The crags of incandescence in her hands.
Moon dust fluorescing her fingers.
She and the moon embrace
And heavenly bodies collide.
She folds the paper moon
In orgasmic origami.
A story is when you ask someone how was their day. They say that they went to the store and the line was long and some ass decided to pay with a check.
That was a story. There was no buildup. There was no climax. There was no conclusion. They told you their story. It was true. You liked or you didn’t, but you were entertained.
But if you really need it to fit the format of a story. The buildup is that there is a person in front of you. The climax is that they are in front of you. And the conclusion is that there is still a person in front of you. You wanted to hear a story. You were told a story. It was a story.
Fiction stories work the same way. You want to hear a story. You are told a story. Whether or not it fits your expectations of a story. It was a story.
You wanted a story. You got a story. Because it existed, it is true. You liked it or you didn’t. You were entertained. It was a story. Freytag’s triangle can lick my balls. It was a god damned story. Fuck you!
as you can probably tell, i have been to college; you will notice this because i speak in semicolons; for all intents and purposes, semicolons are the same thing as periods; except, you do not have to capitalize the first word of the next sentence;
you do have to be careful when you speak in semicolons because you can end up speaking in run on sentences, but don’t worry; i am interspersing a few periods to keep things clear and understandable; just take my word for it;
What kind of man puts oil in his beard?
Next thing you are going to be perming it
And coming in Just For Men to hide the gray.
A beard is supposed to be this scraggly thing
Hanging on to the bottom of your face
Pushing out every which way.
It is supposed to be a statement to the world:
Look at me. I am so lazy
That I can’t even run a razor over my face
Before I begin the day.
I with knives
Slicing criminals’ purse.
Black of pockets
Muttering the word.
Pieces in the darkest parts.
Santa Clause at the Macy’s
With his gun.
Dressed all in black
Jenkins was afraid.
The city decided
The mythology around being homeless.
His sign: man himself