It’s all I need—it’s all I want. I want to be free of the creaks and squeaks that have begun to rupture my being. Pour some oil on my fragile soul. Pour some oil on the tattered human that I have become. Make me new again, make me beautiful. Wanting to thrive, no longer wanting to be antique…
It drips off your hair, 3 days of unwashed depression, and out of your car’s engine. We are not so different from that machine that carries us to unforseen destinations, are we?
fish and chips
the newspaper they came wrapped in
beaches
imaginary creatures
playing with me in the waves.
rocks and rock pools
the sound of the ocean applauding
or is it giants snoring?
When I think of oil, I think about my cabinet, full of various cooking oils–olive oil, canola oil, vegetable oil—and I think–why don’t I stir-fry more? I love stir fried vegetables and rice with a light sauce. I can do that!
arrayed unspoken and un-dimensional and a foggy vision
clear the screen then go again
my fractional personal self-imperialism
boreholes — prices — digging to the end
timeline of the far future
The thing about tomorrow is that you never think its coming. Its always just…tomorrow. Not now, not yesterday, not something you can ever know, so you just kind forget, push it out of your mind till its not something you ever consider, not really, its not now and it wont ever ever ever be, so what does it matter? Yeah. What does it matter. Until.
oil, they fought about it, they killed children, animals, just for black gold. Then when it ran out, they ran out of reasons to hate it each other. NO! They didn’t! They found new causes to hurt, maim, kill! Oil, gold, water, air….Everything is precious on earth so is LIFE
The oil dripped from the table, making a small puddle on the floor, as the bottle rolled off the edge to join it there. Scraps of his salad were all over the room; his plate lying next to the sofa, the rest of the tableware in disarray. Franco looked at Marcia, holding the knife, her hands trembling. He could see the rage in her eyes, the sense of betrayal. He regretted his mistake immediately. She had been talking about her mother’s special salad dressing since he had arrived that evening, and he was a fool to even think of adding olive oil to it.
wow, what a terrible word. Oil? gross.. all i can think of is oil spills in the ocean or whatever. poor little penguins. or oil on auto repairers .. I cannot think of the word. mechanics. they stain all their clothes with oil. and its nearly impossible to get off.
Not suWe started gore why we still have an oil lamp sitting on the counter top, considering the rest of the cabin has modern appliances. I think it resembles our reluctance to let go of the 20-year-old memories this cabin has. We started going when i was 7, and this same oil lamp burned the shit out of my sister one year.
The harder I scrub, the more you spread. You sink in my pores, unfurl and wrap around my fingers and wrists as I vigorously shake and scrap and tear at my skin in futile attempts to stop the suffocating stick of you from embedding itself in my skin, my tissue, my bones. My fragile arteries betray me and bring your poison to the pulsating meaty organ that resides in my chest- unprotected and waiting. And I watch myself destruct, inside out. I let myself be obliterated into a pile of rotting flesh and burning possibilities. I let you fill me and ruin me. You didn’t force yourself in. I let you.
The oil spill in the Gulf proved detrimental to many creatures living in the vast ecosystem, but none more than the ducks, whose beaks dripping in the black substance were unable to reproduce or travel or have any discernible quality of life.
Oil is just a dirtier form of liquid money. It causes conflict, fighting, killing, and betrayal. All for money and resources. It’s sort of chicken and the egg in terms of whether the real issue is the money or the oil here.
His hair shone with the black grease he continued to slick it back with. It scent was overwhelming, almost as pungent as the aftershave he refused to stop wearing, despite its tendency to burn the nostrils.
Oil dripped from his hands as he fell to the floor. Tears mixed with the oil that was now pooling below him, separating into little puddles that trapped the rainbow.
It seeped from the canisters into the sea, the black ooze making its way effortlessly through the liquid. The clear sea turning deathly black as it poisoned everything in its path.
His hair, and his hands. They way he smelled, the stain on his clothes, everyday, it was oil. When I walked into his house that’s all I could smell, was oil. Even the smell of flowers couldn’t cover it.
my best friend always telling me about this oil he uses on his hair and he loves it and it makes his hair feel really great. i was just thinking wow i have no patience for this. i hate washing my hair. i do wash it and hydrate it every now and then but i find it quite annoying. i wish i didn’t have to do it. but i do because having dirty hair isn’t nice either….
