Nº. 2 of  4

Rogue Romantic

The repressed rants of a raging romantic: Poetry and other quixotic musings

GPOYW.

GPOYW.

Everything one invents is true, you may be perfectly sure of that. Poetry is as precise as geometry.

—Gustave Flaubert

In another world, she is a giant.

In another world, she is a giant.

First ever, successful Sleeve-to-Wall heart transplant surgery. 

First ever, successful Sleeve-to-Wall heart transplant surgery. 

I lit a book of matches on fire today
& the blaze evinced your smile.

I lit a book of matches on fire today

& the blaze evinced your smile.

Today I woke up and sat in a cafe on Vermont

and read Bukowski.

He referenced the street.

I smoked a cigarette and read about his asshole experiences.

I went home and sat in bed

and read Neruda.

He referenced my heart.

I wept and read about my own experience.

I have cried too much today.

Even the clocks are tired.

rippingyoulimbfromfuckinglimb:

deadvanityxvegan:



(via fashionthroughmyeyes)


A real woman doing a fake thing.

Post-Taste



Tumbles forth from my mouth

your taste of humanity

teeming with lies of good intent.

This is no way to love anyone for more than minutes,

but still you manage

again

and again.

a n d   a g a i n.

You’re fantastic when it lasts,

but it never does

and you are winded.

We compose a wet mess between us, 

but devise another until the first one is gone:

Burned somewhere between my chest and your navel.



Your aftertaste is universally bitter.

Choke me.
Pull my hair.
Just don’t hurt me.

Choke me.

Pull my hair.

Just don’t hurt me.

Nº. 2 of  4