Savage Lee Writing

After kissing she’d always spit my bloody teeth back in my face.

I told her how much I loved her tattoos as she took a cheese-grater to mine. 

I never read her blog, but I always mentioned her in mine.

In weird half-statements and fragments of poems.

I hoped she’d be a narcissist like me, and go out looking for herself.

Are you out there, looking in?

Can you see yourself standing between these letters in these words, 

Like a wolf in the woods?

…IIII…

Sometimes when I’m writing

I can still feel you

reading.

Sam The Man was a bold brash guy despite his name but I think a lot of that was just the drugs he had to do to keep his cybernetic enhancements from dusting over. It was a whole issue, a ritual he had to go through every day, getting high enough so that his internal combustion air movers would kick in and keep his digital assembly of stolen thoughts from collapsing into his subconscious. 

Yeah, he was one of those guys, the kind who’d stand outside a pretty person’s window at night, stealing their dreams with an infrared oscillating isolation device he’d wear over his wig and under his hat. Most weekends you’d find him down in some shitty bar, trying to sell the mismanaged experiences to bored rich lawyers who’d pay any amount of money to just stop being themselves for even ten minutes at a time. 

The last time I saw Sam he’d just gotten his arms broken when a deal went bad; he’d traded what’d he’d claimed were the sexual fantasies of hip young trendsetter to a bunch of bikers, but when they’d gone to click into the files, they found the memories were full of jam and toast, just a slight daydream about a bland breakfast, kept on a loop for six hours. Those bikers messed Sam The Man up real good, tied his elbows into knots and threw him down a flight of stairs just for kicks. 

But I know he’s still out there, still hustling, still doing his best.

Keep an eye out your window at night, you might see him out there, itching at his hat and pulling at his wig. 

Kinda of a sleazy guy. But it takes all kinds to keep a city running. 

I want to topple head over heals into some common sense. I want to make might from muck. I want, I want, I want, when oh lord will I be freed from these wants?

There’s a loose rattling at the core of reality or maybe it’s from where my skull and my spine don’t quite meet perfectly right. Is there something wrong with everything, or is there something wrong with me? What are these sounds, these sights, these spiders that come crawling in from around the back of my eyeballs?

I am my own open-mouthed shock at the disparity between my illusions and my ability to create my own reality.

I am my own pair of empty socks, left at the foot of the bed.

This is a light left on in an empty room.

This life of mine is a real privilege to get to live. People in my neighbourhood smile and fist-bump me, the birds all know me… I feel like a recipient of so much kindness and happiness, for some weirdo asshole introvert who just loves to write stuff and watch funny videos.
I just want to take a moment to say that I recognize how lucky I am.
Thanks for sticking it out with me. 

savageleewriting:

You could stab at me all day, and never reach my heart. You could drag this out, keep me guessing, keep me wondering, or you could just bring down the blade and fulfil my curiosity once and for-fucking-all.

“I’d do anything for you,” I say, looking up from the sink, my hands dripping with cold electrical static and blood that’s thicker than pancake syrup. the static is a crackle of black and white pixels burning into my hands like bleach. The blood is gummy and forming into little puddles, and then the surfaces of the puddles start to harden into scabs; weird crystalline cell-structures approximating the human condition: bleed, replace, repeat.

“Duly noted,” she tells me with the sort of impersonal perfectionism I’ve come to expect from my long term lovers. 

She watches me smoke my cigarette like she’s putting a bug out, under her shoe. 

savageleewriting:

If I was a piece of furniture, I’d probably be a beanbag chair; some big, friendly, sloppy sort of mess of a thing, its surface dotted with food crumbs and sexual stains. It’d look uncomfy to sit in, but then once you’d fallen into it, you’d have a horrible time getting out. It’d just seem to swallow you up. 

Part of me wants to do some writing for (her)

But really, I should just do some writing for myself. 

I should put on an old pair of gravity-resistant sneakers, and go hustling, up the sides of the city, up towards the sky.

Get some clouds in my teeth. Tear apart the upper atmosphere with kinetic motion. Feel the cool of the wind, feel the noise of silence of being surrounded by nothing by currents of air, whistling and roaming. 

Reality is weights around my feet, my annoyances dragging me down, compelling me back towards the pavement like a stone. I’m so critical, so pestered, so heavy with my disappointments. 

Let it go, right? Just go run. Float. Move beyond it. Above it. Past it.

I try, but do I really try? Do I just fake it, pretending to be some cool zen gust of easy-going, when really I’ve got all these thumbtacks clenched in my fist, dripping anger and blood just out of sight?

These words don’t fit in this mouth, so I chew up my own thoughts and swallow them down, shitting out caustic acids a week later. 

But there’s a part of me that can go running. Writing.
Whichever.