I let my fingers slide through the wet, rainbow colored streak, raising them to my eyes as I rubbed them together. It couldn’t be…could it?
“What is it?” Tala asked from behind me.
I didn’t answer as I stood, my eyes following the trail until it went out of sight. “Oil,” I said quietly, frowning slightly. “It’s oil. But where…?”
“What’s ‘oil’?” she asked, tilting her head to look up at me.
“We use it in…in my world. For cars and things,” She opened her mouth, undoubtedly to ask what ‘cars’ were but I waved her off. “It doesn’t matter,”
She tried to jump right into the community, and it was like throwing oil on top of water.
First she went around asking all the club leaders about their clubs; better to ask first before committing, right? Well, one out of seven of the ones she was interested in even dignified her with an answer. The other ones just said “It’s not for you. Maybe in a couple of years.”
The words were written clearly on the paper in front of her: oil paint. Her paintbrush dips into the rich color. The texture is smooth. She swirls it, and brings it to the canvas. Slowly, with no thought at all, she begins to paint.
It was abundant, over flowing. Not one nook escaped, not one cranny barren. Every where this fuel. Ready to ignite. Ready to burn. The fire was magnificent, intense, immense. And what of I, where was the oil, where was the fire. Why was I so dry.
The black oil dripped from his fingers, but it was not the consistency which he was expecting. There was something mixed into it, something crimson. He stepped back from the barrels and gasped: it was her, the surfacing face of his mother’s missing friend.
Oil is almost as polarizing and dangerous a subject as religion. Just about as many deaths have happened for each of these words and will continue to do so until we “humans” figure it out. Take away the greed and egos, then maybe we can make a start. What do you think?
I already wrote about oil and this site is beginning to annoy me. What more can be said about oil? It is thick, gross and yet causes wars. Wow, I guess there really is a lot to be said about oil. It mainly makes me think of the 80’s show, Dallas and shoulder pads.
Oil was the smell when she reached the kitchen.Leaning against the doorway smirking at the pleasant sight of her husband and son cooking some pancakes and bacon.It was a perfect morning indeed.
When Gregory cut open the doctor’s flesh, he was shocked to find oil oozing from the opened tunnels of veins and arteries, once connected in a vast, golden-gleaming spider web. It was not crude oil, nor olive oil, but it was quite thick and bronzed, and it smelled very, very sweet. Like honeysuckle laced with petrichor.
the oil puddle in my view was large. almost to big to be natural. the rainbow slicks lapped ever closer to my feet. i couldn’t help but imagine an oil lake, waves crashing against my body until i fall, As the rainbows carry me away into the infernal wonder at the bottom in the sea.
It had been ten years since the oil had began to disperse until finally there was none at all. Everyone had went into panic for the first three years or so. Rich owners of oil companies were soon bankrupt, wars broke out for what was left and black markets opened with promises of things needed for hygiene, cosmetics, and everyday use. Until there wasn’t anything.
“You think it was true?” Will asked me while we were digging in the dry, red dust for roots to eat tonight.
“Do I think what was true?” I responded, too caught up in thinking of how to ration this that I didn’t notice the look on his face.
“Before. When everyone had oil in containers and all over their homes?”
I sat quietly for a moment. “No.” I finally answered.
Her hair was soaked in oil, grease dripping from every end and every tip. The color was that of tarnished metal, and everywhere she walked, she would leave a trail of rusty smell behind her.
Lamis was her name. She was fully aware of the names that people would call her behind her back. Lamisi the greasy, or just simply greasy. She sometimes couldn’t help but wonder whether her hair would have had softer waves had her parents given her a prettier name, maybe Warda or Hallah.
Her body was convulsing violently, white foam covered her mouth. Little Andrew’s eyes were fixed upon the spasmodic arms and legs. And he watched until the movement finally stopped. How cold she felt now. The decanter of olive oil she had been clutching only a few minutes before had shattered when she fell. The contents seeped into her hair.
It’s all I need—it’s all I want. I want to be free of the creaks and squeaks that have begun to rupture my being. Pour some oil on my fragile soul. Pour some oil on the tattered human that I have become. Make me new again, make me beautiful. Wanting to thrive, no longer wanting to be antique…
It drips off your hair, 3 days of unwashed depression, and out of your car’s engine. We are not so different from that machine that carries us to unforseen destinations, are we?
fish and chips
the newspaper they came wrapped in
beaches
imaginary creatures
playing with me in the waves.
rocks and rock pools
the sound of the ocean applauding
or is it giants snoring?
