I love to sleep around
in foreign rooms
with foreign women
and hear the rain on the roof
and hear the banana plants scraping the gutter
and hear the pipes gurgling
and a radio clicking on in the next room.
I love to hear a woman
start to moan in a foreign tongue.
I love foreign-ness:
each room more foreign than the next,
each woman more foreign than the next,
the tiger’s growl in the courtyard under the moon.
I love when I’m in love
and hear all this
alone in the dark.
Tell Them I Don’t Exist Anymore by Pat Perry, 2012.
There is a place where
even music is no longer
Where words are before somebody utters them
where leaves are before there are leaves
and where these friends
who never leave me
come from …
I will come to you memory shining
i THINK I HAVE DECIDED TO GROW OUT MY BANGS.
Me, today, re: all things work-related
if you put your sunglasses and your peanut butter m&ms in a purse and forget about ‘em, what you’ll get back is angry texts and FASHION
That one night, you made everything alright.
Page 1 of 24