Tag Archives: lust

Cannonading pace of His Choo Choos.

The young never look past the beginning, that’s why they’re so eager for sex, drugs, and money. The old are closer to the end, and procrastinate the truths they really want to finish with. This is the age of the cannon that inevitably fires at the next. A dust cloud of mangled lost souls, hopes and dreams in smithereens. We beg, moan, cry and groan about it, but we can all feel it coming, that’s the only thing we’ve all had in common, like rats scurrying towards the end of a flooding sewer.

Unassailable demise on train tracks into a mountain and we’re aboard with one-way tickets. …The irony of it all is longing for death when the right person wrongfully breaks our hearts. Lonesome, crushed hearts shoveled into the furnace, for a train race of a humane pace. Young and old alike; convalescent daycare taught lust before love; as always, the young never got it right because the former promised excitement before the value of their hearts’ contentments are unfurled. In hindsight, the old seldomly paid attention in class as well. Swell.

We all want a form of it, a piece and proof of it, and willing to die if it fails; what do you want, quick, we’re not getting off of these rails.

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Filed under non-fiction metaphor

observations outside the bar

She spoke with her hands mostly, and attached to those hands were these long slender fingers that danced like a conductors wand during the saddest movement of his symphony. What I felt was like a knife in my chest in the night, and involuntarily dropped the plastic bag of beer cans onto the street corner we met. One of the beers rolled steadily, uninterrupted by the cracks and tiny pebbles on the rain battered floor, into the gutter. I’ve met men who’ve given up the drink because they found God, but I was willing to give up the drink because I found her. I met her through a friend, and didn’t talk to her because I was timid, but because my body was already in the middle of a multi-task. Controlling my erratic heartbeat, the fist feebly holding the plastic bag now hold my chest as if it were to jump out at any moment, though to others, might have looked like heartburn, sweat pouring down my face as though it were a hundred so degrees, while my teeth chattered when I opened my mouth as though it were a hundred so degrees below. I only pray she paid no attention to me, and to my pessimism, she didn’t. She smiled, and disappeared into the hungry fog of the night with a Twizzler in her hand. Such a beautiful smile with a haunting impression.

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Filed under fiction metaphor, stories