I fries chicken with coconut oil.
When I think of oil, I think about my cabinet, full of various cooking oils–olive oil, canola oil, vegetable oil—and I think–why don’t I stir-fry more? I love stir fried vegetables and rice with a light sauce. I can do that!
It hit the water with a plop.
And then its chemistry collapsed
I said goodbye,
before its time, and it woke me, for pain of oil
on stone
arrayed unspoken and un-dimensional and a foggy vision
clear the screen then go again
my fractional personal self-imperialism
boreholes — prices — digging to the end
timeline of the far future
The thing about tomorrow is that you never think its coming. Its always just…tomorrow. Not now, not yesterday, not something you can ever know, so you just kind forget, push it out of your mind till its not something you ever consider, not really, its not now and it wont ever ever ever be, so what does it matter? Yeah. What does it matter. Until.
oil, they fought about it, they killed children, animals, just for black gold. Then when it ran out, they ran out of reasons to hate it each other. NO! They didn’t! They found new causes to hurt, maim, kill! Oil, gold, water, air….Everything is precious on earth so is LIFE
The boiling pot with the greasy bubbles of oil floating about and sliding around. A distant memory of my childhood.
The oil dripped from the table, making a small puddle on the floor, as the bottle rolled off the edge to join it there. Scraps of his salad were all over the room; his plate lying next to the sofa, the rest of the tableware in disarray. Franco looked at Marcia, holding the knife, her hands trembling. He could see the rage in her eyes, the sense of betrayal. He regretted his mistake immediately. She had been talking about her mother’s special salad dressing since he had arrived that evening, and he was a fool to even think of adding olive oil to it.
wow, what a terrible word. Oil? gross.. all i can think of is oil spills in the ocean or whatever. poor little penguins. or oil on auto repairers .. I cannot think of the word. mechanics. they stain all their clothes with oil. and its nearly impossible to get off.
Slimey, oozing down my arm, I stared at in distress and then I heard the sound of a match being lit… Boom.
government=business=money=oil.
that’s all there is too it. a bunch of oily politicians controlling our lives.
Not suWe started gore why we still have an oil lamp sitting on the counter top, considering the rest of the cabin has modern appliances. I think it resembles our reluctance to let go of the 20-year-old memories this cabin has. We started going when i was 7, and this same oil lamp burned the shit out of my sister one year.
The harder I scrub, the more you spread. You sink in my pores, unfurl and wrap around my fingers and wrists as I vigorously shake and scrap and tear at my skin in futile attempts to stop the suffocating stick of you from embedding itself in my skin, my tissue, my bones. My fragile arteries betray me and bring your poison to the pulsating meaty organ that resides in my chest- unprotected and waiting. And I watch myself destruct, inside out. I let myself be obliterated into a pile of rotting flesh and burning possibilities. I let you fill me and ruin me. You didn’t force yourself in. I let you.
The oil spill in the Gulf proved detrimental to many creatures living in the vast ecosystem, but none more than the ducks, whose beaks dripping in the black substance were unable to reproduce or travel or have any discernible quality of life.
Oil is just a dirtier form of liquid money. It causes conflict, fighting, killing, and betrayal. All for money and resources. It’s sort of chicken and the egg in terms of whether the real issue is the money or the oil here.
His hair shone with the black grease he continued to slick it back with. It scent was overwhelming, almost as pungent as the aftershave he refused to stop wearing, despite its tendency to burn the nostrils.
Oil dripped from his hands as he fell to the floor. Tears mixed with the oil that was now pooling below him, separating into little puddles that trapped the rainbow.
It seeped from the canisters into the sea, the black ooze making its way effortlessly through the liquid. The clear sea turning deathly black as it poisoned everything in its path.
His hair, and his hands. They way he smelled, the stain on his clothes, everyday, it was oil. When I walked into his house that’s all I could smell, was oil. Even the smell of flowers couldn’t cover it.
my best friend always telling me about this oil he uses on his hair and he loves it and it makes his hair feel really great. i was just thinking wow i have no patience for this. i hate washing my hair. i do wash it and hydrate it every now and then but i find it quite annoying. i wish i didn’t have to do it. but i do because having dirty hair isn’t nice either….
