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Showing posts from November, 2010

I blame my taste; where are you bad-boy accountants hiding at?

People always go and blame an entire gender for being defective when they have poor experiences with an individual.


If you keep dating assholes, I'm sorry, but you're attracted to assholes.

If you keep dating bitches who cheat on you constantly, I'm sorry, but you're attracted to no good bitches.


That being said, I really wish I didn't have a fondness for the musically and artistically inclined men. I really wish I didn't. It's an emotional hazard and you have to assume that they are constantly fucking bitches other than you. But that's my downfall then; I can't assume that every man is constantly fucking bitches when they aren't marveling at the size of their cock.

I wish everyday that I might wake up and find myself irresistibly attracted to bland and mild-mannered accountants, or a quiet and predictable engineer, or a nice and simple mechanic. Not to say that all accountants or engineers or mechanics are boring; but I'm only seeking to be int…

Delicate Men.

I don't know how to explain this, exactly, but I cannot help but cherish delicate men.

Now, a delicate man would probably conjure up images of modern dandyism, skinny, scared and sniveling androgyny.

But that's not at all what I'm talking about. Delicacy in a man is an intrinsic quality. A man could be 6 feet tall and chucking wood in over-alls, and he could still be a delicate man. Understandably, this quality must be protected with an outward appearance of a grizzly and burlycharacter.
I hesitate to describe how I perceive this because my perception of this, oddly enough, is beyond verbal confines. I cannot elaborate on what Delicacy in a man is because it's a feeling. It's an instinctual recognition. I know, within several minutes, whether or not a man is delicate.

I suppose, it's a certain quality of the soul. It's very easy to have this quality corrupted, if it is exposed, without mercy, to the unrefined and cruel nature of the world. The death of del…

Rrrromantic

I could call myself tenacious and delusional,

But that doesn't accurately describe me at all.


Tenacious and delusional individuals have a tendency to make their tenacious delusions known explicitly. Reservation is a foreign word in their vocabulary.

These are what I call, with affection and suspicion, The Crazies, who are most likely a majority of my audience. And I wouldn't have it any other way because they always engage with the text in unexpected ways. Granted, those ways can border obsession, but I like to think of it as a compliment. A very strange and misplaced compliment.

But while these words are for everybody to enjoy, I certainly am not. Most of the things I've written have been about you, in one way or another, but I have no control over the way they are interpreted. I still have faith that you do read this from time to time, and you understand that even though I don't write your name, it couldn't be about anybody else.

That's why I'd rather call mys…

Confession to a Man who indirectly taught me to Love Downers.

I've decided to try to explain, as well as I can, exactly what has been going on with me, in regards to you, over the past year. It has been a difficult year for me.


From my evasive behavior, you've probably assumed that I was playing some odd and perverse kind of game with your queries and responses, that usually regarded how I would be spending my evenings. It seems that I would always give you a roundabout answer, a no that was never quite so harsh as your poor timing. An excuse, but never anything to discourage you. I didn't want to discourage you; but I lacked courage to come to you. I was in love and this did not suit me at all. It did not suit me then and it does not suit me now.


It was not at all my intention to play anything at all. You have to understand how very badly I wanted to come out and see you, and start all over again or at least from where we left off, because as I recall, we did not leave off badly at all. Had I known that rain-soaked morning would be m…

For Stacy

Beautiful girl,

I am with you tonight,

despite the distance.


We stay up late

smoking cigarettes;

I can see you on

your fire escape.


Your hair catches

the last flickering

lights of the city,


eyes traveling

the length of

the skyline.


We exhale;

the smoke

disappearing

into the cold air

we breathe.

Frustrating Truths.

I say this all the time,

but man I really wish that the creeps that go through my pictures were creeps I ACTUALLY want to jerk off to me... not fat strangers. Not fat ugly weird strangers.

I mean just ONCE. It would be enough to have ONE guy who was not fat and creepy and stupid splooge all over the screen.


The thought counts but it would count more if I actually wanted to fuck you.


Well, thats what I get for putting myself out there on the internet I guess.

You can ask google, but you won't find it.

If you're going to try and find naked pictures of me,


You're gonna have to deal with the shit that's already up there, like everyone else.


