Morning breaks. So do bottles and bones.
Clint CatalystSorrow is humbling. I want my pain to be fabulous. I don't need my pain to be worse than anyone else's; I just want it to be strangely, uniquely mine. Art to someone else's breakdown.
— Thea Hillman, "Dear Kath After"
from the anthology Pills, Thrills, Chills, and Heartache
Tag: pain humility sorrow clint-catalyst michelle-tea thea-hillman
YOU YOU YOU
your eyes, thick as a high school scrapbook
crackling and yellow, curling at the edges
a book of myths
in which i do not appear.
Tag: poem unrequited-love eyes absence short clint-catalyst
...feel the fierce way desire
tourniquets itself around you and
clings
Clubland South of Market tweak-
chic trannies powder their noses from
bullet-shaped compacts and flick their forked
tongues like switchblades as they burn the night
down bleed day to night to day to
Mission sidewalks where pythons hide
twenty dollar balloons beneath their tongues which
get bartered in smiles quicker than a coke buzz and
tossed out through the cracks
Cottonmouth kisses
camouflage emotions and
strike with a vengeance
when he
wants and she
wants and they
want and I
won't
Genet was right, I suppose
when he wrote "The only way
to avoid the horror of horror is
to give in to it"
it's
the nature of
the economy of the
business it's the
nature of
things...
Tag: poetry poem excerpt poetry-quotes
There's so much I should say, so many things I should tell him, but in the end I tell him nothing.
I cut a line and my losses, and I light a cigarette.
Tag: apathy loneliness addiction ennui love-lost
Methamphetamine is so Flowers for Algernon: All that super-human cerebral ability fades to limited physical activities like stapling carpet scraps to the wall or masturbation antics worthy of The Guinness Book of World Records.
Clint CatalystTag: humor drugs speed crystal-meth limitations crystal methamphetamines
I felt old. Again. It had been happening a lot lately. I did not live the life of an old lady, but I could hear it beckoning to me, like a mermaid on a rock."
— Michelle Tea, "Paris: A Lie"
from the anthology Pills, Thrills, Chills and Heartache
Tag: queer aging anthology lgbt-literature editors experimental clint-catalyst michelle-tea first-person-narrative
Filip was from San Jose, but his painfully good looks excused that. He was tall, six-foot-something-or-other, intensely blue eyes, chiseled features, massive package. Didn't have Prince Albert in a Can, but he did have a thick gauged one through his cock head. His name really wasn’t Filip, it was Brent, an all-American moniker about as dark and mysterious as pastel-colored bobby socks. Initially, I joked about his choice of sobriquet, changing his name to go off to the big city, transform into Mr. Big Stuff, until it dawned on me I’d done the same damn thing with my ‘Catalyst’ surname. So I shut up.
He comported himself with rigid shoulders and stiff gestures, as if he had a secret. Turns out he did. Filip was married, had a wife for more than a year now, but they had some kind of crazy arrangement. Days they were a couple; evenings they were free to do as they pleased. Where’d they come up with that idea, Jerry Springer?
“If you wanted to go back to your place, we could,” Filip suggested. “But only until dawn.” Yeah, right. An affair is an affair, the way I see it. What difference is there between 5 and 7 a.m.? Was their marriage some sort of religious fasting thing, starve until the sun sets then binge and party down? I'd never sunk my teeth into married meat, but figured it was a logical progression from my I'm Not Gay But It's Different With You saga. And if I was going to sin, I was gonna sin good. That means no peeking to see whether it’s still dark outside.
Tag: queer affair polyamory bisexuality goth extramarital queer-lit queer-subculture goth-subculture
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