pedcandy (pedcandy) wrote in laced_loli,

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Bits and Pieces of my Recent Writing.

On stale mornings, the blasphemy of your eyes captures the instability of words that writhe out of my stain-smudged napkins, hidden within the dim-smoked glaze of a lamp light decorated on the walls of the cold corner cafe.
Only a single star spies on me at a bird's eye view. My cigarette's firey cherry is the only light that's bright shine could possibly compare in the oil-stained sky of mud and rainwater. I picture God opening a god-sized lipstick cap and dragging a long red makeup smear across the dirty air as a contrast. I sip and slurp a milky mixture of ice cream, strawberry and banana. I'm a pillowhead pajama girl, and boy do I wish I had a cigarette right now, I want the scratch of nicotine against the surface of my lung.
The stars twitch and tremble like kids with terret syndrome enacting a seizure.
The trees reach out to grab my face and I shrink low to the ground. I'm crawling up the pavement of the charcoal painted roadway like a lizard up a brick wall.
And the lights that light up the red glowing hand sign over the pedestrian crosswalk closely resembles that child-game "Brite Lite" thing.
All the street lights wink yellow at me making me aware that the norm is still in hiding.
The street lamplights reflect off the night sky revealing the promiscuous clouds that hang low, and I conclude that everyone was right about my head always being high up in the clouds.

I'm writing in watermelon lollipops and cigarette ash. I seemed to have inhabited a hellish habit of taking the unknown and imaginatively concocting all of the worst possible scenerios for a given situation, only the key difference is I don't invent unhappy outcomes as a defense mechanism, I invent them as a source of poison to lace my melancholy in. Misery loves company, they say. But when you are without a putty doll person to mold into a state of misery, you're left only with your own hated mentality that plays devil's advocate with your heart. I wore this really kick-ass knife in a sheath that velcros onto my arm today, it was all tomb-raider-esque. It was pretty fuckin' cool though, cause my hair was all messy and fucked up, my eyeliner smudged, and my lips were cracked & dry. I looked like a dangerous & violent heroin addict [Who says heroin chic isn't still in?] And the best part about it was - everyone left me the fuck alone, I didn't even care if someone had called the cops on me. Besides, I put my jacket on when i'd go out in the public. This weekend was spent in fractals of shades and brilliance moving up the walls, across the floor, in the sun, across the ocean...It was Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, Lucy and I had bonding time this weekend and I love her.
I was sitting in a cement playground for cars tonight over top a dirty lake tainted with mud and angry geese and i'm staring out across at the checkerboard hotel of lights in the deep of night, that seperate the night owls and oddities from the norm.

Now, i’m sitting in the café that’s turned menacing mainstream with a bitter stereotype to go with it. The place has changed since we’ve last known it. So many types of people that lack significance but each different, maybe not to the extent that I am, but still pieced together in a puzzle of abstract faces.

Some smoke cigarettes, some smoke cigars. Some hang out at nightclubs, some in bars. Some are on laptops and some here for the social atmosphere. I’m sipping bland-tasting coffee, at the typical “gay coffee shop” where I don’t fit. Not that I wouldn’t fuck a girl, but most of the café’s homosexual population in generically male.
The lampshade shadows brochures I’m not interested in, and local artist’s paintings hang crooked on the walls that are a whirlwind of purples and pinks; plums and berry blush.
Lonely older men sit with coffee and a long-since ashed cigarette, looking pathetic and alone: without a wife and without a phone. The music’s loud and the styles clash but that’s where they vacate; their places of refuge, their place of escape.
I feel like us 2 are the only souls in this place that have been painted in a brilliance of unique and vivid individualism, shocking others and standing out like a sore thumb. One brief millisecond of eye contact would make any particular atypical zombie aware of our zenith insane mentality.

Pixie sticks and bubble tape line my cigarette paper and my lighter is bubblegum pink to contrast the dirty slum streets of Baltimore. Taxicabs and boys in leather stroll by with a mission-accomplished aura within their bones.

The side-by-side houses are old and vintage surrounded by trees that vine and wither; moss covered and crazy-crooked. The buildings are stained and graffiti tainted with the aroma of heroin syringes and belt straps. Those antique street lantern lights line the back alley street named Broadway that contains slick small shops like “killer trash” and "9th Life", where the paints peeled and chipped and the brick is broken and out of place.

My first love and I are soon anticipating the exploration of these gutter-punk styled shops filled with rag doll clothes and fancy stained bows. Clothes made for girls who are tattered and torn, whose eyes once filled the silence, now replace gaps with violence. Girl’s whose makeup and their stockings have runs; who are bruised and beaten, aching and abused. The shops only cigarette smoking girls that wear red lipstick and combat boots would linger in.

I am exactly that girl: the lady Lazarus of the ego, who spends her free time in rainstorms and back alley cafés that are dim-lit and smoke hazed. I’m perfectly at home here, a tweaker tarped tease among the sewer rats and alley cats, walking the oil-slick city streets with a painted face, like I own the place.
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