SEVENTY TWO WORDS

One Hundred and Thirty Nine

noreply@blogger.com (King Princess) — Mon, 11 May 2009 21:18:00 +0000

A cry of metallic pain and then nothing. A man hangs from the railings of a fifth floor balcony, spanning the brick like poison ivy as a reel of coloured birthday banner floats to the ground to wait beneath him. He wriggles to outdated beats as his fingers squeeze steel in hope. He is going to die to the music of Tom Jones. Strangers are gathering. They wait for him to fall.

One Hundred and Thirty Eight

noreply@blogger.com (King Princess) — Mon, 11 May 2009 21:16:00 +0000

I shook and shook and shook and finally she awoke, screaming. “It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay” I assured her, the words falling out of my mouth like globs of yogurt. “You were fussing, crying out – you were having a bad dream.” “No!” she said. “I was swimming in the river with God. It was beautiful.” “Where was I?” I asked. “You? You were here, shaking down the walls of my utopia.”

One Hundred and Thirty Seven

noreply@blogger.com (Simian Sam) — Mon, 11 May 2009 03:38:00 +0000

My boss’s boss has one of those old man faces that are so fascinatingly disgusting and exotic that no one can listen to what the person is saying. Wondering at his mysterious pustules, ancient teeth, impossible jowls, and great forests of nose hair - all quivering with each word -is removing me from this stupid meeting. If I had Spider-Man powers I could leap out that window and swing myself to you.

One Hundred and Thirty Six

noreply@blogger.com (King Princess) — Tue, 21 Apr 2009 01:27:00 +0000

I once made lists of the most glamorous ways to die, followed by graphs plotting those ways versus length of time the people in my life would grieve. For example, my mother would mourn longer if I got struck by lightning than my brother would if I contracted rabies. I believe I would get the most grieving hours (out of anyone) from Andrew if I jumped off a building. He’d feel guilty.

One Hundred and Thirty Five

noreply@blogger.com (King Princess) — Tue, 21 Apr 2009 01:23:00 +0000

Would you love me if I were named Astrophil? I asked and you said, no, hell no, and I knew what you meant. You have a chin like a butterfly knife, I said, and wrists like little butterfly knives. Teach me about everything, the loose vice of your tooth on my chin. We tried making love, but you said, yes, yes, and I turned over, apologized. I get it, you said. Clever.

One Hundred and Thirty Four

noreply@blogger.com (King Princess) — Tue, 21 Apr 2009 01:18:00 +0000

You could kill me really easily like that, I tell him, and a second later, What the fuck? inside my head. I really should think before I speak. All I meant was, with his arm around my shoulder and his hand cupping my chin, it wouldn’t take much force at all, should he so decide, to snap my neck and leave me dangling, limp and lifeless, in the crook of his elbow.

One Hundred and Thirty Three

noreply@blogger.com (King Princess) — Sun, 08 Mar 2009 03:49:00 +0000

That sure was a rough season. Seemed like the pigs wouldn’t eat, the chickens wouldn’t lay, and the seeds just didn’t want to sprout. Even the damn ducks were giving us dirty looks. Unpleasant and unprofitable. That season I went down to the library and borrowed a book and we taught ourselves Wooshlian. Everyone on the farm gets along fine now that we communicate. You can’t just keep things bottled up inside.

One Hundred and Thirty Two

noreply@blogger.com (King Princess) — Sun, 08 Mar 2009 03:48:00 +0000

A mosaic of ice rests on the mucky murky water. The river is hair gel, thickgoopy stillness. The tiles are green depression glass found at yard-sales fashioned into pretty pitchers, cake platters, serving plates. But these tiles are broken bits of pitchers platters plates. They are varied, crackledspiky, chunkyfull, splinteredcutting. I use old-time pincers to bite the ice and rearrange them as my bending brain plucks out a dragon’s head, tulip, top-hat.

