I was enraged at being alone on the outside of all that love and lust.
The animals are dying. All the beautiful women are dying too.
Mostly he was in a hurry, so he’d just stick it in and away we’d go.
I recoil from the certitude that religion can give a person; it’s horrific.
I dream of snakes coming out of me and through the house to find her.
Why does she do it? She knows cutting yourself is a joke. Goth, idiotic.
I am always hungry & wanting to have sex. This is a fact.
Byron’s mother read things to him: Language is fun. Play. Let’s play.
“No, actually you are very different from the women I usually date.”
It was like a scene in a movie; it didn’t seem real. The man kicked her.
Some days he thinks he has patients to see, meetings to attend.
There were women everywhere, all naked or nearly naked.
I want you enough to gnash you into a silence made from pieces of silver.
Let’s rummage through each other’s bodies like a blowout sale.
It dawned on me my passion was not for her but for the making-up.
We were aiming for a complete transformation of society.
Her body is no longer the source of pleasure but constant pain.
Thus John Redding grew to manhood, playing, studying and dreaming.
For even he and she are false. For it is tinged with the taste of metal.
I put my hand on my stomach and had an image of the melting snowman.
“Leaving for war, Hayes wept. He didn’t just cry; he wept...”
They felt smarter and sexier, especially when together.
It was as the angel speaking of Isaac, a deception, a test to survive.
She’s not the same, her body more naked in its aging, its disorder.
Is there some one way a guy should be on his wedding day, dickwad?
The rifle slams into my shoulder. Smoke pummels the air.
Here I am, king of the gods, making a fool of myself just to get under your gown.
I floated in the tub, my head bobbing, until I felt slick as a seal.
I was bold, even reckless, in what I wrote, and in how I wrote it.
You have to be three times better than the white kids, at everything.