type slowly.

verisimilitude.

Posted in words by Lara Crombie on October 20, 2009

Kitchen smells of vacuum dust and mother’s full of silent virtue: she saw boys with Anglo-Saxon names like Chad and Luke hold hands, going no place but some death valley where they read fiction by saintly whores not yet 16, both sick on subtle syntax and wayfaring blues, Dylan knew. Bottle prophets ridicule but boys that love drink strong. Still curious, he’ll lean across your arm and ask, you’ll know—the music swells, Blue Bayou on the radio, kids in cars smoke thin reeds as mothers paint their nails.

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Posted in curiosities by Lara Crombie on October 19, 2009

sweet tooth.

Posted in words by Lara Crombie on October 14, 2009

I did it in the night time holding Cajun vowels beneath my tongue while you looked me straight and ran, toward hills and what you thought was almost free, so full of verse and stinking rose and tears from goddamn holy sties;

I did it for the rest stop on 110 where we rubbed bones and heard Oh Lord between the walls, where I made my mind to limbo and you watched the Limp and Slump hold their stomachs in distaste, two smokes from sending signals;

I did it when I could because I could because you’d say “I’m cold” and I’d say “baby, I’ll keep you warm,” because cheap velour looks good on me in a way that bends the knees, and somewhere Fatty warms her chords to croon the sins of thieves.

some versions of “goodbye”

Posted in words by Lara Crombie on October 13, 2009

I.

i think i know what to say

when you don’t listen to

what i’m saying or when

you don’t hear what’s

really being said and that’s

how i’m going to say it

in the end

II.

i need to tell you something

and it’s going to sound like

doo wop

i’ll snap my fingers when i

do it

III.

some stories begin with an end

like ours lacks appropriate

punctuation when I bend over

and you deliver me from evil

IV.

why does it feel like

defeat when i slide

in next to you for a

minute that turns to

twenty in an hour we

measure by short doors

and closed breaths

V.

if knights wore armor

i’d wear lace and carry

flowers, my way of saying

“this won’t hurt”