One Hundred and Thirty One

noreply@blogger.com (King Princess) — Sun, 08 Mar 2009 03:46:00 +0000

My skis cross. The snow lifts off the mountain. The sky is the floor. I plow through the air. The aspens are men in suits jotting notes. The forest skates towards me. A voice rumbles like a snowmobile. A red vest lifts me into a tree and drags a cloud over my face. I stretch out on a bed of signposts. I crack like ice and splinter my fingers. I am awake.

One Hundred and Thirty

noreply@blogger.com (King Princess) — Sun, 08 Mar 2009 03:44:00 +0000

Did I mention that I am cockroach phobic? We are on a train in Munich. My friend, she is a happy girl; sings a lot. We have cold hands. She is humming 'La Cucaracha.' A German man opposite smiles, says to us in English 'You know what the name of that song means?' We do not. 'The cockroach!'

He's wearing all orange. Ski clothes. He kind of looks like a large cockroach.

One Hundred and Twenty Nine

noreply@blogger.com (King Princess) — Sun, 08 Mar 2009 03:42:00 +0000

He’s there, just right there. My mind flashes with images of my first bloody nose, fruit on the floor, awkward wrestling positions, bad hair experiments, and spontaneous caressing of my cars air-freshener at red lights. I have to ask, like puking, the question falls effortlessly from my mouth. “Are we still friends?” He just turns and walks, taking a piece of my heart along with him. I think “what now;” what next?

One Hundred and Twenty Eight

noreply@blogger.com (King Princess) — Sun, 08 Mar 2009 03:34:00 +0000

the crow watches her with a suspicion that doesn’t acknowledge boundaries. he plays out scenes in which they marry, he sings to her and then feeds her to the sparrows. a threat to his kingdom; he holds her as close as a bird must hold their enemies in days such as these ones.
he reads her thoughts; scared by their shared daydreams. this girl must be kept within a very tight rein.

One Hundred and Twenty Seven

noreply@blogger.com (King Princess) — Sun, 08 Mar 2009 03:31:00 +0000

I am organic. If you were to cut me open right this moment, I would bleed green spiders and patchy brown worms. But I wouldn’t bleed to death. I’d recycle some older skin from behind my ears and maybe behind my knees, too, in order to cover the gash. Then I would go about my business as my body healed itself within every ounce of earth between my hair and my toenails.

One Hundred and Twenty Six

noreply@blogger.com (King Princess) — Sun, 08 Mar 2009 03:29:00 +0000

Showing both sides of his smile to prove it is free of strings and magnets he places it over his fangs and swallows, the smile hollowing the flesh of his face, vacuuming his hair, gobbling through his stomach and intestines until you don’t even want to see its inevitable reappearance but before your amused grin slips, it floats in the middle of the stage, smiling with whatever authenticity it stamps him with.

One Hundred and Twenty Five

noreply@blogger.com (King Princess) — Thu, 05 Feb 2009 22:46:00 +0000

This Wednesday the woman on the el across from me is reading an Amy Tan novel. She looks up, glances at me with her watery blue eyes, then returns to the page. She does this often, taking me in, as if sipping from a cup of tea. She doesn't seem to notice that I am watching her watch me. I wonder what she thinks she is seeing. I feel seen and unseen.

One Hundred and Twenty Four

noreply@blogger.com (Simian Sam) — Mon, 26 Jan 2009 17:22:00 +0000

As The Atom flew through The Internet, dodging fractions of friend requests and pieces of pornography, he wondered about the mood of his wife and what dinner might be. He popped out of his laptop’s USB port and caught a ride on the cat to the kitchen. Fat , fragrant red spaghetti molecules smacked his face as he peered up from the cat’s back. He knew he was in for a lovely evening.

We Are Thinking About Printing A Book Of 72's

noreply@blogger.com (King Princess) — Sun, 25 Jan 2009 06:38:00 +0000

You can hold it in your hand and show it to your parents. The size/contents of the book [print-only 72's? artwork?] will rely on what money we have, which right now, is zero dollars. If you like this website and/or desire a book, please consider donating. There's a button to your right if you scroll down, it's marked KP. Thank you for reading! [This post is still seventy two words.]

