Author: Chuck Young

Chuck Young was once sized up and called "fred durst sister." He edits at theNewerYork. He can be found on Tumblr.

Marry and Die

first date: accidentally get into the same compartment of revolving door
second date: share a cab late at night

third date: elevator goes out of order for a little bit
fourth date: the ferris wheel breaks down while we’re at the top



and never gets fixed. we decorate the gondola. make babies. officiate our own wedding. cheat on each other with ourselves. separate. get divorced. get back together. start a family band. die holding each other. get set on fire by our children. blow away into a blue carnival sky.

***

*gets down on one knee*
*then gets down on both knees*

*then puts hands on ground*

*then arches back*

*then starts convulsing/dry-heaving like a dog*
*pukes out a dead dove covered in yellow bile*
*hands you the bile-dove*
*you notice a slip of paper in its beak*

*you take it out*

*it reads WILL YOU MARRY ME?*

*you wash your hands*

***

she always immediately went to sleep whenever she felt the prettiest because she didn’t want any attention for it but she’d leave a note for her husband telling him to wake her because him noticing was all that mattered to her but he never would disturb her from her dreams, liking the quiet of the house too much, so she slept for decades and he eventually died of loneliness.

***

if i’m going to be truly honest with myself fashion-wise this fall i’m going to need to wear a bathrobe as a jacket, a little black veil as a hat, bathing suit bottoms with the mesh as underwear/pants, and picture frames (with the stock photos of happy couples still in them) elastic-banded to my feet as shoes.

‘i wrote a love poem dedicated to a tiny square on a screen that i considered to be extremely disrespectful’

you got me feeling some type of way and:
it’s a little girl sleeping in her asleep mother’s lap on the subway, clutching a redheaded doll.
it’s a car that runs on electricity made out of wasted potential.
it’s the smell of somebody else eating McDonalds fries on a moving train.
it’s hamuketsu.
it’s a coffee mug that says DANCE LIKE IT GETS LOW SHAKES ARMS.
it’s a facebook event called WE’RE SAD AND MAKING POOR DECISIONS where the start date has already passed and the end date is forever and everyone on planet earth is invited.
it’s the face a dog wears when it’s dragging its ass across the carpet.
it’s a science fact that says moths french people while they sleep and that’s why no two snowflakes are alike.
it’s a slow dance during last call at a country bar.
it’s the eroticism inherent in watching someone else update a google doc.
it’s a long bus ride on a nice day when you’ve fallen asleep in the seat next to me and i’m looking out the window.
it’s the trunk of an old car converted into a cooler and it’s filled with ice and there are plenty of beers among the ice, and the car is backed halfway into the driveway, and everyone has the day off, and we’re all here and barefoot and LOWER THE HOOP WE DUNKIN’.
it’s a napkin drawing of a mermaid fellating her own tail.
it’s the i’d like to teach the world to sing coke commercial but of shrug emojis.
it’s the little EWW noise lionel richie makes before the guitar solo in EASY LIKE A SUNDAY MORNING.
it’s the smell of fresh tar on what was once my favorite parking lot to skate at.
it’s a metaphor comparing my heart to bernie in weekend at bernie’s II and you to a boombox with the play button pushed.
it’s the casket on wheels that i street-surf gracefully down the cobblestone roads of your city on, with the assistance of a gondola ore because we’re talking romance here.
it’s the pause that happens while eating an ice cream cone when you need to check your phone but where you hold the cone with a bite because you need both hands and you look like a bird.
it’s a text that says i want to put on some lcd soundsystem and throw a party on your body.
it’s my breath blotching the pale skin of your clavicle.
it’s a big blanket that covers everyone in the world and we’re under it with a flashlight or two telling each other stories and giggling and smiling and holding onto each other sometimes.
it’s the fear that i’m going to play it so cool i’ll accidentally cryogenically freeze myself just to thaw into a future where you have lived a long, happy life with another man and where you have also been dead for ten years.