Curt: A Series of One-Liners

I. To do with the littlest, brightest, most faithful people I know

One day I'm going to get you the biggest things, everything (and so much more) you want.

II. To do with wealth

I shall write a thesis on the effects of wealth one day – how it only leads to mountains and mountains of debt, and an ocean of a hole where my money should be.

III. To do with a very specific man

I'd love you, 'til a blackhole swallows this Earth and whisks us into a time away when I don't know you (and, surely, even then will I love you, and wait ever so patiently for you), so stupidly and fearlessly and so specifically, and even vaguely – all the ways you want to be loved, I'll do it, and I'll do it all for you, and maybe just a little bit for how I want to see your eyes on me, on me, on me: your attention, completely arrested, by me, and me, and me, for just a fraction of a second – a nonblink of your time, all mine, kept safely away in my pocket until that blackhole comes and sucks me in (again like all times) – hopefully back to the time when I could love you, and you'd look at me longer than it takes to look away.

IV. To do with the way I love you

I love you: lengthily, viciously, obsessively, frighteningly, maddeningly, hyperbolically – and most of all, truly. Very, very truly. All the lengthy, vicious, obsessive, frightening, maddening, hyperbolic types of truth – I love you in those ways, and an unintelligible amount more.

V. To do with a very specific violation to a very specific one-liner

I love you, quite obviously more than a sentence can handle.

The Hunchback of Cork

The Sloucher and his Skeleton: A Series of Praises

He walks along the sidewalk with gold-rimmed sunglasses over his eyes. He isn't hiding, this man, no, dear me, no – the sunshine is quite bright, if honesty is to be exercised, and so, naturally, our Sloucher's first instinct is to protect his eyes. On another thought, the brightness of the sun would technically be his fault, if he were the type to lose his identity somehow, what with all those silly skins he hangs on his body. Never struck anyone as the kind to forget himself, but he does pick up habits sometimes, and saving the world could be a hobby he learned in another universe. Oh, these multiverses, he thinks, as he stalks on. He really ought to learn.

(And on another note, dear reader, between you and I – it is impossible to fathom how exactly the strangers that walked right by him never stopped to ogle, or how the robbers in the vicinity only eyed the wallet peeking out of his backpocket instead of his skeleton. It was one for the museum, our Sloucher's bone structure. They ought to sell those in stores, or invent a way to somehow bottle its effects of captivation on the average onlooker. It would cure various diseases, I think, maybe even stop wars.)

He walks on, and on, and on, with his shoulders slouching. He isn't really sure where he's going next, but he knows where his cigarette is destined to be – right on his lips where he could coax a drag out of it, and he does. It's therapeutic and it's also great company. Even the smoke makes sure to float to caress those famed cheekbones. And stray (others may even call them daring) strings of smoke find a way to pirouette on his esteemed jawline, too.

Waits a little bit to cross the road, and when he's certain no cars are coming, he carries on with his walking and his smoking and his being gorgeous. He wonders why the streets have been so deserted lately. What he thinks happened is that some important event is being broadcasted on TV – say, for example, an inauguration, or an important announcement, or a spelling bee, or a Christmas special of the Simpsons, maybe. He shoves his hands in his pockets, and he walks on.

He doesn't know that the rest of the world had been holding in its breath, for its most gorgeous creature was prowling the streets, and such allure can only be left unbothered sometimes. Had you been caught in his line of sight... doesn't matter if–if his eyes were chilling and cruel or gentle and welcoming, it would have stopped you dead. It would have stolen your breath and locked it away forever, and you'd be left cold on the ground. And he'd still be beautiful, all sorts of it. But you wouldn't see it anymore.

And so our Sloucher continues slouching, and all his bones crush into each other. It's the moststunningscene.

Oh, reader, dear me: our Sloucher is the most stunning scene.

the world is changed

i. because you are made of ivory and gold

For all intents and purposes, you are beautiful, and you are fleeting.

ii. the curves of your lips

I want to reach inside your skin, and tug at your veins, and pull, and pull, until I have them wrapped around my wrist like a bracelet made of you. I want to choke you, only so I could tap the beats back into your pulse. It isn't selfish, it's dangerously beautiful. Lethal, and murderous, but it would be a gorgeous scene.

I am a chaser of beauty, and you are a human skyline. Your eyes are streetlights, your neck is a highway, your body is the world, and all its glitter, and all its grime. Your bones are piano keys that I want my fingers to pirouette on.

You are as singular as your fingerprints. Planets, and storybook characters, and strangers that last for seconds cannot hold a candle to you. You blink, and all the world goes dark.

You are the king of the anthills, and the real hills, and the fields beyond, and the forests, and the big cities that swallow you up, and all the clocks, and peacocks, and leather, and faux fur. King of spotlights, and flowy dresses, and well-written books, and meaningless art, and Taylor guitars, and accidental spill sunshine coffee-stains. King of Manolo Blahnik heels, and Hermes bags, and bright-light Greenbelt, little floral bags, and cardigans. King of sound, and light, and space, and mass, and elegance.

You astound astronauts, and philosophers, and scientists. Mathematicians cannot compute your dimensions, or understand the numbers of you, the physics of you, the geometry of you, the planes of you. You influence musicians with your silence. You astound models with only skin and bones. Artists and photographers can never quite catch

you, and the lines of you

iii. rewrite history

(I only have praise for you, and all the wrong words.)

-

The title of this post and the phrases in italics are from The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde.

voix de un meurtrier

i try to grab onto your voice when i forget it, when it tries to slip out of my pocket. it does that sometimes. it isn't locked into my palm yet, like his and his and countless others, because you're a chameleon whose voicebox is his skin.

it's so easy to fall in love with you
because there are so many of you.

but the one i love most seems to hide behind all the others, seems to be the most hidden one, seems to be the voice i can't draw yet

oh, baby. i wish i could listen to you forever, i wish i could pinpoint where your voice would drop and when it would rise and how your lilt makes your mouth look

bet it makes your mouth look stunning, just stunning, if only i could place it

if only you'd let me.