Saturday, March 21, 2009


I want the clean sharp lines of your writing, bare bones. I want to be picked back to a skeleton. My florid words weigh me down. I read Carver, Salter, and I feel overwrought and heavy. Old school, old world, old.

I am messy as sex. I am juice and teeth clicking, and the odours that accompany it all. I am sex and there is nothing clean about sex. There is nothing neat about me. But I will learn. From you. I will.

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