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skonen_bladesApril 30/30
8/30
Lie no longer, sly young man. Each silk caress that carries you home to bed will be a wish that is fulfilled with tiny hands, enthusiasm, and no guilt. I’ve got your underarm worries packed safely into this cotton kit of first-aid brush strokes. Your enamel will strengthen, your veins will widen, and every stroke of cold genius that haunts your mind’s underbelly will be a hallway of light for your allies to reach out for you. You are about to not only go on a vacation, you are about to straight-up BECOME a vacation.
Your fingerprints are in the flan. The food that tempted your heart becomes crumbs at your touch. Each kind-hearted knife thrust cutting up red peppers to feed hole-hearted families of hippo-handed hard-ons was an indigo mirage, thrust up for the benefit of sailors and mermaids lost in the desert. If your expiry date hangs limply in wet rags, if your half-snail shell game of a life is at the flattening point, if your tire pump has become a dust-ridden topaz horse chandelier, then look at what your hands have done to soft surfaces. You can kid yourself that you’ve made no difference here but that’s not the case.
The sheriff’s wife awaits you. In the hot kitchen of summer. The man who enforces the law with good sense and a gun is at work all day and all she does is bake pies in short dresses, wipe sweaty locks of hair off of her amazing forehead, and guzzle lemonade until you show up to take her mind off of the sun-baked forgetful lizard’s eye of a town. She’ll wear his boots and you’ll get better at leaving your self-control at the doorway to her bedroom. It’s not as though you invented rope tricks. It’s just that sitting up straight gets harder to do every day and this, while stupid and carrying a fuse, is lively in a way that hasn’t been wrong since humans first settled townships.
And you’re not even a mailman.
tags
8/30
Lie no longer, sly young man. Each silk caress that carries you home to bed will be a wish that is fulfilled with tiny hands, enthusiasm, and no guilt. I’ve got your underarm worries packed safely into this cotton kit of first-aid brush strokes. Your enamel will strengthen, your veins will widen, and every stroke of cold genius that haunts your mind’s underbelly will be a hallway of light for your allies to reach out for you. You are about to not only go on a vacation, you are about to straight-up BECOME a vacation.
Your fingerprints are in the flan. The food that tempted your heart becomes crumbs at your touch. Each kind-hearted knife thrust cutting up red peppers to feed hole-hearted families of hippo-handed hard-ons was an indigo mirage, thrust up for the benefit of sailors and mermaids lost in the desert. If your expiry date hangs limply in wet rags, if your half-snail shell game of a life is at the flattening point, if your tire pump has become a dust-ridden topaz horse chandelier, then look at what your hands have done to soft surfaces. You can kid yourself that you’ve made no difference here but that’s not the case.
The sheriff’s wife awaits you. In the hot kitchen of summer. The man who enforces the law with good sense and a gun is at work all day and all she does is bake pies in short dresses, wipe sweaty locks of hair off of her amazing forehead, and guzzle lemonade until you show up to take her mind off of the sun-baked forgetful lizard’s eye of a town. She’ll wear his boots and you’ll get better at leaving your self-control at the doorway to her bedroom. It’s not as though you invented rope tricks. It’s just that sitting up straight gets harder to do every day and this, while stupid and carrying a fuse, is lively in a way that hasn’t been wrong since humans first settled townships.
And you’re not even a mailman.
tags