Tuesday, March 5, 2013

Upon perusing Dennis Cooper's blog The Weaklings

I found this and thought it was charming-- in a high school, sticky sweet kind of way.  

[1] You weigh 135 pounds and have collarbones like an aristocratic 17th century Augustan painting, in the shadows they are chiaroscuro and I want to put my tongue between the dip in your clavicle
[2] Your father asked you what you wanted for dinner at the beach and then turned to me and said I know you haven’t eaten. I didn’t know what to say. Yes, you noticed.
[3] A Shiksa in the temple, I cried, profusely, when they talked about forgiveness and thought about my father and when I would forgive him; if; when, if I could, I could find him; what I would do if I found him; the deluge of tears made your family wonder if I was ‘okay’.
[4] I like napping in your bed as the music plays and the trees through your window in the summer look like a painting, I thought, when I was really high from that shit you bought on vacation. Everything was mauve and folk and you were my face.
[5] When those people had a keg outside on the fourth of July; when we went sledding down the hill in that park we could never find again; when we broke up and I parked outside your house waiting for you to come outside to kiss me
[6] You said you could smell my perfume a mile away and you knew I was coming but I guess upon reflection that meant I was wearing too much perfume
[7] Your chest on my chest was the most exhilarating sensation I had had up to that point in my entire puny life.
[8] You did, and how you did, and how that skirt would recur again and again
[9] For hours we talked on the purple phone in my room cause cell phones were too expensive and I took a picture of me talking to you on the phone that night, how nice my teeth looked and how bright my eyes-
[10] The headlights in the driveway are the last thing, always the last thing, even after it all.

-Paige Gresty

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