Splattered Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
all-what-is-left-of-her-beauty-is-a-splattered-mess
get-off-you-look-ugly-to-blood-splattered-player-during-game-peter-marshall
i-wanted-to-keep-these-trunks-as-souvenir-now-look-at-them-they-were-splattered-with-blood-muhammad-ali
so-much-depends-upon-blue-car-splattered-with-mud-speeding-down-road-sharon-creech
sometimes-i-wake-up-in-middle-night-find-poetry-splattered-all-over-my-bed-sanober-khan
she-needed-to-get-out-there-her-brains-thankfully-were-still-safely-in-her-skull-but-her-emotions-were-splattered-on-pavement-francine-pascal
i-tried-to-walk-into-target-but-i-missed-i-think-entrance-to-target-should-have-people-splattered-all-around-mitch-hedberg
shouts-dismay-rose-as-red-flesh-splattered-against-table-it-was-only-tomato-but-one-would-think-i-was-pulping-decaying-heart-by-noise-big-strong-fib-officers-were-making-kim-harr
the-door-swung-open-kate-walked-in-her-jeans-tshirt-were-splattered-with-blood-she-was-carrying-severed-vampire-head-the-tshirt-has-smiley-face-ilona-andrews
i-wanted-to-study-graphic-design-because-i-wanted-to-work-in-office-with-designer-desks-ergonomic-chairs-pool-tables-walls-colorful-it-looks-like-flock-flamingoes-exploded-splatt
its-lost-lonely-kind-feeling-to-wake-up-wearing-disguise-i-lie-in-bed-staring-at-ceiling-i-dont-know-who-i-am-theres-little-that-i-can-fully-recognize-but-im-taking-small-steps-c
what-happened-next-i-retain-nothing-from-those-terrible-minutes-except-indistinct-memories-which-flash-into-my-mind-with-sudden-brutality-like-apparitions-among-bursts-scenes-vis
People are afraid to merge on freeways in Los Angeles. This is the first thing I hear when I come back to the city. Blair picks me up from LAX and mutters this under her breath as she drives up the onramp. She says, "People are afraid to merge on freeways in Los Angeles." Though that sentence shouldn't bother me, it stays in my mind for an uncomfortably long time. Nothing else seems to matter. Not the fact that I'm eighteen and it's December and the ride on the plane had been rough and the couple from Santa Barbara, who were sitting across from me in first class, had gotten pretty drunk. Not the mud that had splattered on the legs of my jeans, which felt kind of cold and loose, earlier that day at an airport in New Hampshire. Not the stain on the arm of the wrinkled, damp shirt I wear, a shirt which looked fresh and clean this morning. Not the tear on the neck of my gray argyle vest, which seems vaguely more eastern than before, especially next to Blair's clean tight jeans and her pale-blue shirt. All of this seems irrelevant next to that one sentence. It seems easier to hear that people are afraid to merge than "I'm pretty sure Muriel is anorexic" or the singer on the radio crying out about magnetic waves. Nothing else seems to matter to me but those ten words. Not the warm winds, which seem to propel the car down the empty asphalt freeway, or the faded smell of marijuana which still faintly permeates Blaire's car. All it comes down to is the fact that I'm a boy coming home for a month and meeting someone whom I haven't seen for four months and people are afraid to merge.

Bret Easton Ellis
people-are-afraid-to-merge-on-freeways-in-los-angeles-this-is-first-thing-i-hear-when-i-come-back-to-city-blair-picks-me-up-from-lax-mutters-this-under-her-breath-as-she-drives-u
STAINS With red clay between my toes, and the sun setting over my head, the ghost of my mother blows in, riding on a honeysuckle breeze, oh lord, riding on a honeysuckle breeze. Her teeth, the keys of a piano. I play her grinning ivory notes with cadenced fumbling fingers, splattered with paint, textured with scars. A song rises up from the belly of my past and rocks me in the bosom of buried memories. My mama's dress bears the stains of her life: blueberries, blood, bleach, and breast milk; She cradles in her arms a lifetime of love and sorrow; Its brilliance nearly blinds me. My fingers tire, as though I've played this song for years. The tune swells red, dying around the edges of a setting sun. A magnolia breeze blows in strong, a heavenly taxi sent to carry my mother home. She will not say goodbye. For there is no truth in spoken farewells. I am pregnant with a poem, my life lost in its stanzas. My mama steps out of her dress and drops it, an inheritance falling to my feet. She stands alone: bathed, blooming, burdened with nothing of this world. Her body is naked and beautiful, her wings gray and scorched, her brown eyes piercing the brown of mine. I watch her departure, her flapping wings: She doesn't look back, not even once, not even to whisper my name: Brenda. I lick the teeth of my piano mouth. With a painter's hands, with a writer's hands with rusty wrinkled hands, with hands soaked in the joys, the sorrows, the spills of my mother's life, I pick up eighty-one years of stains And pull her dress over my head. Her stains look good on me.

Brenda Sutton Rose
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