One Hundred and Twenty Three

noreply@blogger.com (King Princess) — Sun, 25 Jan 2009 06:36:00 +0000

He took off his helmet, and for a second, seemed like one of us. The same damp tread marks striping his peppery hair could be found on the soft skull of our own quarterback. He blew into his hands and I thought, yeah, that's probably what I'd do if I were throwing a football in December. And we clapped when this man fell. God, should I send him a card or something?

One Hundred and Twenty Two

noreply@blogger.com (King Princess) — Sun, 25 Jan 2009 06:34:00 +0000

The old man in the apartment next to mine speaks to me through his coughing. He looks unkempt, like the kind of man who doesn't take care of himself very well. Every night I hear his coughs through the wall, and other than this, we have no interaction. I hear him coughing, and I imagine that he is coughing directly to me, whispering "this is what life will do to you, boy."

One Hundred and Twenty One

noreply@blogger.com (King Princess) — Sun, 25 Jan 2009 06:10:00 +0000

Last night I dreamt that Natalie Portman asked for my phone number in a fancy restaurant in Los Angeles in front of everyone. She called me the next day and we went to a Wu Tang concert. And Ol' Dirty Bastard wasn't dead. I was ecstatic. The next morning Ms. Portman called me again and told me she was pregnant. We got married by noon and I was filthy rich by dark.

One Hundred and Twenty

noreply@blogger.com (King Princess) — Sun, 25 Jan 2009 06:05:00 +0000

I was flying over the beach the other day when it occurred to me that while I truly delight in being the only human capable of unaided flight, it does get a little lonesome sometimes, way up there in the wild blue yonder, with the horizon close enough to touch and the salt spray of the sea so invitingly fresh, and all the people so far down below. I wave too often.

One Hundred and Nineteen

noreply@blogger.com (King Princess) — Wed, 14 Jan 2009 00:36:00 +0000

It was as if the inner circumference of X's vast, spherical head were composed of one long, narrow road snaking, shifting and tangling into a coagulated mass of hopelessly inefficient transport purposed for aiding a tiny bespectacled man on a rusty unicycle, pencil stub behind his tufted ear, peddling fervently through dips, valleys and cobwebs in a desperate attempt to animate X's correct linguistic functions in a relatively timely and inconspicuous fashion.

One Hundred and Eighteen

noreply@blogger.com (Simian Sam) — Fri, 09 Jan 2009 03:56:00 +0000

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Zeus boomed as he thundered into the room.

Hera held her lover tightly but not very tightly. She also held her husband’s seething stare as the all hairs in the area stood due to ions pouring from Zeus’s gritted teeth and ears.

“Not what,” she said, “but who.” She pinched her frightened mate’s left buttock, which contains his fifty-first fluttering eye.

“Ow,” said Argus.

One Hundred and Seventeen

noreply@blogger.com (King Princess) — Fri, 09 Jan 2009 03:51:00 +0000

IV.

Secondly, I am interested in the sounds humans produce by placing themselves upon tools and sculpting these sounds so that when presented before an audience, these specific vibrations, collected and organized just so, reveal to other humans humanity, thereby: 1) condensing the abstract into a single digestible unit, 2) effectively articulating a microcosm depicting all things alive, and 3) dispensing with cumbersome language altogether, making this human-composer a form of the future.

One Hundred and Sixteen

noreply@blogger.com (King Princess) — Fri, 09 Jan 2009 03:48:00 +0000

It too is alive. It is candy white with bluish eyes, hosting unprecedented abuse and love. With four balding limbs it loyally keeps traction as it snarls around the bends. Changing gears ever so swiftly it pulls away with vigorous confidence and tear shedding acceleration towards the next corner. It only eats premium. With two hundred rampaging German engineered horsepower on tap and race bred suspension it too is alive. My GTI.