When the winter frost comes, Racing down the plains from far away, Rolling like a million buffalo, You should probably run. When the summer sun shines, So sharply and hot from high above, Stinging and sucking like mosquitos, You could probably hide. But when I first met you, Suddenly and unsure and smiling, Like a puppy needing sustenance, You pulled me in your home. And when I have to leave, Heartsick and unsure where I belong, Like a lost whale in the ocean deep, You can’t let me go alone...
[A midnight-driven writing. Because darkness leaves one alone with one's thoughts.] I don’t know how to survive. Because you know it is time you must leave the comfort of your mother’s embrace, the extent of your father’s house. Your childhood friends are now only close acquaintances, and your siblings have their own lives. You know the practice of dancing with someone. You’ve done it before; you’ve played the game. You’ve felt the joy of being with someone. You’ve felt the horrible pain of losing them. You’ve...
There’s this curse I find myself under. Its horror resides wholly in the fact that my knowledge of it resides in hindsight. The alarm of forgetting your magnificence, your dedication to something, your mental law that stated you shall improve yourself by doing x and y every day, your mantra you knew beyond a doubt would save you from making mistake z again, your decision to not become prey to peer pressure. You get this feeling mostly because you’ve already forgot. It has happened once before. And now you know...
[This is a series for the book Vintage Gay. It is real experiences by a real person. The names have been changed. Please be respectful w/ comments] I’m sitting here trying to think of an intensely happy gay moment. For some reason, when I think of happy right now, my brain is grabbing at old files of me connecting with another. One very blissful memory stands above the rest. Most of the others include romantic relationships, but I’m purposefully avoiding those today. What’s interesting to note is that there aren’t...
NSFW [This is the beginning of a series for the book Vintage Gay. It is real experiences by a real person. The names have been changed. Please be respectful w/ comments] I’ve seen photos like it before. And yet, something made me type ‘Vintage Gay Porn’ into Google. My heart beat a little faster, afraid for my computer. Why does the temptation of handsome, beautiful men always have a threat of viruses? Thank the gods I have a Mac. Squeaky clean immunity! What I found was shocking. It is 2011. Almost 2012. The...
I keep peeking at the plant. Whereas before I wasn’t sure if it was growing, there is no guesswork anymore. In fact, my eyes now keep flickering uneasily towards it, away, and back again. Has it grown anymore? Gotten darker? Have the leaves shifted? Has it moved? The fan-like shape had expanded in the few weeks since I had it, and I now expressly notice it wilt during the night, perking up again when I walk out of my room in the morning. Each arm of the Aloe plant seems to express its own personality on the hierarchy...
[Still trying to break the writing block. Mental thought process by Tau, a guy. Enjoy, and don't forget to buckle up.] We planned to do it forever. At the time everything felt like it was so in place, so permanent. I mean, yes there was movement when we were together, but for the most part it felt still. Stiller than a morning lake with no inlet rivers, stiller than a hungry spider whose entire location is filled out with waiting web. I loved the stillness: A moment frozen in time, a lifetime layered in golden...
I have a merman in my bath, it’s all my fault I brought him home. When I carried him up the path, the only spies a squirrel and gnome. He begs to join me in events, like to the store for milk and flour. When I say no, he gets all tense, ignores me and turns on the shower. --Neil Alexander
I must admit, that when I force myself to sit down and write, especially in the mornings, I get all excited and feel great about myself. But then, I sit down to do it, and nothing is begging to come out. I want to write great, amazing novels, but to start on that note often produces clichés or dried out subject matter. So here I am, a willing subject waiting to be ‘mused,’ and if that is the case, I have a horrible knob of intuition that I might sit here forever waiting. So I write this crap. Is it useful? No. Is...
attempts to file words with a bent of purpose, in order to reach for pluto and keep some change in the process.
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