If you haven't slept with me, or been in one of the few art classes I modeled for, you ain't gonna get a full frontal view of the muff.


Sorry...CREEP.

College was a bad idea.

If I didn't go to college, I wouldn't have met the Men.

The men wouldn't have existed, neither would this blog, and neither would my tits on the internet.

I know, I'll never get a good job but at least I'll have enough nerd-cum to make a life sized semen statue to serve as a tribute to my shitty mac pictures.


You know, if I didn't go to college I probably would have fallen in the Good Love; you know, I wouldn't have an intellectual ego to justify any semblance of standards and since I've got daddy issues ( like every girl everywhere) I would have just gotten into a serious relationship with some farm boy/car mechanic/guy who lives off his parents. The first guy who said "I love you" basically.

And then I woulda gotten preggers.

Then my life would have been set up and my only goals would be to save up enough money to go on a carnival cruise, instead of stroking my pussy to thoughts of becoming a legend. And then my husband would call me from jail, a…

Fuckin Christ Duggars, rub it in.

So after ruining my family's thanksgiving,

I'm ending my night ( I'll be up till 7 doing this)

watching the Duggars. Thank you marathons, on behalf of all the thanksgiving fuck-ups.


Because I am the worst kind of emotional masochist.


Can you do no wrong, Duggars?!

Can you PLEASE have a closet case or a junkie or a prostitute or SOMETHING?!


I mean it's incredible. Here I am, pissy sober alone and a general mess ( still skinny though...boost) and utter DERELICT on the couch, spoiled to every bit, and there are the damn Duggars beings so fucking pure...so goddamn fucking innocent and righteous and sweet and simple...

I didn't want to do this before, but I'm going to mentor one of your children. I'm going to pose as a missionary and mark my words, I WILL turn one of your angelic boys or girls into the most famous drag queen prostitute coke head in Vegas. Or an abortionist.


You didn't do anything to me Duggars, and I could easily change the channel but the thought o…

Guarded

The terror that enveloped me kept me far from you, despite my best interests.


What would you have done if I had told you the truth?

If I finally relented to those three words that follow disaster?


You would have laughed. You would have thought it was... "cute".

You would have destroyed me completely.


Because the nature of love has never been anything more than sorrow;

Its joy is a sickly sweet illusion, there only to induce its inevitable addiction.

The Writer.

I would laugh at myself,

But I'm not a very good joke.


I welcome you to

sneer at the melodrama.

I would join you,

if I wasn't playing the lead.


I am no different than you.

No better than worse.

I am a girl and you are a stranger.


I exist in the world,

But I am only real

when I become my words.


I am lonely.

The black cat comes to me.

He knows me well.


He seeks to find my hands

that sigh upon his back.


He keeps me company when I find

my own becomes insufferable.

Open Eyes.

You never wanted to see me.

You wanted to make sure I didn't forget.

You had to make sure you still had me, in case you needed me.


But you never did. You never wanted anything but the possibility of fucking me.


I forced myself to choke on the vomit of my imagination.

For hours on end, blending into days that melted into weeks that spun out into months of hopeful agony. Every word from you was golden for me, though I lay in my bed terrified.


You are not a monster. I cannot call myself a victim.

I let all my life fall away. I infected myself with you, invested with doubt and longing.


My reflection inspires me with loathing beyond the pain I nourished with memories.


I want to be a victim; but I am not.


I am a spoiled lonely and disgusting child. This is the truth I am left with, after stripping every narcissistic defense to it's weak skeleton, I am forced to face this deceptive face.

To be a Bitch.

I should have been raised a controlling bitch.


I have to say, I resent my parents tremendously for bring me up right. Had they been absent or wily, at this point in my life, I would have extorted countless men and probably more than a few women.

Mom and Dad. What the hell. Why didn't you sell me out to the media or put me in pageants? Why didn't you force me to force myself on others, wealthy others, in order to take advantage of their suffocating manners?

Because I'm pretty enough and I'm not using it to my proper advantage. I've been hardwired to think and it's a pity, because pretty girls shouldn't have to do anything.

Men don't want a Nice Girl, just like nice girls don't want a Good man.


Christ, I should have tried to sabotage and stalk you, blackmail you and cause a frightful scene.

