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(Selected 80s movie one-liners from a kind of script I’m writing with William Forsythe’s Out for Justice character in mind. Freebase nuptials between him, his beloved, and the now antagonized Segal.)

We purr so witch beneath the ice. Who else coos this radioactively big? My parasites are under construction.

I want to sum you up with a bowtie. Advice so profitable my lover’s tears won’t stay herpetic in their holster.

This piece of shit keeps orgasming in his tourniquet. He leaves his garden hose on on the sidewalk. This motherfucker dribbles snow. He bothers alarm clocks, but I’m the bastard woke up screaming. I promise those kempt free of crime never sate. Never deal with their veneer. Couldn’t breech the object as it destroys you for the best. No hero’s ever swapped their merchandise for heart. Declare that shit a thump without cliché. Think he elates his pets wealthier than their bowl? Spiffy about life? A bit of thwarted glory nine to five? Which fucking juice box did you administer?

You one of the tawnier chicklets I collect today? Offer me fat discourse concerning your almighty self? The public won’t extend your credit from a sandwich bag.

Welcome to the rest of your keloid! I will jot your family into their pizza. Molest the fucking blacksmith that forged your badge. I can tell it’s someone’s favorite bladder.

I bet even your psychologist calls you bulletproof. The fancier the tattletale the more it’s everyone.

You know that overall existence feeling? We’re kind of sitting ducks in stereo, like homo sapiens mistakenly evolved a consciousness, the squish-pattern echo of big bang, onward from stasis, our synapses just disguised, itinerant star guano death rattling? We have a great talent for carrying ourselves from magic to fertilizer. I’m all about our full potential as fertilizer, but that’s too optimistic.

You’re worse off than the cross around your neck.

I only kiss a son of a bitch to place them underground. At least your product’s sweet. Shit’s the pinnacle. It supposed to reissue belly buttons this hard?

Ever feel vulnerable under tanning lights?

Can’t step backward through your diarrhea without leaving prints.

Gotta audition for your flatline, boy. He’s performed a misdemeanor in the sauna. Everyone dies far too endured.

We gonna honeymoon in our carrion

Bet you could spit shine a T-Rex. I fuck like the globe’s solution. You of a mind? I’m done tripping over hello. Perhaps I could dunk myself in you like a tactful guest? May we disregard a chromosome or two?

The sun got mislaid, contracted the blueprints for a spark. It was pregnant with me, back when pregnancy was a thing. You had to close your eyes to reach gravity. There is no lucent doing I concur with. No such glow. Unless my scars twinkle when I screw.

I wrote a chapbook today.

sext: 1996 Romeo and Juliet is tacky as fuck and hella 90s but I think it’s perfect.

Wouldn’t it be really cool to just lay in a field

Feeling like a less coordinated Ms. Frizzle.

Remember the time I was asked to do a poetry reading and instead of reading I just cried on stage into a microphone for 8 minutes and wiped snot and tears on my sleeve before walking to the back of the bookstore and crying more.

It’s kind of hard to believe good things are happening to you when you’ve been conditioned to believe that good things aren’t supposed to happen to you.

Yeah but, how do you feel about my brand.

A bird just took a shit in my hair. ‪#‎awp2015‬

Note to self: I am going to die.

I write narcissislit. Can you not fuck with my aesthetic.

Feeling like a first season Nancy Botwin.

Basically my life has become a longform version of Don’t Tell Mom The Babysitter’s Dead and I am Christina Applegate except I’m working for a neuroscientist instead of a company that makes ugly uniforms.

Talking to people in real life is hard because I can’t just send them a blue cat sticker when I don’t know how to respond.

My name is Alexandra Naughton and you can find me on facebook commenting on a status near you.

When D. called me the last time before I left, he was drunk and explaining a fight with a cab driver. He was coming back from a wedding. I heard the story in parts.

He had a bleeding leg, didn’t have cab fare, was coming from far away, where the wedding was, or something. I’m not an excellent listener.

I left my apartment to go to him. I took a cab.

He had burned a pizza. It smelled.

He played a song over and over. He asked me to dance. I did.

When it is the end, you succumb to people.

In between moments, he built a tower of a box and another box and a distortion pedal. It was twice our collective size. It dwarfed us.

He repeated. Don’t you see? Don’t you get it?

When we fell asleep, his sweat was alcohol. It stuck to me.

A. texted me the next morning. She said, Is everything ok?

I couldn’t find a sheet of paper to leave a note. I used a one dollar bill. It said, Please take care of yourself. I signed my name. I used a dash before it.

There is a part of yourself you go to when you feel alone with other people. It is calm, like a river running through you.

Weeks before, I admired a painting D. had above his bed, commissioned by a semi-famous New York artist. We looked at the painting together. I said, This is a cool painting. It is cool you have this painting.

We held one another.

I said more. It was an addendum. I said, My friend J. has a painting by another semi-famous New York artist.

In the early stages of knowing D., I had lunch with J. at a midtown restaurant. We ate dessert and smiled. J. said, I like D. Tell D. I like him. I said, Okay. I will.

When J. returned from a transformative vacation, he texted me my own name. It said, A. That was the introduction to the message. It was a different river. I let it run over my skin.

My father has a dead son. He tells a story about how he lost him.

In the story, he is on a gurney, after a car accident, pushed past the doorway of a hospital room where my mother is waking from consciousness. My father’s father is in the room. His head is in the lap of my mother. There is the white of his hair, falling over her, crying. Your son is dead. My father’s father is telling her the news. My father is watching.

She is half conscious. She is stroking his hair.

My father is looking through the frame of the door. I picture it crisp and fluorescent. A lit up room you see but do not enter. Once removed.

Here is what he says when he tells the story. Here is the endpoint. How could I not love this woman.

She lost the only thing. And she is stroking white, falling hair.

Before D. danced with me, rocking back and forth, we stood at opposite ends of a studio apartment. He listed reasons I should leave him. I asked the important questions.

The song kept playing. Each time, before it ended, he restarted it.

“Well nothing ever ends up quite like what you planned.”

There were other lyrics too.

D. let his body fall and rise. I let him hold me to the background of the stack of boxes. When it was morning, I was there, standing and watching him sleep, holding onto my own name.