Thursday, 29 April 2010

when they tell u 'fuck u' you know they just hit you with the predicate

Fuck you! was her status quo response to alot of people in the past 6 months. She was angry, this brunette skinny leg low rise wearing queen who you would still want to meet if you were a guy, why? cause you love the way her blood circulates, the way her energy flows, breaking up the frozen river to your heart, creating various ice floes? cause of the way she comes up to kiss you and comes up on her toes?

fuck you... no wait! thats what he wants, she thought, simmering as she thought it. these guys these guys, when you let them part your thighs. whats wrong with you girl? you jus trying get a rise? yes, yes, you are. lets be honest. give it up. they are right, it is true. tonight im headed to to work them, work them all. tonight in my garter, tonight at the pool hall.

Not forever! fuck no! After having met the man her very jesus, all colors went pale, all voices went cold. She could have swore he was the savior, in modern day times. She knew the second coming would not be obvious or outdated, nor dressed to the nines. He was minimal, calm, wearing white, hanging with anyone, blind to class, non-judgmental...and denied nothing, held silence. Smoked cloves. She sized them up quick, this was part of her skill. The trauma she suffered fueled her vigilance, not her will.

She listened to her one and only savior, in extraordinary spirits and unusually mild-mannered; could be dubbed a miracle relative to her typical misbehavior. she promised she would go chaste before she went mental. he said he would throw a parade... (they both knew it wouldn't last, yet he treated her gentle).

heels so high, she's destined for a fall!  everyone could see this, found her sad, base, demeaning, off-balance. the shorter guys would gather close, in hopes to receive her overcompensatory twins at eye level. She stuffed them somewhere in between her and them, mad as hell, ears ringing. Before she would enter the motel room known as hers, she shouted just a sec! to buy herself a few minutes. as she headed back to back rooms unidentified, where her mother not from birth looked her up and down...sighed.

fuck you! came her venom, residual to her chat with her pseudo-mom generic (better than the original, not so ignorant, more fun). all flourescent quality vibrational molecules could be cherished as they rained down up him from the balcony of the motel. Getting spit at by her may be least desired, but still he thought about it with his (characteristic) unrealistic kind of denial; as a connectionWhat for him was hard-wired. To most was plain weird.

 The kind of guy who fails to comfort the desperate. Left her anxious and pissed, not that she knew different, when a trick tries to create some sick, concocted position. she once implored him for help to pay for dentures when her teeth hit the hygiene basement: enamel crack defacement. No dentures no flossing! You may blow me more often! see hes not worth it! she yelled to herself critically. What did you expect? he would forfeit?

The reference you may know, was to seven card poker; his favorite game, second only to Pin the Tail on the Choker. All which coalesced very nicely with our heroine borderline. Ya, the one who had some men breathing for her within a three hour acquaintance. The one who stopped his breath. Who kept his heart from frozen death. He could care less of his heart, he could care. Asked stanford surgeons to replace it with a pump, if they could. He could pay six digits was his offer...three weeks later the offer still stood.

She lost her patience and went mental, our tragic antigone. Ran away to Hollywood, then Vegas, then Hong Kong. Took pain pill generics to partial effect. Kept the cast waiting on many a porn set. Doing her K lines in some palace of brine;  up in her head, things were fine fine fine....when truly she had given all the men all she had...had left her half of half-dead; underwhelmed, oversalted and unfed.

Kept company of one eyed jacks gone wild, token chain newport smokers, toward the end, out in Reno. they played well into the previous night, or so they said, what they know. Somebody probably dipped into deeper deep pockets. She was purported to have pawned a silver locket. Tumbleweeds tumbled round the edge of old Reno. Forecast was the usual, dry as a bone, the day she went missing; a tip called in by payphone. the receiver hung in the wind, looking defeated, when found. anxious drunks hung about similar, lost in their bottles and unsettled loans...With what teeth? what mortgage? with what home, what home?!