Because you never appreciated my reservation; I hope you find yourself in the clutches of a beautiful psychopath.

And then, maybe one day in your padded cell, you'll …

I love Thanksgiving but I don't condone Indian killing.

I just read on D listed, my number 1 site for intellectual progress, that Angelina Jolie hates the shit out of thanksgiving because she's so abhorrently disgusted with American's and their commemoration of dead Indians. The turkey, I suppose, might as well be a roasted Cherokee to Mrs. Jolie.


Look. I am really tired of Americans who hate America. Nobody's perfect okay? And while you might think it makes you look progressive and enlightened to think of your fellow countrymen as backwater hicks who can't tell the difference between piss and shit, it just makes you look like a pretentious and hateful misfit.

America has issues. So does every fucking country in every fucking continent on this green earth. Instead of concentrating on how god-awful it is to live in such a wonderful place, take your billions of dollars and help improve it.


So fuck you Angie and the rest of you super liberal pansies who think Thanksgiving is nothing more but a murderous memorial. I think it's…

False prophets

False prophets be still.

In tailored clothes of

bohemian sheep, the

wolves have opened

their glistening jowls

to maul what's left of Art.


The blood beckons photographs;

Glamor acquits the murderers.

A trick to dazzle the vapid masses,

ignoring the carcass rotting

in a Boutique's display.

Ambien Catharsis and Dance Floor Evacuations.

I don't exactly know what happened to me since 1 am and now, but the combination of Cascada and ambien has somehow gotten me over your dick. If I had known it would be this simple to rid myself of your mind-rape, I would have probably been getting laid in a serious way since May.

And if I had been getting regularly fucked, then I probably wouldn't be as stressed and I would have graduated valedictorian. And everything would be peach sweet.


As a wise man once said to me in a dream: the bitch is back.


The lesson, folks, is that the right combination of hypnotics and techno can fix you up right, if you've been cock-locked or pussy-whipped without your consent.


Suck my Tits, Oprah and Company.

I just figured out the ultimate solution to most things.

Jay Gatsby, Come Find me.

It has dawned on me, probably due to the fact that I'm watching the old film right now, that what I'm looking for, in a lazy, spoiled roundabout way, is a Mr. Jay Gatsby.

Or more precisely, Robert Redford in a white suit. But I'll settle for a look-a-like with a nice pair of shoes.

It's an awful movie. Truly, an embarrassingly tepid rendition of Fitzgerald, but I'd throw a suitcase full of Oscars at anything that engages me as much as Mr. Redford in his beautiful shirts.

(I mean goddamn... they just don't MAKE em like that anymore. They just don't and it's a damn shame because they very well SHOULD.)

I'm not a thing like Daisy, Old Sport. Not a thing like her at all. Only because I give blowjobs and Daisy wouldn't. And even if she did, she wouldn't be very good at it, because it's hard work and dedication and an awful lot of spit that really makes you a good woman. And Daisy just doesn't get that.


But you know, if Audrey met Cher, the two…

A Great Escape to Monaco

Sad songs forgotten,

alive inside nimble fingers

that tremble in tuxedos,

off the golden coast of Monaco.


A breeze to sing us to sleep,

when the musicians have left,

walking past the waking dawn.


Tea cups keeping crumbs company

After breakfast has been served.

On the terrace, a little after noon.


Let us waste the day

watching the sun

set over the sea;

the moon may

then indulge

her vanity

i'd rather give myself carpal tunnel.

ahhh you're an asshole.


I know, because that's what I like. My type is the asshole. I don't play with them unless you ask nicely, though.


So you know, I can't blame you for being a good-looking douche... and I can't help it if I like that.


But I'd rather give myself carpal tunnel than go through loving you again.


Well, at least I have enough poetry to market to lovesick stupid teenagers to make a small fortune and find my Down Low thug and live happily ever after, talking about cute boys and pushing kilos.

Two Bad.

Let me be immature for a minute.


Logically, I know nobody's at fault here.

And no, I'm not going to talk shit. I have no shit to talk about; we never got to know each other too well huh fellas?


But I still hope that both your dicks

fall off and into a dead hooker's mouth,

which proceeds to animate that hooker and she feeds

on your brains then plays hacky sack

with your sad old man bags.



