Skip to main content

Conflict in Perpetual Motion

I still love you

Even in your absence

I'm damned to

my affections;

I won't want

to say it;

I'm so embarrassed

you know, despite

our strange

and nameless


You might

get cocky

one day if

I say what I

mean to speak;

You'll use me up

till I waste

away in fits.


  1. Oh Miss La Frere.

    It hurts to read of your romance pains. I have been frequenting your blog for awhile now. When I first discovered it I was thunderstruck. Here is by far one of the most seductively beautiful woman I could ever dream of, and she takes tasteful nudes and underwear shots? Not only that but she can mold the human language from a lump of ejaculatory clay in to whatever she pleases all while smoking weed and making me laugh. Sublime. But then I continued reading and found that you seem to be stuck on a man who does not appreciate you for anything other than your reproductive organs. Day after day I read your humorous musings but I also read the sad stuff. The eloquent poems, your prose, communicating such heartache. Clearly you have deep feelings for your muse but think twice. Your value as a person, all the things that make you who you are as Camille. Does he value these things? Does he give a second thought to the fact that you pine and swoon for him? You are magnificent, sexy, funny, and strikingly intelligent. You are truly a work of art. A work of art that has been cast in to a corner and covered so that none can appreciate it. And to top it all off, in your heart of hearts you are kind and gentle. I read your entries about raising kids. It just makes you that much more sexy. An artistic woman who likes weed, making fun of pop culture and has some sort of insatiable need to satisfy her man? Do not waste yourself on this "You" guy anymore. You deserve a King.

    Signed Feather Bed Man


Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

I Can't Hear Your Little Red Rooster


I call this room Home.

He will not look at me

His eyes flicker with

a speck of violence.

my strained smile,

disgusted by

my pleading eyes.

my veins freeze

icy blood

tearing through coronaries

May Day

'Hope, you don't have to use it on your wedding night.'

She handed the pistol to Hope, right after the vows, right before the reception.

'I'm just kidding, darling. Don't worry. He's a good man. You did well sweetheart. He's a good man. You'll be fine.'

Hope's paper-thin smile tried to grow as she stared at her grandmother's reflection in the mirror. The mother-of-pearl grip sparkled in her grandmother's hand, bathed by the Chapel's cheap buzzing lights.

'There's a bullet for you, just in case.'

Hope had left the gun on the table.

A week earlier, drunk off self-pity, she had taken it out of its case and walked to the kitchen, where she stuck the barrel in her mouth and proceeded to take pictures of herself to send to Ray.

In a rare instance of good fortune, her phone ran out of battery before she could indulge her sense of pithy revenge. She woke up and pried open her tear-salted eyelashes then made sure to delete an…