The smile of the angel
is torture and rapture.
The kiss of the whore
is always the same.
Is it any wonder
we expect our pleasure
to come with a measure
of delirious pain?
Cute, quaint, and perhaps a bit country
Posted in Poetry
Tagged country, cute, it's a joke, literary device, pain, pleasure, poem, poems, poetry, quaint, writing
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To Be Memorable
If I cut away this flesh
and I strip away this voice
and I reduce myself
to the nothing but 1s and 0s
that will ultimately be left behind,
I am not entirely sure
I see enough of anything
to be memorable.
Time to start
blowing shit up.
Man Enough
I’m worried I won’t be
the man you need.
I worry I’m not enough
to fulfill you.
I worry I’m not
strong enough,
not big enough,
not hard enough.
Even in my most
perfect days,
I already know
I’m not man enough.
Doubt
Once
you were between my legs,
and you saw me —
not the man
I pretend to be,
but just me.
“Just look
at how wet you are for me,”
you said.
It was one of the only times
I felt like it was us making love,
and not a hundred thousand lies
between us.
I wept in your arms.
I doubt you remember.
Last Night
Bela woke up one morning with a pain in his left eye. He remembered why when he got into the bathroom, and saw the black circle around it. With a sigh, he popped some Advil, and got some ice. After laying down with an ice pack on his face for a little while, he got up and walked downstairs, to the basement.
His face kept hurting, twinging with the way he frowned in thought. He stood in the doorway, for a long time, and when he finally flicked on the light, he stared at the thing in the corner, and waited, watching, while it stared back.
“Don’t look at me,” he finally said, irritable. “You’re the one who said ‘Trick or Treat’.”
Posted in Fiction, Flash
Tagged basement, fiction, flash, flash fiction, hangover, last night, memory, writing
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