Countless times she was quoted for her famous remark that “monogamy is a prison that free people voluntarily check themselves in for the duration of their lives.” And “can anything be more depressing and boring in life than fucking the same person over and over again, for decades?”
And I wonder if we are always standing at the street corner eating each other’s hearts.
In essence, there’s only one advert that can placate the masses. It’s by the surfers, slicing through the whitecaps like rotten pomegranates. It’s a thirty second trance, with a Magritte bowler hat, floating over roadkill.
i would certainly suck the islamic terrorists' cocks to save alysa li
The club isn’t so different than Plato’s cave, she thought one night after getting home from work, and while staring for a long time into her aquarium admiring its latest tenants.
With a spoon, I am turning you away.
if i tally it
every time
my tongue finds cherry
do you still
pull your thumb down my lip
sweet surrender
in the other city
the social concepts that killed me here
stay peripheral
It’s abundantly clear that Gass sweat blood over this novel, every word chosen with the utmost care, a master at work.
I regret inventing t-shirt language model twink size
She decides that maybe being an object of consumption isn’t so bad. She even begins to enjoy the attention. Becomes aroused by the men’s overt enthusiasm for her. She is an edible woman, dolce, delectable; something to be devoured.
In the old gym, value revealed itself in nontraditional ways.
Spit flew from the man's mouth when he spoke, if he spoke.
I’m in the habit of befriending slightly older women. Maternal figures leading bohemian lives within suburban parameters. Seekers abandoned in childhood by dead(beat) moms. Motherless daughters can sniff out other motherless daughters. We wear our stale deprivation like a discontinued perfume.
There was a guy called PixelMoth13 on a late-night forum saying, “Love is a wound that repeatedly tears and stitches itself back together.” I clicked like.
When I got back to your room, my makeup gone, wet strands of hair sticking to my back,
When I came of age, the rules were a little different. We were all facing the same battle back then, so it didn’t matter as much what labels we used for each other.
Rude Guy tortured me. I would go over to his house in ridiculously slutty outfits, and he would only open his door a crack, and give me a poetry quiz. Then he would let me in, but still not fuck me!
The snow is falling in big chunks, disguising the somber gray of the neighborhood I hate, Bushwick. I thought it’d grow on me by now, our second winter here; it hasn’t. On the street below is a bright
She was about three weeks into the East Hollywood apartment just a few blocks away south of Thai Town, which meant she was three weeks into a new life where the most consistent relationship she was
Key moments of our togetherness keep flashing before my eyes, lingering there.
Like, what the fuck is this dude’s problem?
You told me you understood when I tried to explain why my face was so pale, my eyes so sunken, my hands so shaky. I was sure I was crazy—you not only said I wasn’t crazy, but asked me point blank if I was a spy.
I got a tattoo on my ass at her behest.
We fumbled about with each other for a few years, but things blew over before we could settle into anything like conjugality.
Jaia Hamid Bashir spoke with Hobart editor, Breen Nolan, about her debut poetry collection, The Afterlife of Sweetness, how she sees the self as a kind of fiction and her love of making
