CIGARETTES ARE KILLING ME — PLEASE HELP ME QUIT

CIGARETTES ARE KILLING ME — PLEASE HELP ME QUIT - Nia Di Gennaro

May 12, 2023

It’s easy to forget

The feeling of rooms

I’ve mourned

The houses I’ve left

I've mourned

Sunday flowers

Arranged in sepian

In a moment of lightness

I became a sponge for it

Airy

And float

Over the embers of last nights fuckery

I’ve thought it correct to wake up sore

And wash the finery owned by old hands

Play slave

And grate

Play beaten ash

To one’s weight

Desire the boil of whip wounds

To Drug-On

Tick tombs

Slink into the corner cabinet

Lick wounds

Swallow mild feminist rubbish

Delivered weak

Asinine dribble

Emerge moronic

Wet consume

Your tales of now

Help me to wake bitter

Spit hot superiority

Bullseye

To the back of a lovers throat

And stir

For years

And burn and shake

In bled fury

It’s all very simple

We own no other

We possess nothing

But our bodies encased

But our actions, purposeful

But our spirits, fine

And all that happened

Was that he was tired

And wanted to rest beastly

The ailing joke -

He remained so

Blue moons after he woke

Slip and gorge

Gush and spit up

Spew up

Convulse

And pull up

And note

The vexed affliction inside

The nightfall that would befall

Inside of me

The wicked thoughts

That flow fucky

Licorice whipping through my blood, hasty

Dull rouge

Rough and blue

Rushing devastating waves

Running through me

Rushing through me

Ringing through me

Eating at me

Grating in me

Hating through me

Growing fawn

Within me

Growling sorrel
In me

From in me

Forgive me

Give in to me

Live within me

Be in me

Protect me

To remedy me

Because of me

Anchor roots

The whole way through me

Reach arms wide

Act as shade

Above me

To shadow me

To read me

To keep me

To feed me

Feed me

Fucking feed me

Take care of me

Flush and level through me

And glide past me

Drive past me

And melt

Like a second kiss

To the nostalgic rune of me

Hold remorse for me

Wave goodbye to me

Feel for me

Feel me

And be kind to me

Show pity on me

And suffer

With me

It's important

To suffer like me

And

Live beside me

And

Leave from inside of me

Written by Nia Di Gennaro

Comments

Going to Hell - Alex Kudera

The years raced by until I found myself standing on a street corner in China. I was in Xi’an, and I was in my wife’s old neighborhood. We lived in her tiny studio—a few narrow rooms, linoleum floors, hot pot and range, no oven or fridge. A plastic seat on the toilet so frangible, I broke it twice by sitting down. Twenty-first century living in yesterday’s mainland. An authentic experience in the world. But I was out for a stroll. This is what I loved to do—walk and look around. It was hot, but the neighborhood was out and about. A crowd stood alone or congregated on every corner. Laolao and Yeye claimed every spot on rusty metal benches shaded by trees. Many more people walked in the sun. They had umbrellas; I did not. In ten minutes, I strode around the corner and up the block. The sun’s bright rays seared my retinas. The heat beat against the pavement and splashed up against my cheeks and ears. You could fry an egg on the sidewalk. Throw it on fried ri

The Cement Mixer - Jon Doughboy

It’s 2002 and 2008 and 2012 and 2023 and the Millennials collectively, the entire generation, have rented a cement mixer the size of a global recession from Jean Twenge’s cousin who works in the building trade making a buttload of dough renovating subprime mold-farm homes and turning them into hot commodities with some fresh sheetrock and gentrification gray paint and a sheet or two of brightly-colored metal siding for “curb appeal.” On one side of the mixer is emblazoned the word “Time” in Vantablack spray paint. On the other, smeared in feces and blood, is the word “Culture.” The Millennials excitedly crowd around this two-named mixer like it’s churning out unviable yet charming third-party candidates. And this is no ordinary mixer. It’s state-of-the-art and the art consists of taking in hopes, fads, fears, archetypes, myths, and generation-defining themes and mixing them all up into something sturdy for future generations to crawl then walk then sprint then wobble then coll

The Rage of Impotence: a review of Mark SaFranko’s One False Step – Zsolt Alapi

The British author, Graham Greene, dubbed author Patricia Highsmith “the poet of apprehension” in his introduction to her Selected Stories . Highsmith is a one of Mark SaFranko’s favorite authors, and there are haunting echoes of her sensibility in his latest novel One False Step , appearing for the first time in English (previously published in French translation). SaFranko manages to create a world that is cruel and almost claustrophobic, drawing the reader into an unsettling feeling of dread as the protagonist’s life slowly devolves and spirals toward its inevitable conclusion. One False Step is the story of Clay Bowers, a philanderer, whose wandering eye lands him into trouble when, in an instance of darkly humorous irony, he falls off a roof while ogling the lady of the house, rendering him a paraplegic. As he is recovering in the hospital, he realizes that “The thought that he might not be able to do anything (sic)…that he might only be able to lie there and think for the rest o

Soyos Shorts

Search This Blog