tell me the future souls of the earth
Lis Anna-Langston
Wild as the jungles they came from,
where boas flexed around their trunks —
like my other brushes with miracles,
the men who love you back, how they come
to you, gorgeous and invasive,
Wild as the jungles they came from,
where boas flexed around their trunks —
like my other brushes with miracles,
the men who love you back, how they come
to you, gorgeous and invasive,
Jimmy’s thing was his violent ability in soccer. Bismarthalou’s was in his preposterous name and the mystifying way in which he spoke of his potentially fictitious motherland.
“There’s no reason to spread melodramatic rumors about the delay of the album,” she says
She was the sudden presence that filled the delivery room like a creation spirit pressing his thumb to make a wrinkle in space.
I fall asleep on the First Date. It happens when we're cresting the chain hill of a roller coaster called Sallie Mae.
When I was ten years old something happened, an event I never understood
I've finished packing and am leaving. Ten, nine, eight, seven . . . .
There’s something so sexy about a hot girl apologizing for my behavior.
Toothpaste dripped and stained the rubber grip. The bristles were yellowed, fanned out and frayed, like a spiky cleaning tool that should go nowhere near the mouth. Some of the bristles were actually hairs.
What the Mother wanted to show us might be different from what we wanted to see.
“My grandma drinks that,” the kid ahead of me at Duane Reade snarks at my six-pack of Ensure bottles.
this one guy keeps trying to talk about the impoverished state of the arts which among other things is making me desperately want to do the drugs I brought
A diagram shows a mother with porn-star proportions holding her breast, pinching the nipple, milking herself into the cylinder. Squirt, Shake, Wait, the directions tell me.
The attic room in the student town of Ordrecht went for 365, 52 euros monthly, not including the safety-deposit, called borg in Dutch.
“Lucky boy, just too late. Because we have crisis in Holland,
In the mornings, the woman sees her husband off to work in her night dress, sometimes with curlers in her hair. After he leaves, she always lights a cigarette and stands with the glass-paned storm door cracked open. I can tell the inside of their house smells like knock-off Estée Lauder and menthol smoke.
My professor is French. You can tell by her voice, and because she just told us that she and her husband met through adultery, as if it was an app on your phone.
Sarah has just been promoted at the publishing house, and I realize she thinks she is doing her job at this party
Smile in heavy make-up, feeling like a pill is stuck in your throat.
A snag with Monday is I have to neck all three of my Subtext in one go. Each under the tongue. The man who administers, Sven, can’t be arsed to say why but he’s a pure archcretin.
Is this new relationship self-sabotage in disguise, or is it the cure?
Garielle's longest, most peculiar, most particularized book. A sure-to-be collector's item. Not be be missed!