I'm so sick of being mature when all I want to see is a zombie emasculating you.

The Hermit

You are the Victor; I am vanquished.


Love is the tenacious name of

a hobbled hermit that beats

me within an inch of my life,

swinging an elegant staff.


Only the finest ivory

could juxtapose the

crimson of an ego death.

Breaking up the sad.

Do you know why I put up pictures of black guys getting their dicks sucked?


Because I want to make you smile. That's right, always smiling, even if I write the kind of things that Manfred thinks. ( if you don't know who Manfred is... he's the precursor to Morrissey. If you don't know who Morrissey is, that's fine, I don't really know myself, but apparently he too gets sad like Manfred and like me. But Morrissey didn't fuck his sister, and neither did I, so we have more in common with each other than we do with Manfred.)

I'm fine anyway, it's just the words. They tend to have a mind of their own.

My Silver Lining

Wait for me, my gentle Prince.

La Timide.

I should have done things differently. I should have imposed myself as a tyranny of femininity; instead I let you be free. Perhaps what you have mistaken my distance as indifference. But I did not want to bother you. I am so fond of you; I thought silence would do you a welcome service from all the pretty little birds that squawk your name without meaning it.

I should have been a cunt. I should have screamed and nagged and told you this wouldn't do.


But I was considerate. I was good; I kept quiet and I waited.

Just another notch in your belt I watched you take off.


I wanted you to understand what I hide with my smile.


But you don't. You won't and you never gave a fuck, so long as I was there when you called.

to summarize.

my god what a waste.

As a cumrag, my only regret is having the cognitive abilities of a human being.

I'd burn every fucking thing I've ever written in your honor,
but the internet isn't flamable and deleting posts isn't dramatic enough.


Tits.

Why'd you have to look so fucking good?

The loveliest life.

Daydreaming of
the loveliest life;
eyes sighing before
the kitchen window


Light winds dance
on the fading colors
of the neighbor's garden

In still houses
voices carry on
making conversation

It's getting dark,
but I keep looking out
past the reflection.

Distractions.

It's a little game I play. I try to hold on to a distraction for as long as possible, so that I can avoid waking up to static.
Someone said I write about Love an awful lot.

Well, love is something I use to ignore myself. But the burden of the poetic aesthetic never ceases to demand my undivided attention. Love is the only thing that keeps me from seeing the world as a sick dog chasing its tail until it collapses and rots in the sun.

On trial, Love is found guilty by Misery.
But without a criminal to condemn, Misery imprisons me.

the plights of modern medicine

How exactly do you treat soul sickness?

What would a doctor prescribe me if I told him I felt soul sick?

He would tell me God is dead. He would tell me the soul is something spawned from a microscopic handful of cells in the back of your head.

The delicate shift of a shivering spirit, coloring every light a strange and distant grey.

He would call out the names of diseases, false prophets assuring treatments. A signature and a bottle.

Then my soul would no longer be sick. It would simply be dead.

S.A.D.

Some people say they aren't affected by the weather. Those are the types of people that have the personality and charm of either a phlegmatic or astoundingly abrasive cardboard box. Dogmatic and boring folks, neither kind nor intriguing, but fortunate enough to be oblivious to the warmth of the sun.

Most people are affected by the weather. Even if they don't realize it. People in Nordic places, for example, are strange. I would also be strange if I lived in unbearable darkness for months. Though, I have to say those people have lovely warm-looking sweaters and their deeply ingrained sense of melancholy would suit my own marvelously. But I would die within a month of living in the North. I would tell Sven that I'm going to market one day, and then I'd ride a polar bear to my watery grave.

I am one of those people that is unwillingly but undeniably influenced by not only the weather, but the light. These days, when the light fades too fast, I dread the feeling. I pretend…

Um kinda weird, but thanks?

So somehow somebody has me up on model mayhem?


it's a website for "models" and "photographers"

Somebody made me a profile, and used my facebook pictures?


Really weird. I mean a complete profile about me that isn't even true.

I know it's not true because it says i won't do nudity. And that I've done catalogue modeling?


What?


So I guess um... thanks?

I mean what's nice is that they're linked to my blog, which is great.


I guess some people just want to help out... in a weird but endearing way.

