a poem to Marlon Brando.

church bell. small town. hot breath. sweet maltose kiss on clumsy cheeks. histatin healing hurt. young boy. small boy. old man. drum hands relieving. caresses on stretched ghosts. father figure on a hill. on a heel. snapped punched perfection. staged sadness in velvet fists. wet streets. sullen sleep. island backdrops to cover the stench of constant …

pluck

My intestines hurt. I can't eat. It hurts to digest. What's wrong with me? I can't keep eating myself sick. Everything feels like poison. I want to feel healthy again. Able. Energized. I'm depleted. I'm afraid. I have this feeling that I'm not gonna be here for much longer. I want to enjoy my life …

Don’t Try

Bukowski Buk. Hank Chinaski. I'm one of those incredibly rare bitches that loves Bukowski. I say rare, not because I'm fucking special, but because it is utter blasphemy to love someone like Bukowski in 2018. I'm sure my love for Bukowski is evident by the name of this blog, but I digress... He's a disgusting, …

on marriage

Tomorrow is the day we originally planned on getting married. Our thought process was that we wanted it to be exactly 9 months since the first day we met, a birth. Instead, we married on May 9th and the months that followed have been tumultuous at worst, and blissful at best. Who determines what a …