Thursday, August 27, 2009

Salted Satire

My writing style seems to change depending on my current state of mind, at the moment it is a Noel Coward play, an arranged marriage from the 1930s squashed into a dank basement, discomfort and satire fighting for supremacy over bad curtains and the smell of gas. How nauseating.
I need to add a little trash, shake things about just enough to make my head a reasonably pleasant place to be, I need a little voodoo, a touch of chewing tobacco and a humid evening with a bright moon.
I need salty warm skin and sexual tension; I’m so over fog and guilt and repressed desires, ugh.

1 comment:

Shelly said...

Your writing warms my soul in way that even Kit Kat peanut butter chunky bars don't x