we gawk at the raising prices. our fathers continue to earn. we smile hard enough for the truth to burn. dreams unfulfilled, a voice that couldn't rise. i stare unpleasantly at our infamous compromise. i stir what is stale. in hopes of a surprise. you let things simmer, for stability is your prize.
lungs inflate. pupils dilate. our blood begins to thin. as heads begin to spin. so slightly...ever so lightly... we start to relax. and become we used to be. before the sugar. the hops. and the nicotine.
eyebrows arch inward as your voice begins to fray. eyes dipped in denial squint and turn away. because secrets were not allowed. we judge each other for things we swore we never would. one promise at a time, our bond begins to break. this was not supposed to happen. there lies too much at steak. we grab bottles and sink into songs lyrically vacant and obnoxiously loud. our wavering troubles are to stay. our faces meant to blend within the crowd.
heads tilted into silence, we tell ourselves it's not that bad.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Saturday, March 19, 2011
mannequins and coitus
nails dig into flesh as silence seeps in. bones wrapped in muscle wrestle for the sigh of instant gratification. in the back of a barn. in inexpensive hotel suites. in janitor's closets. against the wall. on floral princess sheets. under ceiling posters of celebrities. boys become men, and make girls feel like women.
somewhere right now, grown ups are discussing the accelerated sex drive of my generation. there is discontent. there is disapproval. there is no solution. separated by an element as abstract as time, the enemy begins to drift. more lies. more confusion. more stress. more sex. more lies. the enemy continues to drift.
i giggle sometimes when i flip through the channels and encounter motifs of the 80s. i scoff condescendingly at the holistic inferiority of the times that have passed, and resume my routine. my time is more advanced. birth control is advertised at a larger scale. girls are wearing less clothes. lines are crossed, and limits pushed. there are prudes. and there are sluts. there are gentlemen. there are bastards. i am there as well.
they whine if their chairs aren't pulled out for them. if their doors aren't opened for them. and then they whine that they are not taken seriously. they demand respect. they then proceed to show why they do not merit it. cottony soft dolls stand in line for a robocop exterior.
they're in love with the grunts, the sweat, the energy. it is a prize. they want to touch it. but they don't want to get dirty. they'll admire from afar. dream. try. ploy. proceed. play. and the moment they lose the lead, the prize is flawed. and they wish to spare themselves the contamination. the peacock must strut full throttle.
they are afraid of losing us. they yell. they are afraid of the unknown. they bombard us with what they know. they choke us with their warmth. speechless and possessive. our firm skinned hands rest in their wrinkled ones. the minute hand does its job.
we are an army of mannequins cloaked in hormones. drowning in the false advertising that floods our habitat. we are plagued with vanity. we are plagued with superiority. denial. and enough problems to wound our future fetuses. and enough treasures to trick them into believing that the universe is in their favor.
somewhere right now, grown ups are discussing the accelerated sex drive of my generation. there is discontent. there is disapproval. there is no solution. separated by an element as abstract as time, the enemy begins to drift. more lies. more confusion. more stress. more sex. more lies. the enemy continues to drift.
i giggle sometimes when i flip through the channels and encounter motifs of the 80s. i scoff condescendingly at the holistic inferiority of the times that have passed, and resume my routine. my time is more advanced. birth control is advertised at a larger scale. girls are wearing less clothes. lines are crossed, and limits pushed. there are prudes. and there are sluts. there are gentlemen. there are bastards. i am there as well.
they whine if their chairs aren't pulled out for them. if their doors aren't opened for them. and then they whine that they are not taken seriously. they demand respect. they then proceed to show why they do not merit it. cottony soft dolls stand in line for a robocop exterior.
they're in love with the grunts, the sweat, the energy. it is a prize. they want to touch it. but they don't want to get dirty. they'll admire from afar. dream. try. ploy. proceed. play. and the moment they lose the lead, the prize is flawed. and they wish to spare themselves the contamination. the peacock must strut full throttle.
they are afraid of losing us. they yell. they are afraid of the unknown. they bombard us with what they know. they choke us with their warmth. speechless and possessive. our firm skinned hands rest in their wrinkled ones. the minute hand does its job.
we are an army of mannequins cloaked in hormones. drowning in the false advertising that floods our habitat. we are plagued with vanity. we are plagued with superiority. denial. and enough problems to wound our future fetuses. and enough treasures to trick them into believing that the universe is in their favor.
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