I let my fingers slide through the wet, rainbow colored streak, raising them to my eyes as I rubbed them together. It couldn’t be…could it?
“What is it?” Tala asked from behind me.
I didn’t answer as I stood, my eyes following the trail until it went out of sight. “Oil,” I said quietly, frowning slightly. “It’s oil. But where…?”
“What’s ‘oil’?” she asked, tilting her head to look up at me.
“We use it in…in my world. For cars and things,” She opened her mouth, undoubtedly to ask what ‘cars’ were but I waved her off. “It doesn’t matter,”
She tried to jump right into the community, and it was like throwing oil on top of water.
First she went around asking all the club leaders about their clubs; better to ask first before committing, right? Well, one out of seven of the ones she was interested in even dignified her with an answer. The other ones just said “It’s not for you. Maybe in a couple of years.”
The words were written clearly on the paper in front of her: oil paint. Her paintbrush dips into the rich color. The texture is smooth. She swirls it, and brings it to the canvas. Slowly, with no thought at all, she begins to paint.
It was abundant, over flowing. Not one nook escaped, not one cranny barren. Every where this fuel. Ready to ignite. Ready to burn. The fire was magnificent, intense, immense. And what of I, where was the oil, where was the fire. Why was I so dry.
It spilled along the ocean
sat on top like a queen
whose reflected rainbow light
spread like a stain over-ruling
the deep.
We watch, in fascination, in alarm
at what we had done.
The black oil dripped from his fingers, but it was not the consistency which he was expecting. There was something mixed into it, something crimson. He stepped back from the barrels and gasped: it was her, the surfacing face of his mother’s missing friend.
Oil is almost as polarizing and dangerous a subject as religion. Just about as many deaths have happened for each of these words and will continue to do so until we “humans” figure it out. Take away the greed and egos, then maybe we can make a start. What do you think?
I already wrote about oil and this site is beginning to annoy me. What more can be said about oil? It is thick, gross and yet causes wars. Wow, I guess there really is a lot to be said about oil. It mainly makes me think of the 80’s show, Dallas and shoulder pads.
The sun beat down as she slathered the tanning oil over her legs as she wondered — does anyone know he’s married?
Oil was the smell when she reached the kitchen.Leaning against the doorway smirking at the pleasant sight of her husband and son cooking some pancakes and bacon.It was a perfect morning indeed.
When Gregory cut open the doctor’s flesh, he was shocked to find oil oozing from the opened tunnels of veins and arteries, once connected in a vast, golden-gleaming spider web. It was not crude oil, nor olive oil, but it was quite thick and bronzed, and it smelled very, very sweet. Like honeysuckle laced with petrichor.
The scent surrounded me as I entered the petrol station from my car. It was stuck to the wind; following me into the dilapidated excuse of a shop.
the oil puddle in my view was large. almost to big to be natural. the rainbow slicks lapped ever closer to my feet. i couldn’t help but imagine an oil lake, waves crashing against my body until i fall, As the rainbows carry me away into the infernal wonder at the bottom in the sea.
It had been ten years since the oil had began to disperse until finally there was none at all. Everyone had went into panic for the first three years or so. Rich owners of oil companies were soon bankrupt, wars broke out for what was left and black markets opened with promises of things needed for hygiene, cosmetics, and everyday use. Until there wasn’t anything.
“You think it was true?” Will asked me while we were digging in the dry, red dust for roots to eat tonight.
“Do I think what was true?” I responded, too caught up in thinking of how to ration this that I didn’t notice the look on his face.
“Before. When everyone had oil in containers and all over their homes?”
I sat quietly for a moment. “No.” I finally answered.
Her hair was soaked in oil, grease dripping from every end and every tip. The color was that of tarnished metal, and everywhere she walked, she would leave a trail of rusty smell behind her.
Lamis was her name. She was fully aware of the names that people would call her behind her back. Lamisi the greasy, or just simply greasy. She sometimes couldn’t help but wonder whether her hair would have had softer waves had her parents given her a prettier name, maybe Warda or Hallah.
Her body was convulsing violently, white foam covered her mouth. Little Andrew’s eyes were fixed upon the spasmodic arms and legs. And he watched until the movement finally stopped. How cold she felt now. The decanter of olive oil she had been clutching only a few minutes before had shattered when she fell. The contents seeped into her hair.
My head gets very oily tuck im done this sucks to do on a cell phone yo!