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Streaming Orgasm

Pursuing nothing The worst thing is waking up next to you With my hair full of cum. Actively pursuing the said nothing, In addition to a staggering hangover. Being lucid about it yet blaming all on infatuation. Your bitter face half awake next to mine. Repeating that this was a mistake. Accepting the intoxication. Drunk me sporadically finds a way to drag you back between my thighs. And drunk you Newly single you Says yes. You cannot see how much I blush under the sheets. Waiting for planets to align is the only choice. The worst thing is waking up to you In my bed again. Horny you asks if I missed your cock The minimal pleasure of the friction of our genitals is less than appealing. Sober bitter you leaves not much inspiraiton. Dismay. Attachment is a double sided knife. The keen bitter aftertaste I hate how much I have given up on you I hate how little all of this matters this morning. And that si why I always end up single. Don’t we all?   Image by Kate Wilson
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Soul Sous-Vide

Have you ever cried your eyes out until you were dizzy? I found some white substance on the front of my skirt. I do not remember being jizzed on. Plausible, though. You once showed me a minimum Of highly intoxicated affection You used my body up My back hurts Potentially that is what adult life is meant to feel like I have a never dying urge to dance in the same shitstorm. Venomous relish I am trying to find through sex with more or less random men Redundant devoid endeavours Devouring my being I would inject you intraveinoulsy With a high dose of irrationality I will force a finger down my throat Forcing myself to puke out All the appetite I have for you The only sight of you makes me want to crash into a wall The only thought of the faces you make When I go down on you Makes me wet. How many fucking times can I tare my heart apart For a person only willing to suck my soul dry?
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Maybe I will fall in love tomorrow.

You hurt. You make me feel sexy. Even when our sweat has spread my lipstick all over my face, your face, chest and sheets The sole sight of you makes me want to crash into a wall. I will always have time to waste on you. It started when I was hungover And it lingered on. The clothes are back on, I suddenly feel surprised when the void settles in my soul. Well, ‘soul’. Fascination for the poison. I seek comfort in the emptiness of your words Lager induced flirt. I am not willing to be swept away by that shitstorm (again) Lucidity, lucid stupidity. Refueling myself on coffee and bad decisions. I keep filling pages with words, in vain. The comedown from my endless performances (involving your cock) has intoxicated me with inevitable loneliness.
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Routine

It is always the same: Memorising new cocktails. Attempted amorous relationships. Failure of said relationships. Forgetting cocktail specs.   I envy my friends who have settled down happily at age twenty. Found a steady boyfriend and since had a pretty boring life to my debauched standards. What am I even complaining about? My routine is out of this world crazy compared to all of the 9 to 5 office kids. For one thing, I do not hate myself, and I consciously make greatly bad decisions. Fuck. Yeah.  
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All the Best

My truth offended you I am a slut with a big heart I am also crying on my bedroom floor But feelings don’t matter as long as you get what you want Bring weak would be having my face between your legs Already The recurring deception Of the failure I call my love life You are so predictable You are so sadly simple You like the chase but you get Out of breath quickly You like to use me I disguise my porcelain soul With a thick layer of makeup And self-confidence Deadly weapon The moments spent together Meant nothing Am I so empty after all? Is my presence so tedious? My red wine is broken I am still too lucid I already feel hungover on you You are my cheap booze My Tesco Value anti-freeze
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Honeymoon

I don’t care about simplicity I don’t care about tomorrow I want a taste of your mind for a moment longer I would smoke cigarettes until I am sick If it means you get to stay longer I want midnight embraces without rush. I want your sheer presence for a moment. So I am here, casually binge-watching [Bojack Horseman]. I want beardburns and moonshine, in either order. But mostly I yearn for Your use of the expression ‘fooling around’. And your face Comfortably finding it’s place between my thighs. You know, fooling around. I don’t write songs Because I don’t feel like being a cheesy person. I will write you other things. Cheesy. I want you in your most raw form. For a while, Not forever, Not for the night, For a while. And let’s face it, if it is not forever, It will never be enough.
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Neglonely

The abstract pain I am in Is very fluid. My eyes flood. I urge to latch onto someone. Quite selfish, Stay with me whilst I hurt The tempest sweeps my rational mind in waves, I have no dreams to recall. Last night, I don’t think I slept at all. I don’t want affection. I scream for adrenaline. A shot of adrenaline. Instead, I have a bitter taste at the back of my throat and heart palpitations. You. The taste of you. The essence. The whiff of what we had. Maybe I am a simplistic sexual being. Chemical reactions in my brain Make me spiral downwards. Very uncool. A rational side of me strives to be single and give less of a fuck about giving literal fucks. But then I get horny.
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Current Work in Progress

HIM Do you have sugar? HER Yeah. In the cupboard. On your left. My general life consists of getting drunk on weekends and HIM Do you have sugar cubes? HER Does it matter? HIM I like to quantify my sugar intake.
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Begonias & Pastel Fences.

  18.04.2017 I want, I want everything. I understand Antigone, finally. Where is it? Where is that ‘magical’, hypothetical ‘it’ that makes the world go round. That ‘it’ that makes investors on Wall Street hang themselves. That frees their wives in the suburbs. Gives them a chance to leave those lilac tinted lives behind and sell their houses. Send off kids to public schools, let them learn from the plebs. Let them fail at their brilliant future because of weed that becomes coke that becomes meth that becomes and overdose. Get rid of your weaklings. Get a loft, get a younger lover. Try anal for once and fucking write about it. Publish a memoir, with actual, raw, interesting shit. Because you then would have opinions that might matter to modern society. Nothing concerning begonias and the shade of your pastel fence. Photo Credit – Merryl B. Lavoie
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