Autumn in the City

Black patent

leather stilettos,

reflecting the city

setting in the sun.


Clicking, mimicking

a metronome on the

sidewalk, beckoning

discreet looks from

salivating strangers.


I was lost among

the portraits of dead men,

brought to life by beauty;

devoured by my eyes.


Then I thought of you.

I thought of telling you

that I was here, not far from

where you usually are.


I thought that perhaps,

your own beautiful eyes

could have devoured mine.


I had vested myself in

clothes that painted me

a living masterpiece


Every other pair of eyes

were invisible to my own;

They were not yours.


I started to remember

The last time I had asked

if you happened to be around.


Your reply had cast

the shadows of quiet

disappointment upon

my faraway gaze.


I knew you wouldn't

have bothered to answer today.


I did not want to see the

face of melancholy reflecting

back at me in bathroom mirrors.


So I left without a word,

I walked away from chance;

Another lost dream of

tenacious romance.


Despite your absence,

I could not convince my heart

to set fire to it…

say something

Just say something


Anything.


Tell me that I'm nothing;

never was at all


Tell me that you're mine;

you've always wanted me


Tell me if I've been forgotten;

forsaken for lesser company


Just say something. Anything.


I can't wander these paths

of silence anymore

church.

I think the only solution

to this Feeling, creeping up again,

is to go to church and find salvation.


Perhaps tea with Christ would help me see past myself.

Or perhaps the convent life, with its quiet suppressed lesbianism, would suit me far better than watching Nate Manning bust hot loads all over teenage whores.


I've never STOPPED being a Christian you know, I know you all probably assume I'm atheist or something, but no. Not at all. Not even a LITTLE bit.

It's just that I go about it in my own terms. But it hasn't been doing me ANY lick of good; so maybe I'll go to church. At least stroll about the Cathedral grounds...maybe stop at the gift shop.

growing-up

in 4 weeks I'll be done. a college graduate.


And then what's left?


Find a job. Find a husband. Find a place. Kids and taxes.


And then, a lovely head in the oven. Just in time for the Holidays.

conflicting advice

I don't understand.


Am I supposed to fight for you?

Or am I supposed to have you come to me?


Fuckin... tell me already.


Do you want me to show up at some bar randomly

and curb stomp the girl you're fucking that night?


Or am I just supposed to wait to have you come over and say,

" Your tendency to be aloof captivates me, and although I've been pounding pussy left and right, yours is the one I'd like to keep"


What the fuck, and you haven't even seen me when I clean up good.


And baby I clean up great. Maybe you'll have to wait to see me on a date with a different mate to get it.


Empty threats. Just come over and air-fuck me. I'm skinny for a reason.

The flame

The flame I saw flicker

had never been lit to begin with.


It has no light to give;

Why do I tend to the wick?


In your eyes I had seen

a love that never existed;


Lover.

No more than a stranger who let himself in.


I should have locked the door.

I should have let you go.

twilight, and its absolutely awful consequences.

I'm trying to look back at fads

and nothing seems as god-awful as twilight. I will not even give it the dignity of being capitalized.


I've written about this before, but now I'm telling you that we have to fix this damage. Before countless catastrophic deaths overcome our society, deaths caused by wanna-be vampire psychopaths, who accidentally hit their love's jugular with their plastic hot-topic fangs.


It's different when adults escape into a fantasy world; it's more necessary when you're an adult, and you are usually, though there's always entertaining exceptions to this rule, more or less aware of it as an escape and not designated by your usual reality.


Young kids though, especially awkward ones and there are so so many, will not be able to tell the difference. And when you fuel awkwardness with hormones, you're just going to get more weird. They can't adjust well as adults, not when they live in a world where true mormon love is a myth. Becaus…

The soundest Reason for anything, really.

Some people want boyfriends or girlfriends to find some solace when facing the fact that we are all forced to dilute reality with our own subjective perceptions, limiting the extent to which we can be objectively understood. Even worse than dying alone is the fear of living alone.


I just want a boyfriend so I can get fucked in public and not feel trashy about it. Ditto for anal.

To my heart

Though I call you my own,

You are foolish and cruel.


He is deaf to the sound

of you as you work,

pulling and pushing

the blood, rushing

to finish at the beginning.


