Write about the frivolous and the amorous, the obsessive and the vain, and after that write nothing more— no armchair analysis or applied logic feigned.
Write about everything languid and sticky and sleeping around, everything inclined to luxuriate, everything stuck underground.
Write about party girl wisdom, about speed and empty space— about sleeping all alone, bites of lamb, boys playing bass.
Write about unlocked medicine cabinets and the sweat formed between crossed legs. Write about tiny dishes of escargot and the way my mother fries her eggs.
Write about it feeling weak to lie and feeling selfish to pray. Write about it feeling holy to eat a fig and like sex to mold wet clay.
Write about being born blue in the desert where there’s never any water. Write about arched doorways and backs, what it’s like to be the only daughter.
Write about leopard print couches and the brand of beer she likes to drink, write about men with strong hands and cutting bad bangs over a 2am sink.
Write about fortune cookies, sacral chakras, and crying in string bikinis. Write about what it feels like to eat takeout topless or purge seven dry martinis.
Write about baby-hair halos, white teeth, and bad luck. Write about how leaky faucets can be lullabies and about how people always fight like they fuck.
Write about women and bodies, bare midriffs and thighs. Write about girls who overdose on whatever in strange apartments in Van Nuys.
Write about my butterfly pussy and whole milk tasting best from a carton. Write about bong rips and bathtubs and being drunk in a beautiful garden.
Write about wet braids and methods to excavate a crystallized nose— about Benadryl, mohair sweaters, and being on LSD at Trader Joe’s.
Write about eating cereal in the dark and smoking cloves in red tights. Write about sable fur coats and the ancient urge to die diving from great heights.
Write about palm trees on fire and lungs caked in tar, write about Russian blue cats and Ambien, my twelve year old scar.
Write about the solar plexus, harsh tan lines, unbrushed brown hair. Write about eating Farfalle out of the pot in my Hollywood lair.
Write about snapdragons and the pancake at the Tower Hotel. Write about Mayakovsky and the Long Beach witch casting a $5 spell.
Write about indented red skin from wearing underwear too tight. Write about matted neck hair and the way it feels to be a woman in all white.
Write about hearts and dead snakes, both preserved in small jars, and the wink I give God when men drive me too fast in cars.
Write about suicidal club promoters and botched women in Gaultier— about the aesthetics of sex and how my ex boyfriend is fucking gay.
Write about the kinds of jeans that rhinestone cowgirls buy. Write about how it feels to watch a beauty pageant when I’m high.
Write about angels carved from quartz and pretty girls with bad tattoos. Write about little jewel box rooms and every new blue ankle bruise.
Write about killings in dreams, about bright clean cuts through thick red skins. Write about wrath, pride, greed, lust and all the other sins.
Write about the honest and the vital, the ordinary and the plain. And after that write nothing more, for there is nothing beautiful left to explain.
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