Corset Blues


I write poetry, stories, madness. I transcribe my life into words. Beauty can be found anywhere and I guess I'm here chasing after my muse. Yet again. To contact:

Musings of a Non-Writer Not at a Coffee Shop

A directive from the mind to the heart to the soul: Breathe, damn you. Maybe it was damn you or perhaps damn you. It doesn’t really matter. I wish I had the kind of life where I could spend wandering around, sitting in cafes writing, I wish I was that kind of person. I am not, by the way. People near me when I’m writing annoy me. I find their voices too loud, their fingernails too shiny and their lips too much. The clinking of the coffee cups bothers me just as much as the shuffling footsteps. The thud of the door as it swings open, the carefully modulated voice of the server as he asks you whether you would like whipped cream on that. Most annoying are the subtexts in each instance, in each group that comes rushing in to get the latest fix. Who is looking at who and is he looking back? The curly hair, wet, he just had a shower, the nape of his neck, the lemon scent of her soap becoming spicier on his skin - does his girlfriend know? No, she doesn’t. She’s oblivious, sipping her caramel macchiato - determinedly blind. The ostrich syndrome.

The plastic of the table, the fabric of the stuffed chair, how many bodies warmed it before mine? The colours - the sweetness of the coffee cake turns my tongue hedonistic and it wants to taste all of you - was that a good line? His smile, the crooked edge of it reminds of broken glass. I want to lick it. The barista has a wicked smile. What did she put in your coffee today? My sentences are clogged. The muse is nowhere to be found. I bet it was cyanide.