poetry time with Mr. McPherson
Saturday May 5 @ 03:27ami kinda dig this
Thursday May 5 @ 12:16amHe texts me at 2 AM “williamsburg. trophy bar.”
No hello.
No how are you?
No what’s up?
No what are you up to?
He texts me “williamsburg. trophy bar.”
As if his invitation is so exclusive so sought after so rare that I should hurry the fuck up and go to
williamsburg. trophy bar.
As if I am a deliverer of something and this is the address on the label and I should drop it off at the door.
As if my body is nothing more than a package being delivered and he’ll sign for it and take it from here.
As if I am some mobile purchase pre-paid, pre-packaged and waiting to be shipped out to williamsburg. trophy bar.
I’m not even asked a question. A would you like to? Or how do you feel about? Or can you? Or would you?
I am not to reply. I am to follow directions. I am to arrive at the address. I am to be timely. I am to look as expected. I am to be undamaged. I am to function.
I do not reply.
An hour later he calls. To check on the status of his delivery. I see if it has been shipped out yet. To see how long it will take. To see if he should file a complaint. To see if it’s even worth the wait. To see if he should just ask for his money back and order something else.
writing and audio by Tatyana Muradov
for all the poets
I didn’t participate in 30/30 because forcing a poem for me is like taking a shit with my ass taped shut,
It won’t come out.
Perhaps I am not a poet
Perhaps I am somewhat of a fraud
I just come home and throw up whatever tasted good that day
Hedonist: a person whose life is devoted to the pursuit of pleasure and self-gratification.
“What do I smell like?” she asks him
His arm slowly slides around the curvature of her back, barely touching. She can feel each finger and the exact distance between his mouth and hers.
When things are done slowly, they are done right.
His lips slowly start waltzing on the neck. Each kiss sends tingles to a place she didn’t think she’d forgotten about.
“That’s what you smell like.”
Such a deep lust must have medical side effects.
God damn that felt good. And that’s all I’ve ever pursued.
To feel that good all the time.
Because I’m all extremes. It’s either a summertime high or a winter depression. There is a constant need to feel. I am so dependent on stimulation.
He asks me to spend the night with him. “Nothing will happen,” he reassures me.
I have this new power I just found out about, saying no.
And you part at the platform and he’s on the other end and it’s not too late to run to his side but it’s too late for it to not look desperate. And you don’t have his number and you get on the train and you wonder if you should have said yes.
And you get home and give yourself the most amazing orgasm you’ve had in months and you breathe out clarity and realize how happy you are that you said no.
But Seriously
No one’s looking for their one anymore. It’s all about their next. Their new. Their slip up to the old and maybe the not so fresh and maybe the not so good for you but still new.
He’s not my one.
He’s my one for tonight.
And I’ve lost all faith in mating.
And the guy that lives close by is better than the one that makes me laugh.
And it’s all so sad
So I just stay home alone so I don’t have to see it.
And it seems that all the moments that feel good are fleeting and empty
So I stray from the too bad to the not quite
And somewhere between each maybe I lose pieces of myself and feel even more lonely.
And all of my stories make one sad novel published by okcupid.
I feel like that’s how I’ve made most of my lovers, by being mutually anti.
I don’t want to hear about anyone living anything to the fullest.
How desperate.
I know those people are hiding something tragic but I’m not interested in unpacking that for them.
I want to meet the ones who are unafraid which doesn’t have anything to do with your income level.
There is this emphasis on “not taking yourself too seriously”. What does that mean?
Are you afraid someone might have an opinion? Or feel something? Perhaps we should be drunk at all times.
I want to find someone who’s drunk at all times.
Perhaps that would be easier than taking yourself too seriously. Than looking for the one. Than looking for your one.
writing and audio by tatyana muradov
Comme Premium
dreams go into dreams
Its 1AM when I get home and all I feel is lonely
I text him to come over and I know he will cause 2 days ago I denied him
That’s how it works
You say no twice and then you say yes
And next thing you know they’re at your door
And you’re frantically cleaning your room for a guest that doesn’t care about anything but getting you naked
He comes in and he looks really hot and that’s all that matters
We lay on the bed and he starts casually taking his clothes off as he asks me about my poetry and “how’s all that going?”
I say “great. just great.”
Neither one of us actually cares.
We look at each other and for a split second I forget that he’s only here to fuck me and I remember how I felt the first time I kissed him and how pure it all was and how much potential for greatness there was
And then I remember his text a few weeks ago about how he doesn’t love me and how I’m just not mysterious enough
Apparently I’m still fuckable enough
We start kissing and we instant fall into it
I turn animal
He turns porn
We are lost for a good hour in this world of panting and squeezing and there are moments when it hurts and moments when it feels so good I want to scream
There are moments when I forget that its him and moments when I remember its still him
And moments when I feel nothing at all like I’m watching porn
And then I start getting bored
But then I feel like I might actually cum and he notices the shift in my thrusting
And I start telling him to fuck me harder
And he is loving this
And then he comes
And I don’t
And he’s upset that he didn’t last long enough
And I say its ok
And then we don’t’ talk anymore
And we just sleep
And while I’m sleeping I’m really just living out all other realities
In one he is sitting on the window sill, I look at him and he says “hey thanks” with a real sly look on his face and then he leaves.
In another, I walk in on him fucking my room mate
In the third I look up from the bed and he is by the door dressed
I realize the third is not a third but a reality and that he’s really leaving and that tomorrow he’s moving to California and this is all happening and I’ll never see him again and I wish I didn’t care but for some reason I care and he leans down to kiss me and I do the motions
“I gotta close the door after you” I say and I drift past him and he puts the used condom in the trashbag hanging on the door and I tell him “will you take my trash out”
And he says “yes” and kisses me on the lips
And he leaves.
I wake up feeling sick. So sick I want to burn my skin so I don’t’ have to feel whats inside of it. I feel so sad and alone. As if him leaving somehow ripped a part of me out. As if I’m missing something. As if I’m raw and bitter. Somehow all the memories I have are fuzzy and I keep confusing reality with dream and nothing seems real not even his smell and he seems pathetic to me and sad and not the man I wanted him to be and I seem pathetic to myself and sad and not the woman I should be and everything seems so hopeless and the idea of strangers fucking just to feel something seems so tragic and I spend the day regaining consciousness and building up walls and at night I drink whiskey and my dreams go into dreams go into dreams go into dreams and I’m never quite sure when I wake up.
