Thursday, May 21, 2009

Blog posts are bad luck.
Short cuts are bad luck.
Chinchillas are bad luck.
Swedes are bad luck.
Perfect posture is bad luck.
Antogonizing the alligator of your choice is bad luck.
Walmart parking lots are bad luck.
Inadequatorymonetishunits will notify bad luck.
Poets are baaaaaad luck.
Technically not cheating is bad luck.
Posed scandalous behaviour to comedically onset southern gossip is bad luck.
Your hip bone contacting your clavicle is bad luck.
Adam Lambert personifies bad luck.
If you asked if you want any candy by a stranger.....that is bad luck.
Subway platforms in the summer are bad luck.
Thumbs pressed between the carpals are bad luck.
Concentration camps in Prauge are bad luck.
Unfolding your mental canvas to the world is bad luck.
Gaing weight in your face is bad luck.
Editorial religion is bad luck.
Pressing a hot number is bad luck.
Quickened breathing for any reason is bad luck.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Green engagement ring

It's as if a font, the curve of your letters, creates a bias. It's as if this endless sea of smiles before me are bared teeth. It's as if your burden, your fear is my menace. It's as if my constant use of high heels will restrain my ever-present urge to run. It's as if restraint could actually restrain. It's as if playing house with you could mask what really happening. It's as if what's really happening happens alot here in the sweet tea country.
It's as if clutching a copy of cosmo will help me keep in touch. It's as if the sweet tea country will satiate my physical comfort. It's as if the Big Apple will satiate my mental creative blackhole. It's as if no matter what important choice I make, I'm slated for regret.
It's as if I'm slowly being paralyzed. It's as if the glittering mania encompassing my hands is becoming a pair of steel handcuffs.
It's as if the persian elaborate rug will fly before I do.
It's as if a starlet simultaniously imploded too early and too late.
It's as if the phoenix will rise from the ashes if I fall in love with you.
It's as if every time the stuttering pyromaniacs on coney island charge a fee to swallowing a flaming sword, the cabbages smooth their leaves.