Why do you beat for him?


He will never listen.

Jessica Simpson's Taint

OOH I got your attention now.


Yes, this is going to be entertaining for you. Nothing intelligent whatsoever; how you like it!


Because reading is haaard... unless it's disgusting, and vulgar, and violent and sexy and shocking and ultimately disturbing. Well here you go:


Jessica Simpson gets her dad to rub her taint with a rusty dildo on the freeway for a brand new reality show!


Or would you rather look at a picture of a kitten?






Because if you actually paid attention to what's happening to you, if you stop thinking about yourself as anything more than an ornamented sponge for idiocy, waiting on a fucking 401 K, dying in a home as your kids hesitate to pay the bill for a hospice, digging a ditch, you would find yourself selling your body to afford therapy.


So rejoice along with me, for the destruction of culture for the sake of forced ambivalence, let's all hold hands and ignore the derelict. And when we do notice, finally, what has happened to us, let's be sure to blame The Ot…

The Pattern

I've noticed now, every now and again, I stumble into a state of being that doesn't make any semblance of sense. I don't know what's going on. I don't know what I'm doing here.


Oh I do. I know where I am, and who I am in relation to most people, where I go to school and the color of my hair. I know names and places and facts and concepts and I live in a world independent of my existence. I'm well aware of this, regardless of how confused and entangled I manage to become in the strangeness of bloating thoughts.


So I think and I think and I think that I've figured this out, all this mess and how it makes sense and why I indulge in my sentiments and what it all means-


Then it all stops. It sets in a stasis and though I remain walking the trails to the usual places, while the earth revolves around the sun that burns, I don't know what I'm doing at all. Who I could be and what I desire. It all falls away to a faint distraction, though I keep walking.

Two…

Criticism

Yes.

Please give me advice. I know you probably don't know your ass from your face, and reading menus is a challenge, but I would absolutely love to take notes on how to improve my work from you.


You know, it's better that you just decide for yourself that your advice is absolutely worth my time. I mean, of course I wouldn't ask for it, not because I think your a salacious sort of fuck with a chip on his shoulder, but because I don't know better. Which is why I need your advice; so I can finally know better.


It truly is a blessed thing that everyone's a critic.

I'll make sure to call you up next time I'm on my period, so you can tell me if I'm doing that right.

juicy contradiction

I just want to go out and fuck boys.

Really. That's it.


And something for some REASON holds me back.


But honestly, it must just be slim-pickins.


You go all over, with the juiciest picks of pussy stateside, so I get it. You're swimming with fish. I get it. Doesn't matter that you have this magnificent mermaid, right here, with land legs, you'd rather fill up on sardines; THAT'S FINE.


And I WANT to do that. And college is the best place! but then you know what happens?


Narcissism meets integrity; and there's no cock tonight for Camille. I have these STANDARDS that are more or less imaginary. I go with a "feeling". It's a fool-proof system... it usually proves to me that I am quite the damn fool.


You know, if you do absolutely ruin me, if we ever even get to the point where you'd WANT to do this, at least I'll have the luxury of being a total whore.

DruggieHarmony.

Oh. My God.
Looks like I'm letting all the brilliant out on to this idea folks. A big YES! to me!

Dating sights are for weens. Drugs are for awesome people who just can't help being as awesome as possible. Sex is also very awesome. Dating is okay.

Drugs and sex. Online. As a dating site. For people who want stability in their relationship with or as a druggie. You can go get drugs, or do them, and do them, then sleep together, and start all over. For a more magical tomorrow... today!
I match you up based on the drugs you do, the music you listen to, the car you drive ( or don't ), the tv you watch and the size of your genitals.
What can I say? I'm fucking thorough.
Because some people just want to have a line and a limp dick to pass out on, instead of a fat baby and cankles.

on music.

Sometimes, when I'm introduced to new music,
I can't do anything but listen to it over and over again.

I decided not to go to the city this afternoon so I could just listen to these songs over and over again, since I couldn't bring them with me.
I'm not a music snob and I don't claim to have an incredibly vast library of musical knowledge, but I do love it to a feverish degree. More than anything else really.

Don't worry; I'm a doctor.

Cheap Date.

I write you poems,

don't you think you could write me a song?


