Ballast free and anchor-less
Frenzied fingers singe the keyboard trying to mimic the passion your lips once held but fail because there is no hidden agenda anymore there are no lies to conceal beneath tongue and spit and suction and the honest truth may change the world but it will never cause orgasms.
So these reams are filled with leftover listlessness from the mornings after love was made Cupid lies motionless in front of the AC too stoned to take aim again because when he came with condolences and apologies I handed him the bong. Now he’s hooked and I’m screwed because who will love someone with an arrow still up his ass? Who will love us now?
Florence Nightingale committed suicide by dildo and the 21st century Cleopatra is too savvy to buy a battered old Sega with PS3 all set for release… I try to get cupid to quit but he’s always holding in a hit and never responds. So I load another and take aim for the utopia that only comes when you ride the smoke up past the ceiling, past the roof, past the cumulus clouds and past the moon. And finally come to rest somewhere within my head that feels lighter and more buoyant than your hair floating on water. I know I lie down but I feel airborne. Forever, or at least for now, caught inside that passing second when you drive off the cliff and even though you realize you’re going to die you can’t help but marvel at how wonderful it feels to be riding the air. To be ballast free and anchor-less. To be doomed but also to know how the lizard you shoot with your bb gun feels as it plummets towards the ground.
Or maybe, I’m just stoned.
So cupid comes and takes the berth next to mine. He says he wants some more. I close my eyes and roll a J and let him light it. But Cupid has caught on, he doesn’t want the first puff, he knows you always end up wasting the first with the way I roll em. So he lets me light it and he sits back and speaks and he says:
“I’d give up forever to touch you cuz I know that you feel me somehow. You’re the closest to heaven that I’ll ever be and I don’t want to go home right now.”
And I say.
“Shut up.”
But he doesn’t and goes on.
“And all I can taste is this moment…”
“Moron
“And all I can breathe is your life.”
“All you can breathe is THC.”
“And sooner or later it’s over.”
“Its just starting now, and there’s more to follow.”
“I just don’t want to miss you tonight.”
And I have nothing. No wise ass remark, no derogatory swipe at his addiction. Cuz he’s right. I don’t want to miss you tonight. Or any night. So I smoke and I get cupid stoned to ensure that I never have anyone else to miss either. And now we lie stoned on my bed smoking another joint singing the love song angels fly to. .
And I don’t want the world to see me. Cuz I don’t think that they’d understand, when everything’s made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am.
So I write..
And Cupid sings.
Or maybe, I'm just stoned.
Comments
that cherubic god of love is a sadistic bastard - lets go hunt him down and shoot that little shit!
i have exams and am sober and i dont sing and i dont feel like im floating. there is no bong and no weed and no circles of smoke and no feeling of all your worries melt away to be replaced by high pitched silence.
fuck you.
you must've met some curly haired indian business student-- you know, slim, lithe, dissapearing under hair types. Coz only they sing lifehouse while stoned.
tcha.
Good writing tho. But watch it, you're beginning to sound like me.
Hail all bijli cuts-- they happen for a reason.
(Arf)
Angel Vouyer: Now that commenst doesn't really merit a response does it?
S: YEah it takes a special kind of high that allows you to actually record your fucked upness of mind and body, premium garda smuggled across the khyber pass.
As for cupid he don't exist, he's my excuse, whats yours?
And btw, who are you? VEry cryptic this blogger profile without a blog bit. Kudos.
DP: Sorry very sorry. Must remember to sacrifice the highlight of my nights so that you can focus on your edication.
ODd: Certainly are odd. Lifehouse? GOOD GOO DOLLS!!! How could you not know that, that is why they say its is better to consider ones facts before commenting on a blog belonging to a person as mean ans anal as the owner of this blog. And you know who they are.
Arf indeed.
As does reference to goo goo dolls. Arf!
[mean and anal, you meant? Ok, that was low. Would you like me to sharpen that fork for you?]
I can see predominantly pieces shifting between a monologue and dialogue structure. One type more composed, the other more of a surreal bable as this one was.
This type particularly holds a dilemma.
I don't understand how can you/why do you always remember to explcitly TELL your readers that you are stoned, when you are stoned :D ?
And yeah you can write in interior monologue, or as somene said, in stream of conciousness technique even if you are not stoned.
And its hard to see someone as Stoned as you appear to write with such precise punctuation :D
And ofcourse no matter how coherent a writer you be this way, you shall try different structures and themes.
P.S
You dont have to tell that you are stoned dear, it ruined this piece for me.
And this isn't the only time you did that. Pretension doesn't bite, when ofcourse there is plethora people to fall over what you wite.
But then again, avoiding it wont hurt too.
Btw, I believe cupid was already stoned when it came to you. Ofcourse it's your cupid...=)
the link to my blog is on the left side of my profile, in the contact section.
"... Cuz I dont think that theyd understand, when everythings made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am"
Extiinct: Good luck with the parcha, one songs won't make no difference to the result you're meant to have.
S: YEah well, men only see tits and ass and lips and maybe an exposed belly button, the rest if all inconsequential. :P
BUt glad to know that yur the S who's blog i have been on occasion known to silently be insipred by. I think i maye even have commented once. shall do so regularly now, have added you to the list.
Expressome: Well i suppose you've hung around with really intellectual stoners. NOt to mention seasoned.... never before this one tims have been able to place the right finger on the right key.
And do you know when you pretend or has it become a habit consistent with you like a cheap actor's diatribe?
Now that, dear, is really an easy question.
Make you feel better perhaps?
Less sore?
Try on a lighter shade of green, dear.
Then when I try to sound simple you think i am sore.
Now that is wishfull thinking. Why in the world will you think YOU CAN make me sore :D
And you didn't tell me whether you know when you pretend or don't.
P.S
This is only writing,not you.
These are only comments, not me.
And we don't have any desputed glory in between.
cheer up.