Random. from last November.

It is well.. different.. to be a teenage boy these days.  The boys I talked to today — they encounter bitter exes who send group messages of their break-ups to either their groups of friends or their entire address books (“Bad trip.”),  There’s also the looming danger of seeing curse words hurled at you indirectly on your twitter wall, apparently.

(and other holidays where we speak of dead men)

Nicole Blackman

I want to know how it will end.
I want to be sure of what it will cost.
I want to strangle the stars for all they promised me.
I want you to call me on your drug phone.
I want to keep you alive so there is always the possibility of murder later.
I want to be there when you learn the cost of desire.
I want you to understand that my malevolence is just a way to win.
I want the name of the ruiner.
I want matches in case I have to suddenly burn.
I want you to know that being kind is overrated.
I want to measure how much torture we can stand.
I want to know where your altruism went.
I want to watch you lose control.
I want to watch you lose.
I want to know exactly what it’s going to take.
I want to see you insert yourself into glory.
I want your touches to scar me so I’ll know where you’ve been.
I want you to watch when I go down in flames.
I want to crush the thing you love just so you know I can.
I want a list of atrocities done in your name.
I want to work both sides of the fence.
I want to have two cats so when one dies one will eat the other
– and nothing will be wasted.
I want to reach my hand into the dark and feel what reaches back.
I want you to turn tender when you have the time.
I want to remember when my nightmares were clearer.
I want to be there when your hot black rage rips wide open.
I want to find a way for you to survive all this.
I want to taste my own kind.
I want America to be socialized around creation instead of fear.
I want to meet your host virus.
I want to charm your sleep captain.
I want everyone to see the tiara break.
I want to be wrapped in cold wet sheets to see if it’s different on this side.
I want you to play it to me over the phone.
I want you to make a scorching debut.
I want you to come on strong.
I want the television left on so I can sleep.
I want to crunch the numbers.
I want you to write your life story and leave me out of it.
I want to write my secret across your sky.
I want to keep you in the dark.
I want to leave you out in the cold.
I want to voice my concerns.
I want the exact same thing but different.
I want some soft drugs, some soft soft drugs.
I want to throw you.
I want to know if I’ll ever be safe in the dark.
I want to decide who next year’s dead rock stars will be.
I want you to know I know.
I want to speak hot metal fluently.
I want to know why you’re starting to look like the last one.
I want just enough rope to hang you.
I want to hurt myself before you do, because I can do it better.
I want to coax the keys from your hand.
I want to throttle the bottle blonde because I know what she did.
I want to know if you read me.
I want to swing with my eyes shut and see what I hit.
I want to silver your hands.
I want to know just how much you hate me so I can predict what you’ll do.
I want you to know the wounds are self-inflicted.
I want a controlling interest.
I want to be somewhere beautiful when I die.
I want to be your secret hater.
I want to stop destroying you but I can’t.
I want and I want and I want and I will always be hungry.

Double Takes | Naya Valdellon

“They may have been right about suffering,
though you wish they had warned: It’s the same

for love. When you’re immersed, it’s as if moonlight
never waltzed on waves at midnight before,

as if ferries had never borne the weight of so many
hungry passengers hurrying back to their hometowns.

Days later, when friends ask how it happened,
you fumble with a forkful of words: Somewhere

between the seawall and the fire escape, he became
a you to me. But they are already sailing away,

ice cubes clinking as they sip and think of what next
to say, anything but: We bet this won’t last.

You step into rooms and can almost taste the brine
in sideways glances of people you both know,

the fishy smell of rumors in the air: One of them
jumped ship; the other could have done better.

It’s tempura vendors and strangers behind counters
who throw the slippery question: Are you two

together? Yes is easier to swallow than the truth:
It’s complicated. Between you and others are words

spilling like cigarette ashes through a fire escape’s
grills—too late to dash down and catch mid-air embers

in your hand. When the extinguished sparks land,
family members’ mouths twitch with watered-down

versions of: We told you so. You are never lonelier
than when you are in love. In the sunless hours

of a monsoon morning, no one sees you folding up
the cocktail parasol of the last drink you shared,

its paper the color of an ancient summer sky
no longer able to shield you from so much rain.”


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