You could call it Absolutely Sweet Camille.


It would cost you 0 dollars....

That's how much you spend on me anyway, but I'm just sayin...



You're getting a better deal than The Junkies, and they don't even get to see me naked.

Two Boys

I made those two boys so happy,

I didn't even do a damn thing.


I just talked to them, like a normal human being would.

But they were happy just to be in company of a lovely girl.


I guess they never have the pleasure of talking to a live one,

Since they live in a world of the un-dead, nodding in the basement


Why can't you let me make you happy like that?

Does the sight of me send you into throes of ecstasy?

Or have you simply been spoiled by too many beautiful things?


Let your indifference be a cruel myth.

The Lost

One wears his jeans on his bones;

hanging off his hips and dragging

down towards the sidewalk

where the fabric tears


Walking beside him is the other one,

who is sick with love for a girl who makes herself

dizzy holding hands with the ghost of a man

in a long black coat; He walks in

bruised but beautiful leather boots


These gentle men, too sedated to be a threat,

Sparkle at the rare sight of me

I smile though I know I never would.


I do not mind their company;

Beauty tends to shun The Lost

Yet Beauty is never more adored

than by the sunken eyes of human derelicts


Life wasting itself on the needle's edge;

Beauty can only be an ephemeral breath

to distract from the tenacity of oblivion


Their eyes have lost sight of their souls

My eyes have seen them;

lonely trembling children.

a no body

I am no body;

A lonely mind wandering

unknown galaxies


Of thoughts that have come

to suspend youth over a

cold cliff of knowledge


This body shows no

signs of chaos born within

shadows of the skull

rough draft of The Letter

Dear ----,

You are a unique

lovely delightful

and talented man


I think it's my duty to reward you

for being such a gentleman

with 110% more sex.


Let that be my Christmas present.


I just want to blow you under the mistletoe.

(Because I love you, though, not because I'm a ho.)



From me

To You

beauty with a purpose

I don't want to be pretty

for the sake of my own reflection;

I have grown tired of satisfaction

conjured by the tilted mirror.


I want to be by your side

so you can call me your pride;

After all, a masterpiece is only

worth as much as its patron's smile

The story has to end.

You are the end.

It's only fitting,

since you were

also the beginning.


I can no longer avoid

the resolution;

Even if it breaks my heart

To hear you say what I don't want you to think,

This story deserves a finale.

lol wut?

most people get fucked up

They make a phone call!

they send a text!



I get fucked up, and I send my professors poems. Professors who's classes I hardly attend.


(At least it isn't titty pictures... yet.)


But talk about embarrassing.

The simplest answer...is usually correct. Unless you're an idiot.

Q: Camille, it seems that men are generally drawn to you, why is that, do you think?


A: Well, friend, it's because I love them so very damn much. And I think that it has to come across to them on a basic level.

Q: So what you're saying is-

A: I love penis. Yes. It shows.

Q: Right-

A: But I'm not a ho. I mean, I love penis as a concept; but I'm selective about the penis. You have to be, especially in this area, what with the high AIDs rate and all... you have to be selective. And for yourself ladies. Select yourself a man who is worth the same as you.

Q: So you're a penis loving non-ho that men love?

A: Exactly.

I distrust the hideous.

You know, you always hear people saying things like, "Don't trust a beautiful girl/man, especially if they know they're beautiful"

I shouldn't have quoted that because it's really more of a paraphrase of general topics of conversation... oh well. What's done is done.


I won't lie to you. A lot of great looking people are absolutely awful. They let their looks spoil them, and like I have said before, do not realize that they are beautiful by the grace of the divine, and human beauty is an external gift for the masses, not for reflective glass.


But anyway. Not all nice looking people are awful. A lot of them are but not all.


What's the point?

Well beauty is an extreme. So is ugliness. So why is it that I shouldn't trust an ugly person, especially if they know they're ugly?

Doesn't it work the same? Ugly people can be serious douchebags, always wearing that visible chip of hideousness on their shoulder. Beautiful people, at least, can be totally…

"We're so close, we even SHIT together"

You know, some people think intimacy means being able to defecate in front of your significant other.


And I think those people are not only disgusting, but insane.


