The Book of Coggie

rough drafts

cold fall

I feel cold.

Joan Rivers is on life support.

Random pain shoots out of my left breast. I reek of menthol and quiet desperation.

Should I stay or should I go on a tape recorder stuck on an aging mad man who shirked his public appearance on my account? I’m still stuck on those garlic fries.

It stinks in here.

Fall’s days away.

bluelittlegirl:

opticallyaroused:

moonlightcity:

(via lightphotos)

(via kari-shma)


Fight Back
He doesn’t understand my poetry. He writes lyrical music without lyrical intent. He probably sees me in pixels and cavities, a fixed timetable of incalculable possibilities, the infinite interplay of electronic notes, these things they call stagnating forensics of a seductive counterpoint in 5/8.
But tonight he armed me. “You can’t quit. You’re one of a few honest voices who writes what’s there. Keep writing what’s there.”
I stood in my skin-tight jeans, six feet taller. I am young and pretty again, ready to kick your ass.

bluelittlegirl:

opticallyaroused:

moonlightcity:

(via lightphotos)

(via kari-shma)

Fight Back

He doesn’t understand my poetry. He writes lyrical music without lyrical intent. He probably sees me in pixels and cavities, a fixed timetable of incalculable possibilities, the infinite interplay of electronic notes, these things they call stagnating forensics of a seductive counterpoint in 5/8.

But tonight he armed me. “You can’t quit. You’re one of a few honest voices who writes what’s there. Keep writing what’s there.”

I stood in my skin-tight jeans, six feet taller. I am young and pretty again, ready to kick your ass.

carol

he falters and forgets, and I vow to walk away, with my books and my voices until he speaks my name, a fountain into the soul on every fragrant note he plays to himself before turning up for the spotlight, where we are impossibly brilliant, my skin is clear, my breasts are smooth, my face as if I never left my 20s, my body opening into his

he said my name, and I walked back

see-through

You couldn’t see past your affliction. I used mine to make a god out of you. And, so, neither of us noticed the pain we’d inflicted on each other until the damage was done.

I will carry my fresh wound to the grave.

“She had a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, like when you’re swimming and you want to put your feet down on something solid, but the water’s deeper than you think and there’s nothing there.”

—   Julia Gregson, East of the Sun (via halluzinogen)

(Source: feellng, via bluelittlegirl)

lawrenceleemagnuson:

Fujishima Takeji 藤島 武二 (Japan 1867-1943) Lady with Morning Glories (1904)

Me.

lawrenceleemagnuson:

Fujishima Takeji 藤島 武二 (Japan 1867-1943)
Lady with Morning Glories (1904)

Me.

(via bluelittlegirl)

When The Media Treats White Suspects And Killers Better Than Black Victicms.

romieohjuliette:

curvesincolor:

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via The Huffington Post.

Extremely import

(via bluelittlegirl)

I think the saddest people always try their hardest to make people happy

because they know what it’s like to feel absolutely worthless

and they don’t want anyone else to feel like that.

—   Robin Williams (via seyttan)

(Source: skateeofmind, via bluelittlegirl)

Today, my hero was my son. His name is James.