View Full Version : From the Ladies' Room

09-07-2012, 10:00 PM
Some things people write on the girls' bathroom walls @ THE KERRY, NEW ORLEANS:

Like a strange bird
I will go flying
amidst uncertain skies
I will clothe
myself in love
and leave my
colors trailing

God put me on earth to accomplish a certain number of things.
Right now I'm so far behind I'll never die!

Keep your fuckin memories to yourself!

Movin to Minneapolis where I won't be mugged.

Skin Lover,
Write me letters about the RIB CAGE, SKIN COVERS
the place where the breath goes.

To: Mike
I love you and will not make what is alive feel dead.
I love you, Angie

Find it! There is paradise on this coast --Mulletman.

09-07-2012, 10:02 PM
And, some automatic writing as it's called:

Her lilywhite derriere winks from beneath pliant percale sheets
in the exact instant the amber caffeine surge hits
the orangepeeled sun gropes the muddied hills while she smears on the tar of
today - bitter dregs in the bottom of a vain cup cry out small and ugly -
Accordian cigarette butts stand at rapt attention in acidic ashes of
yesterday's wonderdream - chaotic cornflakes soggy with whimsical notions
of a clean cold white milk that never was - timid foot stepping out of a
brutal doorway, speckled eyes on the daydream sweet cream of the bursting
morning - white mind screaming like a halo - stairs creaking with each
quickaching step of determination - a cat on the cold marble sill of unbelief
knows there's no stopping her now - it's much too late for the hand of
time to crack this good egg - for she lives and walks and dreams in the
golden yolk of right now while ironing steam fills the room with clean
medicinal starch of seersucker solidity - it can be detected from savage
miles and glowing smiles by only those who know the difference between inside
out and right side in - she saw the gargoyle on the roof give her the thumbs
up and she's gone now far away to where the cow jumps over the moon and
clocks are diffused bombs of angst that lasted yet a season - sheep don't
walk on white picket fences and she's not looking for neanderthal princes in
suits that beep and ring like a call for the cliffjump of the lemmings that
follow curdleherds of choking despair straight out of the
gutter it snarls - until she stomps on it with a gratuitous grin and grimy
hands with pearly callouses that record a small bit of the physical history
of the scrawling work of inherent movement - she sits in the stands with
insomnia and cheers for the hometeam - go go go! the sticky pink on her
fingers disappears into a petalmouth of sweet lanes - oh girl, please open
your steelgray umbrella before it rains - fizzy cola and hiccups, there's
a hole in her strawslurps - the yellowhungry moon melted like fondue last
night, did you see?
ŠE. Bly