That's not love. Taking a shit in front of someone does not mean your love is as potent as the odors of your anus.

In fact, I think you seriously need to reconsider the role of romance in your life, if you deem shitting together "cute".

That's just nasty you guys, plain nasty. I will never ever be coerced into using the bathroom in front of someone to prove my love for them.

Unless I've landed myself a spot in a maximum security women's prison. In which case, there is absolutely no alternative.

spoiled ingrate

though I know I'm a minefield of possible

dramatic explosions, and though I could

cause undue stress and have you unravel

into an obsessive and depressive mess


I mute my afflicted affections for you

and silently accept these meager visits

without mention of my nights spent

awake wondering how many stupid sirens

you have spent fucking instead of me


I let you take me for granted;

Spoiled you without training you first.

I have mistaken you for a man of taste.


Others would gladly throw themselves

over an insignificant puddle so that I might

step all over their backs without an unsightly

mark to spoil my pointed shoes;

you don't even have the decency to see me in daylight


hope will not die, waiting for something to blossom

beyond the confines of my lecherous room

Porno poem

Belinda has tig ol bitties.

double Ds.

and Marcus has a monstercock

almost a foot long


So Belinda is kissing Marcus

and Marcus starts to slide his hands

up Belinda's silver skirt to play

with the elastic of her exquisite lace


So Marcus is kissing Belinda's tits

because she's slipped off her top

and he's unhooked her bra

so Belinda starts to rub his dick

with her perfectly manicured hand

as Marcus begins to rise



Now Marcus is hard and Belinda is wet

and Marcus is grabbing her ass and

Belinda is moaning and groaning

and drawing in sharp breaths


Now marcus is moaning and groaning

Because Belinda has slid to her knees

and she wrapped her manicured hand

(such lovely french tips!)

around his throbbing cock so she

could direct it in and out her

soft warm wet mouth


Now Marcus has had enough

he picks her up by the shoulders

and moves her to the counter

slipping his fingers inside her

as she writhes on the tiles, cold

and hard against her flesh, then

Marcus starts to tap that ass


Marcus is pushing and pumping

a…

Don't.

don't ever tell me to suck it when we're doing it

don't ever call me mom when we're going at it

don't ever call me a stupid nasty slut when I'm on top of it

don't ever cover me in honey; you'll never be able to lick all of it off

don't try to stick it in my ass without warning or lube

don't bite my nipples

don't bite my clit

don't throw me up in the air too far if you have poor upper body strength

don't tell me you have aids afterwards.

Junkie Nobody.

Oh dear now look at you there

slumped over the sofa without a care

telling me you'll take me out in your

bright white bmw on the town

throwing anything in my face

that you honestly think might

convince me to taste the sad

and useless cock that probably

cries at night between your legs.


You big dope.

You couldn't even get it up

even if I tied it to a stick and

lifted it straight the fuck up

Till I reached the tip top of the ceiling


Junkie nobody,

I don't want your money

I want your drugs, but

I love my integrity.

I'm a feminist after all.

You know what?


There isn't anything quite like two girls who don't like girls making friends. It's great. Makes that solidarity stand out all the more.To all those feminine not quite tomboys but boy enthusiasts, go find a girlfriend to be friends with.


It'll help distract you from chasing boys and running away from the ones that chase your skirts.

Camille, what do you like to come home to?

(What can I say? I love chocolate milk.)

mind blowingly meta.

what you do to me

I do to my readers

who don't know a thing

about what's really going on.


And neither do you

you don't know who you are

but you are a real man

a real live wire of a boy


And even if you never think to glance over the text,

the others do, and they see me in the way I see you

and they become me and we are all a little closer that way.


And you, just like beauty, exist only for me to sculpt a portrait of poetry with the monochromatic text. And I for you may be nothing, something, or everything. And these words for others may mean nothing or more than themselves; I won't know unless they tell me, but that lesson I have taught myself to ignore.

Trust me when I say that the meta-text has never been fucked with like this.

For Hannah Cherry

The ink on your skin

will never outlast my

love for your breasts.


If I could run my fingers

through your hair, I'd have ruined

all my pairs of underwear;


I'd like to just smell you discreetly


(I bet you taste just like candy canes.)



You're a stone cold fox.

Except that you're super hot.