supportive fan base
“It was bloody, messy, 31 flavors of bottom dwelling nasties. Hell, most days felt like 360 degree combat. But there was something about being there, felt pure.”
Have you ever thought about how you will occasionally see a man, usually an older gentleman, asleep somwhere in public. Like starbucks or the library or the mall. Just asleep and unafraid for being attacked or murdered.
There’s some feminist point I was going to try to make but honestly I’m still kind of floored by it.
An all-night barbeque. A dance on the courthouse lawn.
The radio aches a little tune that tells the story of what the night
is thinking. It’s thinking of love.
It’s thinking of stabbing us to death
and leaving our bodies in a dumpster.
That’s a nice touch, stains in the night, whiskey and kisses for everyone.
Tonight, by the freeway, a man eating fruit pie with a buckknife
carves the likeness of his lover’s face into the motel wall. I like him
and I want to be like him, my hands no longer an afterthought.
Someone once told me that explaining is an admission of failure.
I’m sure you remember, I was on the phone with you, sweetheart.
History repeats itself. Somebody says this.
History throws its shadow over the beginning, over the desktop,
over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters.
History is a little man in a brown suit
trying to define a room he is outside of.
I know history. There are many names in history
but none of them are ours.
He had green eyes,
so I wanted to sleep with him—
green eyes flecked with yellow, dried leaves on the surface of a pool-
You could drown in those eyes, I said.
The fact of his pulse,
the way he pulled his body in, out of shyness or shame or a desire
not to disturb the air around him.
Everyone could see the way his muscles worked,
the way we look like animals,
his skin barely keeping him inside.
I wanted to take him home
and rough him up and get my hands inside him, drive my body into his
like a crash test car.
I wanted to be wanted and he was
very beautiful, kissed with his eyes closed, and only felt good while moving.
You could drown in those eyes, I said,
so it’s summer, so it’s suicide,
so we’re helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool.
It wasn’t until we were well past the middle of it
that we realized
the old dull pain, whose stitched wrists and clammy fingers,
far from being subverted,
had only slipped underneath us, freshly scrubbed.
Mirrors and shop windows returned our faces to us,
replete with the tight lips and the eyes that remained eyes
and not the doorways we had hoped for.
His wounds healed, the skin a bit thicker than before,
scars like train tracks on his arms and on his body underneath his shirt.
We still groped for each other on the backstairs or in parked cars
as the roads around us
grew glossy with ice and our breath softened the view through a glass
already laced with frost,
but more frequently I was finding myself sleepless, and he was running out
But damn if there isn’t anything sexier
than a slender boy with a handgun,
a fast car, a bottle of pills
What would you like? I’d like my money’s worth.
Try explaining a life bundled with episodes of this—
swallowing mud, swallowing glass, the smell of blood
on the first four knuckles.
We pull our boots on with both hands
but we can’t punch ourselves awake and all I can do
is stand on the curb and say Sorry
about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine.
I couldn’t get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time.
It starts with bloodshed, always bloodshed, always the same
running from something larger than yourself story,
shoving money into the jaws of a suitcase, cutting your hair
with a steak knife at a rest stop,
and you’re off, you’re on the run, a fugitive driving away from
something shameful and half-remembered.
They’re hurling their bodies down the freeway
to the smell of gasoline,
which is the sound of a voice saying I told you so.
Yes you did, dear.
Every story has its chapter in the desert, the long slide from kingdom
to kingdom through the wilderness,
where you learn things, where you’re left to your own devices.
and Theodore’s bleeding shotgun into the upholstery.
It’s a road movie,
a double-feature, two boys striking out across America, while desire,
like a monster, crawls up out of the lake
with all of us watching, with all of us wondering if these two boys will
find a way to figure it out.
Here is the black box, the shut eye,
the bullet pearling in his living skin. This boy, half-destroyed,
screaming Drive into that tree, drive off the embankment.
Henry, make something happen.
But angels are pouring out of the farmland, angels are swarming
over the grassland,
Angels rising from their little dens, arms swinging, wings aflutter,
dropping their white-hot bombs of love.
We are not dirty, he keeps saying. We are not dirty…
They want you to love the whole damn world but you won’t,
you want it all narrowed down to one fleshy man in the bath,
who knows what to do with his body, with his hands.
It should follow,
you know this, like the panels of a comic strip,
we should be belted in, but you still can’t get beyond your skin,
and they’re trying to drive you into the ground, to see if anything
Summary: In the future, death doesn’t always have to be permanent. The body dies but the memories can continue on, thanks to a new revolutionary science. Doctors called “Transitions” move memories from one body, to a new, cloned one. Castiel Novak is one of the best doctors in the field and when Castiel meets Dean, both men are in for the shock of their lives.
“Blood is thicker than water”, when used in the context of family over friends, is in fact a wildly incorrect bastardisation.
The true, full quote is “The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb,” and refers to relationships forged by choice holding deeper meaning than those of mere biology.