Lip, bitten and fat
love slides off in hot water, you left
an empty pack of cigarettes
thinking so little
of dreams, plans sketched
out in night ink, the engine
of carelessness idling on
the rain drenched street
there was no room for circled calendars
and I held
the door open for you.
Night’s a suit vest
stained with stars
we eat Thai under the lighthouse
wind chilling the bones
of conversation, an amputation
of true meaning, you push for sex
and I relent – the city lights
eat my heart out as the waves
white-wash noise covers the tell-tale
signs, I’ve a mind to keep you
but I always try to keep your kind
like a stick insect – so magnificent
so still, imitating a leaf.
I’m broke but
love me so hard you distort my purpose
to put it briefly pervert my imagination
and we’ll pretend
couple on earth.
I have a new bookcase. It’s chocolate coloured, tall, and begging for books. The walls of my room are freckled with mold that looks to be making a home for itself (the joys of living in an old damp apartment), so I’m frantically moving all my prized books out of its reach. As it is with these things, I couldn’t help but read some of them.
Now it’s late (or early) and I’ve had my nose in some pages by the likes of John Tranter, John Forbes, and August Kleinzahler. So now I’m messing around with words. Here are some I prepared earlier.
Coral lipped, she had her tongue split
down the middle, now she talks strange
She likes to stick it out at small children
declaring that she never saw herself as a
concentrating on the red man, he changes
green and we walk to the movies, she hates
romantic comedies and so do I, so we catch
some Nicolas Cage disaster. We’re not there
for the popcorn.
In the park in the early hours she hands me
a can of Coke, we do the whole look
at the stars and contemplate our lives shit. She feels
Athena is misunderstood – her manager – not the goddess
she tells me, though the goddess has a right to be mad too, if you ask her, which I didn’t, but to watch her is heaven and the night’s too cold for me to move.
I think the ending is a bit too weak. But I’m still mulling over what to replace it with. Maybe a detail about the other persona? I don’t know, it’s kind of her show, so… I’ll have to think on it some more.
Wild Saturday night/Sunday morning alone at the keys. I know what you’re thinking, “how does she maintain her extravagant lifestyle?”. Coffee and meds, my friends, coffee and meds.
Let’s make an innocent little gin get dirty. It’s Friday morning and we’ve got the whole day to suffer through before we can get our dranks on. So lets get masochistic and relieve our ennui – by daydreaming cocktail hour because I’m just fucking neurotic like that. So pull up a wobbly wooden stool in some pompous bar surrounded by eclectic hipster knickknacks, overpriced finger food, & that one staff member who always looks like they just hate the living shit out of humanity missed the bus in the rain. Cross your ankles and thoughtfully stroke your facial hair and let’s have one innocent little drink, one might even say that we deserve onebecause life is cruel and makes us work for a living. So suck this for an ennui remedy – The Dirty Ginger Gimlet.
Dirty Ginger Gimlet – you will need:
A highball glass packed with ice.
10-20ml Bickford’s Lime Juice Cordial (depending on how sweet you want it)
10ml Lime Juice
30ml of Dry Ginger Ale
A dash of White Wine (whatever you have on hand – in my case Sauvignon Blanc)
Optional no it’s not – stay classy motherfuckers: A slice of lime to serve.
Grab your highball, fill it with ice and let’s build some adultery.
First the Cordial.
Then the lime juice. Traditionally a Gin gimlet ingredient.
Then your gin. I use Tanqueray because I’m a gin snob it’s magnificent.
Then the dry ginger ale. Traditionally the main ingredient in a Gin Buck.
Then the White Wine (that’s what makes it all so dirty because wine tastes like shit)
Give it a stir and you’ve got yourself alcohol’s answer to a love child – a Dirty Ginger Gimlet.
Now that you’ve taken a bunch of pictures of liquids imagined yourself awkwardly drinking at home alone on a Thursday night while you blog about affairs between alcoholic beverages sipping the bastard,
you can put shit away/get back to work marvel at its makers.
and imagine yourself hypothetically maybe not having any wine stoppers, causing you to do something impractical classy like make your own out of aluminum foil an appropriate medium.
Or alternatively you could snap out of your psychosis just in time to learn a bunch of real traditional cocktail recipes (including the traditional Gin Buck and Gin Gimlet) from Monotone Josh and the amazing peeps at About.com