

tequilia for cold thursdaythe phone rings at 10:03. maybe 9:03. or 11:03. did we set this clock back yet? or were wetequilia for cold thursday
supposed to set it forward? what kind of lost time are we dealing with here?
"you should call matt. have you talked to matt? you're coming to thanksgiving right? you and
javeed" she butchers his name like every white person on earth "can bring chickenwings!"
"it's javid, mother, and we're not bringing chicken wings, we're bringing
desert." i pause, blowing on a grimy fistful of freshly painted nails, carefully capping the
tacky red bottle of thick red laquer. "what's wrong with matt? and are you doin


i'll be the one wearing redwith her blood coming slow to the surface and in a daze, shei'll be the one wearing red
picked up the phone and heard the labored, liquor-thick breath
of her brother easing over the wires. through the dark and into
her bloodstream, placing goosepimples up and down the acid-cracked daisychain of her spine. even with eyes closed
she could see him hunched in a dark sleazy corner with a cold
bottle between his thighs and a cigarette between his lips
glossy brown eyes blood-trimmed and barely open laced neatly
in eyelash bows. years and years ago she'd handed him all her
time in the bottom of a bottle of vodka and said
Devious Comments
~M
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Have you ever written poetry for an "object of desire" and given it to that person, unsure of how he/she might react? Please answer here: [link]
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"I'd never advocate drugs, violence or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me"
- Hunter S. Thompson
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time, they say is the great healer
but I believe in chemicals, baby.
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My role in society, or any artist's or poet's role, is to try and express what we all feel. Not to tell people how to feel. Not as a preacher, not as a leader, but as a reflection of us all.
-John Lennon
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sophie
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"Sinking, Drowning, Fucking Dying!"
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