06.10.04: New design. Got rid of the art and tape trading sections since I don't really trade
anymore. Lots of new poetry.
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Ella and Louis blare on the stereo while you play pool online
and sing along with Louis and I read Robert Creeley on my bed,
alternately moving my left leg beneath and out from under the bed sheets.
Occasionally I glance up from my book and stare
at your right knee, tracing the lines of the bones.
This is how we fuck—
with quick sharp glances, sucking in the detail of each others’
clothed bodies, dwelling upon them for minutes after, and punctuating
our ongoing talk about self-deprecation and literature and depression with five
minute periods that lack conversation.
He looks like a Greek statue come to life, my friend says.
And you sort of do, with your defined jaw line, pale skin, and thin, muscular body,
but I haven’t ever seen a Greek statue with a five o’clock shadow.
You look at my hand on the book.
My breathing accelerates.
It’s fucking, except that there is never a release.
I notice the muscles
in the back of your neck. Five minutes pass.
I am sick of the word depression, you tell me and stare me in the eye.
Let’s call the whole thing off, Louis sings.
--Molly Herrick 09.24.03
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