What about the nineteen minutes it takes
to cook my laundry? Time well spent, time
is droll and poorly documented as if
a slapstick comedy described by a blindman.
Parcels of irreverence; regal things like
decorated eggs and necklaces that
I find
amusing are unwelcome, they breath
with indifference and feel like cold velour.

The past few nights around one, there is a seeping
smell of sewage emanating through the walls
of my apartment and it is not consistent enough
for me to get used to, like the smell of the cats
or of diced onions, or of sweat. It is infrequence
and reminds me of the smell of oily lubrication
from a used condom. An irritant, a small
prod in the spine from a button of the couch,
constantly every three to four minutes.

A whistle or a drip in the distance, between two
locations I can not find, a rattling of vague things
meant to find me at inopportune times, unfinished
thoughts due to a distraction, a lesbian in the courtyard
for ten minutes, "Hey Liz." Trying to get the attention
of her hairy-legged lover. This, constantly.
Before napping.
After napping.

And in the nineteen minutes it
takes to cook my laundry
wordporn. delightfully uncomfortable
Quote by Arthur Curry
it's official, vintage x metal is the saving grace of this board and/or the antichrist

e-married to
& alaskan_ninja

apparently I leave for a week and our apartment just turns into festering miserableness and you set your laundry on fire. I hope our cats are still alive and you haven't turned their rotting skulls into totems to scare off the annoying lesbian neighbors.

...despite my smart-ass remarks, you've definitely put me in a specific place with this piece. uncomfortable is a good way to put it, as Saadia said above. I almost feel like it's a precursor to something really unsettling; it puts me on edge.
art tumblr

If I'm not raw, I'm just a bit underdone.