http://slow.writerscafe.org/Rubbish The original writings of author Rachel Sayer en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776029555 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15  We’re characters in film noiras we sit smoking cigarettes,one after another. It hurts too much to look downat the odd collection of starkwhite figures littering the tar,remnants of what we meant. So we stare at our fingers instead,stiff and turning blueo.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Rubbish/238870/ Three girls are safe for now,in a tragic photograph.Nearly naked, they cling to each otherwith pursed lips and toughening hearts.In a lonely unfaithful world, they will survive for a whileby holding hands. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Rubbish/228502/ It was the way you askedif you could turn the light on—you sounded for all the worldlike a little child afraid of the dark.And for a long moment I saw you a young boy in Ecuador,groping through your choza in blackness,golden-brown hands searching for your mother. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Rubbish/228498/ You’re awfully sorrybut you’re always the same.These Accidental Injuriesare killing us slowly,and this is homicide from the inside—it’s no wonder we’re Very Afraid when we’re so terribly fondof pinching each other’s hearts,forcing pink to evo.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Rubbish/228496/ He wears his wrinkled shirts unbottoned,and his tennis shoes tied all the way.Headphones hold his reeling head together,and his hand grips an old cassette player,an artifact that proves his hallucinationswere at one time almost believable.He couldn’t be more than five-foot four,s.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Rubbish/227212/ ...another true story... http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Rubbish/227211/ Every word has lost its meaningas a brisk October wind pavesdry salt paths on my face,which your fingers travel like faithful pilgrims.Hesitantly standing outside the desolate restaurantYou kiss me again and again.At three o'clock in the morning, it's much too late,just like our in.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Rubbish/227207/ they don't give a damn,cigarettes in hand,the land wasting awayunder their watchful eyes,with lies kept convenientlyin their pockets.behinds their eyes,in their sockets,sometimes you see themshowing through the thin parts.they have now neitherfriends nor enemiesso die uncanny.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Rubbish/227170/ He had Jesus on his right shoulderand four cards up his sleeves,marijuana leaves in the glove departmentand a burned notebook of dreams.He loved things in a particular order—his mother, his pit-bull; whiskey.His friends came and went, but the important thing was that he was loy.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Rubbish/227159/ When the hornets swarmed around your headand your thoughts hovered somewhere underneath the cloud—when the shouts of the mob were reduced to a low incessant buzzand for all your swatting it would not stop—when you were strumming out flat chords and driving out to nowhere, looki.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Rubbish/227096/ I do not even write fromNew York orSan Francisco.Whatever I say is nothingyou don’t already know,nothing you haven’t seen.I met a man this summerat the bar, dressed in Levi’sand thick greasy glasses.Rob the Author gave me a copy of his “best work,”.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Rubbish/227056/