Une jeune femme (the young woman)

"Siren" red walls.
Sex books stacked.

Rose perfume.

Musings of hedonism

in red penned cursive.

Horror movies faintly screaming until 4 am.

Sleek polychromatic Hendrix poster.

Heap of old records in the corner.

Her domain a fashion igloo.

Vacant trees dark in the window

with the blue dawn.

She is tart womanhood

vast umber irises under defined lashes.

milky film over a slender frame

propped up on heels.

I enter her wonderland

sipping fruit juice

and having bizarre conversations with her

like I have for many years.

She tells me her musings:

“I read this book about serial killers”

“The 1960s babydoll look is making a comeback”

“J'aime n'importe quoi joli” (I love all things pretty).

A friendship arisen out of

a resentment for our private Catholic school.

And now I still enter her cozy haven.

No textbooks

only the strewn wanderlust of fashion sketches.

Words beyond her youth lilting out of her,

Paris,

la mode (the fashion),

cultured wine and thin pink cigarettes.

Her bizarre family,

with nonchalance she once told me:

“My mother’s side of the family

has a brimless fascination with macabre.”

Dropping acid on a whim,

rock n roll music and epiphanies.

I glimpse it all.

Her smallness walking the catacombs in couture.

Strutting the dirty pavement of downtown Portland.

Escapades among the city’s artists and politicians

on the arm of her rock star.

She tells me: “Do what you want.

Don’t live for someone else.”

Parfum

Attaching to molecules

settling on necks and wrists

a slight dampness on skin

like a bouquet of daffodils

wet with dew.

A golden clear liquid

becomes unseen

yet tangible in the air,

a delicate bird

that lingers.

The scent is the afternoon,

a warmth that hits your body

on a summer morning.

As soft as the underside of

burgeoning breasts,

as spreading lotion

into a girl’s skin,

a ripening peach.

All within a bottle

the side of a ice cap

heavy and glass.

The bottle is

yellow and light

as late afternoon sun

filtered through

a lace curtain.

Satan's Cheerleaders

Rock stars kill themselves
and everyone weeps
and their songs are everywhere
playing in the grocery stores
and teenage bedrooms.

Satan's cheerleaders on the sideline,

cigarettes dangling from their red lips,

screaming that there is no meaning

and there never was.

Blood Red Wine

Drinking red wine so the nights

become as vague as my mind.

Trying not to let memories creep in.

Memories that aren't worth

carrying around anymore.

The night air hangs around

the edge of our bodies.

Streets tilt.

Streaks of light etched in my soul.

I reach out for the webs connecting us.

City of Angels

I know of a place where the most inconceivable of dreams come to life. Where celestial stars reside, the luminous human forms. The whole metropolis, a magnetic field drawing in people. A landscape where transparent crystals adorn flawless skin and daisies get tangled in long hair. This is a place where golden haired, bright-eyed children star in motion pictures and everyone is eternally young. Black and white film stars used to roam the boulevard and you can still see their ghosts if you look hard enough. This is a place where everything is fleeting but the pavement and blinding sun. The waves are never-ending and they’ll crush you if you aren’t careful. This is a modern safari complete with man-eating lions in disguise and a fast paced highway. The only type of faith here is in the silver screen. The living damned, cursed in a city where the air is thick with sex. This is possibly the most dangerous collection of streets and buildings and angels you will encounter so watch your step. But it’s worth it. For a moment, as you watch the sunset from a rooftop with palm trees in the distance and a hundred of your closest acquaintances, you can feel the magic more intensely than ever before.

One Of Those Days

I worry and my hands are sore

and my lips are raw

and my mouth is bloody.

Going on seems so distant.

And sometimes I get reality

and fantasy mixed up.

But my thoughts seem so real

and my dreams make sense.

The "Nasty" Parts Of Being Human

We like to romanticize life. Perfect bodies, successful careers, happy marriages. But I find the underbelly of being human interesting. With being human comes some very nasty things. We vomit, we piss, and we shit. We rot from the inside out as our lives go on, and that's if we're lucky enough to live that long. Death creeps into life in unusual ways. But what is life without death? You can't appreciate the good without the bad. Often the most alive you will ever feel is after you've nearly died or when you are emotionally destroyed. Yes, humans are not perfect. We are well-oiled machines but there is plenty of room for fuck ups.

Who Fooled Us Into Living This Way?

Hearing beers crack open
from the floor above.
"I can't walk" a girl screams.
I pull the pillow over my head.

This is apartment living.
I am surrounded.

Someone moans
"fuck me"
below me.
I eat cereal,
raising an eyebrow.

I am in a compartment,

stacked on others.

I tan on my deck,

my thoughts interrupted

by a loud conversation.

Guys talk about jacking off

eight times a day

for four days in a row.

Jesus.

Trapped

I howl in my sleep
with a lust for another world.
A world where it is all transparent.
Here, it is all shrouded
in dust and moths and shit.

Maybe it's a screen.
I can't see,
besides in the unconsciousness.
Where I see that nothing is real,
or the majority, at least.

And my howls disturb the others.
But they need that.
We are too comfortable.
Every whim and desire.

I don't want to be blind anymore.

3:52 AM

Staying up all night

alone

used to be sanctuary.

My emotional teenage ass

mused on the meaning of life.

But now,

21,

and after a few hours

alone just feels like

a sickness in my head

or stomach.

I have to distract myself from it.

I don't know what that means

But I feel even farther from adulthood.