loose/lacquered

to dear peep. there is this place i've made for you; it's a treehouse, this big treehouse in missouri, and i want you to go there in a dream sometime. i've put these streamers on the banisters, i've put this pot on the stove, its a lacquered bowl, do you love that? the lacquered bowl? it was only a dollar, but i hope you won't sell it for a profit because lacquered bowls are hard to come by. somebody's keen for a lacquered bowl, someone somewhere. but anyway, it's your treehouse, and it's your bowl.

i've just noticed that you just like me to keep you company while you run your errands. play your games, wash your briefs, your bowls. it's true that i can't be pleased. and i can't be helped. but i can't be quiet either. you're a naughty man in many ways, and i'm only glad i've seen it now.

and to make matters worse i just lied to the happy hippies on the bridge. i did a fist in the air and hoorayed about a big lie i told. i don't know myself. peep calls me loose. and certainly it is not the kind one might think. he calls me loose insofar as to say he calls me flimsy; indulgent; irresponsible. and i suppose i am. and firstly he probably doesn't understand, but secondly i really don't need him to.

peeping paradox

the thing is, when you sneak into a boy's bed (i should say a man's bed), when it is dark and there is no toilet paper but he's got chocolate, even when you have a key and a drawer and a toothbrush and personal cereal, you start to feel like an intruder; a crim; a burgler (spelling alert). and then when the boy/man comes home, and you're in bed and he comes over with all this whiskey on his breath, but he smells like a druglord at the neck and he grabs you like he might break you (because he's randy and drunk), you start to feel like a whore.

i don't really ever write like this; in this semi- this-equals-this manner; in this second-person voice. but i think it's because i'm writing about a stranger. i'm writing about you, who is me, but who is you.

it strikes me that i am potentially frightened of peeping tom; not of his temper but of his frost. even though we made love this morning, i feel foreign to him. he calls 'love-making' 'fucking' and i usually like it; usually.

i've been collecting dead creatures and bagging them. they're specimens, but sometime i'm going to make them larger than they should be. there's yellow moth, hairy moth, and queen ant. there's also giant body-less butterfly, and hard beetle.

peeping tom is a hard beetle. he's like a boiled egg and this pathetic wriggling sperm too. he's the ultimate paradox. we are all the paradox. the boiled egg and the pathetic sperm.

noble sperm and egg

this is where it's at. i'm not wearing a bra. i want to put poo in a cake. to be more specific i want to put dry dog poo in a cupcake (pink). i had dinner with my stepmother. we talked about menopause.

to say it plainly, i think i am insatiable. also, i am incapable.

also. i have this terrible fear.
also. i want to take a vacation in tom's underarm.
also. i want to ignore tom.
also. i want to starve.

to say it plainly. i'm a mess. but to say it plainly also, it already knew it.
where is tom?
the fucker.
i nearly fainted the other day. tom had just crunched my neck.
i actually have a friend called tom. he's a pet or angel. either way, i think he'd be alarmed to know that i use his name as a psuedonym for my lover.

i am just a sperm and an egg. it pays to remember it. i'm just a sperm and egg. noble sperm, noble egg. doing their job. loving eachother. noble sperm and egg.