Touch Prose Randomness

I am fascinated by touch.  That tantalizing tickle of your electrons and mine playing and giggling against one another.  I imagine every individual ray of sunlight warming my body as if I were a mug of tea resting between your palms.  Fabric and skin are the greatest tactile pleasures.  Satins slipping under my weathered grasp and corduroy soft and textured.  But water.  Water is everything.  Weightless, grip-less, painless, ecstasy.  

Broke in Black

goddamn the boinging

synthesized accordions of gawth

escape from the 80’s and into my fridge

turing up their noses at my leftover lasagna and mango “frou frou” soda

gourmet goddesses lounge in bed in the dark braless

no one can see stretch marks if there’s no light

to reflect the glittering, torn swaths of scar tissue

my tongue is burnt by my impatience 

lasagna vs. microwave, the loser is my halitosis 

I wish Sam would stop sending me telegrams

this budget doesn’t support anything except for textbooks

and boots

and expeditions 

tunneling through mazes of pre-worn pre-owned pre-shat-in garments

end goal: black velvet anything

the pleasure of self-mockery is reserved for old women 

lounging on purple couches

chuckling at pictures in which their eyeliner runs away from the heat

I want to age gracefully

and be one of those classy dames 

where you can tell, just from one look

she has enjoyed her life

she probably shelled out the cash and saw Peter Murphy

before the old bat finally keeled over

instead of ho-humming back and forth, until it was too late

and I was broke anyway