Beautiful Rudeness - hand type

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School – Clouds Aside (0 plays)


Old Poems Of Mine

all of my twisting around the sheets
cutting off circulation to my feets
covered in doubt and shame and dirt
I am wringing out all the hurt
why I am I awake tonight
close my eyes and I just see light
my mind is buzzing fluorescent bright
what am I doing with my life

sit at work and i’m just like lead
cannot hold up my heavy head
focus for less than a single sigh
I’m unhappy, I don’t know why

everyone is better than
everything is better there
every time I’m better now
every night I’m sleeping less


My lip is pulsing pink. dark love, it bleeds onto my tongue. I’ve wrapped a lock behind my ear and pull in close. There’s things we don’t hear when our fingers tangle. beside our cheeks. and eyes are closed. and eyes are open. the red light glow from the bedside table. the pile of clothes. the slight lift-fall your shoulder blades and my pulse pulse pulse pulse pulse. My lip is pulsing pink.


there’s sweat and tears within these walls. we’re adding our layer on like a new year on a tree.


I remember so much of us
The red bomber jacket
From the winter on Church St.
The mole constellation under your right eye
The trees are people
And assorted love


Take your thigh,
and brush it against my outstretched hand.
and make believe
we don’t mean it

We’ll make eyes in the hall, in the
parking lot
and talk about girlfriends.
We’re silent but our eyes are yelling ask me a question
tell me things about your life - I’ll pretend we couldn’t cut this tension.

I can feel the vision strings.
Tied in a knot between our eyes.

I just want to breathe heavy next to your ear,
I want you to choke when you hear
what I whisper,
I want you to grab my hand and drag me into the closet where you grab my ass and tell me that you’ve lost it.

And feel your mouth along the back of my neck,
feel your body
your sweat

I want secrets and quiet and rascals and danger,
and kissing a stranger.


a heavy hand between your thighs
thigh, rump, slab of meat
and i rip it off like a starved savage
and i feel the drip out from the cracks

once my hands are bulls blood red
I’m crying perfume on your neck
All my mass turns vapour light

I am the curtains rustling in the breeze
I’m a breathy whisper between your knees
ups and downs of chesty waves
I glance up at you over seas

“Above the lawn the wild beetles mate and mate, skew their tough wings and join. They light in our hair, on our arms, fall twirling and twinning into our laps. And below us, in the grass, the bugs are seeking each other out, antennae lifted and trembling, tiny legs scuttling, then the infinitesimal ah’s of their meeting, the awkward joy of their turnings around. O end to end they meet again and swoon as only bugs can. This is why, sometimes, the grass feels electric under our feet, each blade quivering, and why the air comes undone over our heads and washes down around our ears like rain. But it has to be spring, and you have to be in love—acutely, painfully, achingly in love— to hear the black-robed choir of their sighs.” — Dorianne Laux, “The Orgasms of Organisms”

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Time Lapse recording session with Little Tiny Hearts

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