Hank Pattison

savageleewriting:

After kissing she’d always spit my bloody teeth back in my face.

I told her how much I loved her tattoos as she took a cheese-grater to mine. 

I never read her blog, but I always mentioned her in mine.

In weird half-statements and fragments of poems.

I hoped she’d be a narcissist like me, and go out looking for herself.

Are you out there, looking in?

Can you see yourself standing between these letters in these words, 

Like a wolf in the woods?

…IIII…

Sometimes when I’m writing

I can still feel you

reading.

savageleewriting:

We pour some rumbling sounds down the drain and wait to see what comes bubbling back up. Something toxic, something nasty, something nausea-inducing, a whole industry of inducing new, radioactive ideas in through cracks in the skull made through repeated run-ins with overly-aggressive authority figures and mass-transit-communities. 

“Here we go again,” she says like it’s a joke, like anything can be funny now that the sky has turned into raw egg-whites mingled with the yolks. The atmosphere is thick and gooey and may be starting to rot. In another few years all that’ll be left will be mass-produced strains of gargantuan bacteria cultures. The only real culture still doing anything interesting. 

Conquer the world. Fall in love. Give everything away. Find it again. Get enlightened. Sell drugs. Go to jail. Break out. Find religion. Lose it again. Wind up working in that creepy-looking office building down the street, doing god knows what, it’s like your whole life just became a bad dream of you being psychically and emotionally removed from everything that means anything to you.

Taste the morning and the morning trash.

Go out running east of the mountains, where the prairies dot the immensity with their own unending plateaus.