In the early 1990s, after a long feud over land development in Hunter S. Thompson’s home village of Woody Creek, computer software multi-millionaire Floyd Watkins accused Hunter of firing “forty shots, then about five rounds from a shotgun” at his ranch at 4am. A Mexican stand-off between Watkins and Thompson ensued until police arrived.Unfortunately, Hunter was on probation at the time after shooting at an errant ball during a golf game with TV newsman Ed Bradley and so a cover story was needed. Said Hunter: “I was out in front of Watkins’ and I was charged by this gigantic porcupine. It came right at me, running at about 20 miles an hour. It lunged at me. I had to blast it. I’ve never seen anything so vicious.”Said Braudis later: “I asked, ‘Couldn’t you do better than a killer porcupine?’ The man was a creative genius.”

In the early 1990s, after a long feud over land development in Hunter S. Thompson’s home village of Woody Creek, computer software multi-millionaire Floyd Watkins accused Hunter of firing “forty shots, then about five rounds from a shotgun” at his ranch at 4am. A Mexican stand-off between Watkins and Thompson ensued until police arrived.

Unfortunately, Hunter was on probation at the time after shooting at an errant ball during a golf game with TV newsman Ed Bradley and so a cover story was needed. Said Hunter: “I was out in front of Watkins’ and I was charged by this gigantic porcupine. It came right at me, running at about 20 miles an hour. It lunged at me. I had to blast it. I’ve never seen anything so vicious.”

Said Braudis later: “I asked, ‘Couldn’t you do better than a killer porcupine?’ The man was a creative genius.”

'First of all, love is a joint experience between two persons — but the fact that it is a joint experience does not mean that it is a similar experience to the two people involved. There are the lover and the beloved, but these two come from different countries. Often the beloved is only a stimulus for all the stored-up love which had lain quiet within the lover for a long time hitherto. And somehow every lover knows this. He feels in his soul that his love is a solitary thing. He comes to know a new, strange loneliness and it is this knowledge which makes him suffer. So there is only one thing for the lover to do. He must house his love within himself as best he can; he must create for himself a whole new inward world — a world intense and strange, complete in himself. Let it be added here that this lover about whom we speak need not necessarily be a young man saving for a wedding ring — this lover can be man, woman, child, or indeed any human creature on this earth. Now, the beloved can also be of any description. The most outlandish people can be the stimulus for love. A man may be a doddering great-grandfather and still love only a strange girl he saw in the streets of Cheehaw one afternoon two decades past. The preacher may love a fallen woman. The beloved may be treacherous, greasy-headed, and given to evil habits. Yes, and the lover may see this as clearly as anyone else — but that does not affect the evolution of his love one whit. A most mediocre person can be the object of a love which is wild, extravagant, and beautiful as the poison lilies of the swamp. A good man may be the stimulus for a love both violent and debased, or a jabbering madman may bring about in the soul of someone a tender and simple idyll. Therefore, the value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself. It is for this reason that most of us would rather love than be loved. Almost everyone wants to be the lover. And the curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being beloved is intolerable to many. The beloved fears and hates the lover, and with the best of reasons. For the lover is forever trying to strip bare his beloved. The lover craves any possible relation with the beloved, even if this experience can cause him only pain.’ — Carson McCullers, The Ballad of the Sad Café and Other Stories

'First of all, love is a joint experience between two persons — but the fact that it is a joint experience does not mean that it is a similar experience to the two people involved. There are the lover and the beloved, but these two come from different countries. Often the beloved is only a stimulus for all the stored-up love which had lain quiet within the lover for a long time hitherto. And somehow every lover knows this. He feels in his soul that his love is a solitary thing. He comes to know a new, strange loneliness and it is this knowledge which makes him suffer. So there is only one thing for the lover to do. He must house his love within himself as best he can; he must create for himself a whole new inward world — a world intense and strange, complete in himself. Let it be added here that this lover about whom we speak need not necessarily be a young man saving for a wedding ring — this lover can be man, woman, child, or indeed any human creature on this earth.

Now, the beloved can also be of any description. The most outlandish people can be the stimulus for love. A man may be a doddering great-grandfather and still love only a strange girl he saw in the streets of Cheehaw one afternoon two decades past. The preacher may love a fallen woman. The beloved may be treacherous, greasy-headed, and given to evil habits. Yes, and the lover may see this as clearly as anyone else — but that does not affect the evolution of his love one whit. A most mediocre person can be the object of a love which is wild, extravagant, and beautiful as the poison lilies of the swamp. A good man may be the stimulus for a love both violent and debased, or a jabbering madman may bring about in the soul of someone a tender and simple idyll. Therefore, the value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself.

It is for this reason that most of us would rather love than be loved. Almost everyone wants to be the lover. And the curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being beloved is intolerable to many. The beloved fears and hates the lover, and with the best of reasons. For the lover is forever trying to strip bare his beloved. The lover craves any possible relation with the beloved, even if this experience can cause him only pain.’

— Carson McCullers, The Ballad of the Sad Café and Other Stories

"Pre-Marital Arts" by Elaine Leong

You’re a heartbreak through con-artist the way you 
lie in bed, 
      a blind spot in the periphery of my dilated 
                  I’s. 
And there’s never enough ours for us 
enduring the weak days, 
running your hands along my hourglass figure
            —— what a waist of time
 you say. 

But darling, we’re larger than some of your parts, 
and how
 they break my art! 
The way you illicit touch,
       very clandestine, very wicked,
my spine softens and wilts. 
          Our bodies turn, a slumbering limb 
tilts —

                    Is it okay if I fall in love before I fall asleep? 

You know, humans have the shortest tension span during sex.
They can’t handle the friction, the confliction, 
the eventual eviction—  
            so they make out and break up. 
I call it the premature evacuation. 
An immaculate contraception the way people co-lapse, 
        ephemeral lovers-in-arms
      All I want is for someone to carry me over the flesh hold.   

    But before I do, before 
you, I was the solo master baiter—-
    a hunter, a God-hater, a marriage-ain’t-er, but then 
I praeyed upon you, 
                     ”Aman! Finally— What a catch!"  
I said. 
  They don’t call it a hook-up for no reason.

Still, our heartbeats the other’s up.  
Monday, mourning, you say, 
                    "Date night bores me, want to frequent home base?”
You’re breathing, borderline yawning and yet, this sudden tone
of haste— 

           ”Marry me?”

You saboteur! 
             Denying me,  

     Are you the hymn to my err?

Load More