzical princesses looking to save mankind with storybooks.

Have I believed the magic of your sighs?

Wed, 23 Feb 2005 01:40:06 GMT

We left our bags in Queens and hoofed it to Brooklyn looking for that dimly lighted neon sign and a prophet to find some good news about our future. Mine was foggy, but yours--conclusive, perfect, and fatal. Here he is, able bodied with madmen's eyes, crying at the knees of the man reading his greatest fears from Heaven's book-club; a blubbering messy mouth, almost seventeen and too old to fuck.

You were drunk at the prom and I was dancing with the mommy chaperones in my vintage feather of a frock, knocking knees and making beelines for the bathroom to pass the time. The radius around the mirrors were abuzz with lip-lining princesses and fat wallflowers wincing under the fluorescent lights as if they would die from loneliness late in the night upon realizing that the real monsters are right here, breathing and feeding among and on us. Respectively. Of course.

I prayed for her poor soul standing in that stall, calling your telephone, waiting to hear you'd make it home safely and without a hitch. But there was one, always is, and you missed a connection, you said. But I knew that was a loaded statement and so I headed to bed.

I wonder why that prophet failed to mention that I’d never sleep again.

Thu, 17 Feb 2005 06:08:20 GMT

Honey, you're all fast fucks and fast cars and baby's just some dancin' shoes, but I've heard you got custody of all the luck but mostly just the moves. You're fluid like romance and mayhem. Baby's not saying much, but her face proves the testament.

Wed, 09 Feb 2005 04:36:31 GMT

I'm a d-d-darling of a disco monster! A hungry little heart s-s-stomper with a handbag for the bones! I'm a ph-ph-phony little lonely hunter, munching bad boys through the phones!

Tue, 08 Feb 2005 02:13:45 GMT

I once fashioned a proper crush on a real nice young girl, not for her grace, nor for her beauty, but for her daddy’s ratty hand-me-down Cheeseburger in Paradise t-shirt which she wore weekly and in good karmic health and humor. And in the midst of many a narcissistic tizzy, I fucked her dizzy from here to Margaritaville. Her name was Nichole, and I love her still. Boy, do I love her still.

Wed, 02 Feb 2005 23:47:16 GMT

The only way to keep this plane from leaving is to call in that bomb threat, baby, and meet me at the gate with those freezing hands and those warming words.

It's time for an explosion, honey, it's the war of the worlds!

Tue, 01 Feb 2005 08:32:07 GMT

For having such a pretty face, you always look better when you're walking away.

Wed, 26 Jan 2005 03:27:20 GMT

I shit sunshine to survive;
Otherwise, I'd have died days ago.

I'm the voice of reason, but I speak best in tongues.

Mon, 24 Jan 2005 09:02:54 GMT

Your heart is in your art and mine's in New York.

Sounds about right, but my heart's everywhere but anywhere it should be. I'll be looking into frequent fliers' miles and fancy luggage to cash in and pack away respectively. But I'm confident I'll find my way back home again. I just need to spend nights breathing a different city and getting lost in a subway map until I'm seeing stars and cross-eyed.

It'd all be so charmingly tragic if I weren't lying. I'm staying here. I'm trying.

Sat, 22 Jan 2005 00:44:31 GMT

Your baby's been doin' bar crawls from Baptism through birthday. But he came home thirsty for me, for me.

Fri, 21 Jan 2005 20:38:16 GMT

And they're screaming THE ICE AGE IS COMING, and they're locking away the valuables, and they're hiding their eyes as if to stop the end of the world with a slick brush off and a two finger salute. PEACE, BROTHER, PEACE BROTHER, we'll run down Mother Earth and win this thing, two by two, through prayer, you know, like maggggic.

And they're screaming TRAGEDY, TRAGEDY!, and they're shielding their babies, holding onto their lockets and lovers and packing a suitcase for the heavens and hells. FORGIVE US, FATHER, FORGIVE US, MOTHER, they know not what they do. They sell their souls one last time before dinner and death, before moving at the speed of light and life. We wept. Disaster strikes!

And we hear the muffled mouth of a mother saying prayers on beads and dropping to her knees hitching a ride to salvation. The station's closed. She's breathing treason through her shrunken lungs and ruining our vacation.

Draw the blinds.
Look at me.

If hell's freezing over tonight, then what we're doing is no longer wrong, the numbers lie, this is right, and love can't count, and fighting the end of the world wasn't on my fucking to-do list, just kiss me and slip away on that mother's prayers and I'll meet you. I'll meet you there where nothing's ever wrong. Nothing's ever wrong.

Mon, 03 Jan 2005 05:06:37 GMT

Every time I drew the double columns and listed off the reasons, I was torn between only two. One for you, I stay. And one for you, I leave. Let it live, or let us die...in which do you believe?

Sat, 25 Dec 2004 21:11:25 GMT

So when the beautiful brown girls look at you and you smile that rollercoaster smile, think, think of us, forget the miles and airplane food. You've got me with you between the pages of the books you borrowed to pass some time, to calm those mile-high nerves you'd hide in your shaking hands on the ride to the terminal where you'd lose me to the static upon landing in another world. So when those beautiful brown girls look at you and you smile that rollercoaster smile, think of me in our metropolis playing your songs and dialing your telephone out of habit, out of heartache.

Wed, 15 Dec 2004 06:32:50 GMT

Maybe I'll marry a folk singer and make pretty songbirds with yellow hair and fingernails that can hold on to every word I say. Maybe we'll play parking lots and talk about the weather, but sincerely, like that's all God gave us for the day. And we'll make the best of good things, we will. He on his rocking horse, me on my cross, the martyr finds the beat in his lost recordings and sells them to the Church of Rock and Roll for a small fee and a life of luxury on the Orient, or maybe just Mars...yeah, Mars is it. Mars it'll be.

I'll see to it, I'll back you, up, honey. Goldilocks and I will carry the repair kit for broken hearts and you can cart around our Bibles and what little money we'll spend on magic pills for inspiration. The drugs and my peculiar preoccupation with going as crazy as one possibly can in the course of a dinner will make for a charming old swan song. You're on guitar! I'm on the edge! Nervous breakdown, reason...pick your poison! I haven't enjoyed insanity in so long, sweet December.

If we move, we go together. I'll sew my hands to the pockets of your coats, to the fronts of your sweaters just so I'm sure. Just once I'll be sure.