Nyck Gallo Writing
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"Stop living like you live again"
Male
20 years old
San Gabriel, California
United States
Last Login: 12/3/2008
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Mood:
thirsty
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http://www.myspace.com/nyckgallowriting |
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Nyck Gallo Writing's Interests
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| General |
Sam Francis
Giuliano Giuggioli
Erte
Hiroshige
Alcohol
Beautiful Women
Nudity
Failing
Succeeding
Having fun
Getting Lost
Trying new shit
Doing something good
Loving
Hating
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Nyck Gallo Writing's Details
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| Status: | Swinger | | Body type: | Slim / Slender | | Ethnicity: | White / Caucasian | | Religion: | Taoist | | Zodiac Sign: | Taurus | | Occupation: | Excess |
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Nyck Gallo Writing ...a skank for your senses
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Nyck Gallo Writing's Latest Blog Entry
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ANGELS NIGHTSWIMMING IN SILK SHIRTS
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DISCLAIMER FOR READERS
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TOO BIG TO HOLD (Novel)
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WRITINGS ON THE WALL
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YELPS FROM THE VENUS FLYTRAP
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Nyck Gallo Writing's Blurbs |
About me:
Yelps From the Venus Flytrap
 Writings on the Wall
My time outside of writing consists of getting drunk, hanging out with friends, working for the city of Los Angeles, partying, figuring myself out, taking risks, good cinema, listening to music, and getting drunk. Being a boring individual is my greatest fear.
This page will be updated every so often with exerpts & content from the books, and other works.
Kiss & Relapse
Reoccurance is fun for neither of us.
The freedom of 7 monthes capsulated, and severed with a single line.
I hadn't seen her in some time. The first thing I did was stumble over
to her and spill beer all over her. She didn't care. She looked at me
in the eye, and she wasn't clean. She wasn't clean at all.
We left the party, went back to her old house. Her family was moving out,
so it was just the skeleton of the house. I laid down with her on the
floor, still sucking down our beers, conversing sharply, and cleanly. She
continued to look me through the eyes, and it was like she was suggesting
something, I have a bittersweet relationship with her suggestions.
I finish my beer a short moment after her. Her eyes mirror mine again, I
understand that she's beautiful, she looks like a beautiful mess. I
turn over slowly, and topple over her. I kiss her swollen lips; and I
put my hand on her side, I feel her skeleton. She told me to hold on.
I waited horizontally across the floor. She was taking her sweet time.
Finally, I get up and walk closer to the half open bathroom door. The
first thing I see is two big lines of cocaine sprawled across the bathroom
counter. She was standing, as if advertising; she looked like Vana White
without the soul. Her eyes settled into mine, she spoke very lightly;
"It's kind of cut like shit. I don't know about you but MY nose won't
bleed."
This would be a perfect moment for contemplation, hesitation should inhabit
my veins right now; but it doesn't. 7 monthes, and I compromise this
fuckin quickly? Is it her pretty face? Is it my lack of soul? I reach
into my pocket to roll up a dollar bill, but she interupts as she's already
went forth with this task.
We'd sit on the floor of different rooms. One of the only things left in
the house, was an old Bee Gees record. It was a flat surface, so we'd
take it with us everytime we'd relocate. We ended up in the biggest
room, we sat up against the wall. She took the record out of it's sleeve,
and laid down her characteristic 2 massive lines. The white, collected
powder contrasted vividly on the black vinyl.
Eventually I got up, as I was contaminated with energy, and walked toward
the very large closet. I slid one of the doors open, and a pile of
lifesize plastic skeletons came crashing down. "My Dad is pretty obsessed
with Halloween. Or more specifically, skeletons. He even lost about 20
pounds one year so he'd be able to see his own bones. He said he wanted
to leave them behind."
We fucked on the floor next to the toppled over skeletons. The whole time
I couldn't resist gazing over and seeing two in a pile of their own.
Lifeless. Frail. The black windows were transient, as they eventually
turned to a dark purple, like a giant rectangular mood ring.
I looked at her face for a moment as I was getting ready to leave. Her
bangs sat perfectly symmetrical, her eyes were wide. They say that the
eyes are the windows to our soul, I don't believe it; because I looked
in this girl's eyes and I saw nothing.
Loving in the 21st
He who wants marriage, wants justification. He wants, expects, and believes in utter honesty. He needs, expects, and believes in love. But his needs are endless, and they occasionally furl up into dead ends, unmet, or unattended. He more wants a life, than he leads one. He succumbs to the romantic media. He belives in bigfoot because he's "open minded." He's married to content. He's seeing masochism on the side.
He who doesn't want marriage, buckles under pain. He doesn't heal, he dwells, he knows better than to let it happen again. He cannot trust, and he cannot fail. Failure to him is final. Kneeling to him is final. Love to him, is final. He is only willing to marry fear. They're a brutal pair.
He who doesn't believe in marriage, doesn't believe in love. His self image flimsy at times, but most often stirdy. He's said to fear committment, but it's impossible to fear that. He simply fears overcommitment, and rightfully so. He doesn't read Nicholas Sparks, he reads Charles Bukowski. He's got a sharp characteristic in which he keeps his reality on a leash, it never strays too far. He stays far from the far fetched. He's married to impulsiveness, and every success, and every failure is made in the name of fun. He lives once. He loved once. He's not afraid of failure, just simply not interested in it.
CHANTAL'S THERAPY
It's completely necessary, to drive ourselves to termination. Those are the times when
our soul exudes worthwhile sentiment, and a beautiful touch of reckless insanity. Our
hearts beat too fast, our breath stops too short, we're too cold, we're too hot, death
is here; it's lighting a cigarette and smiling in our face. The feeling of immortality, is a
mean of artistic compromise, It's a matter of complete death. The mortal, merely
flatlines, but never fully dissolves.
I'm deathly scared of mediocrity. I'm scared of being irrelevant. I'm scared of looking
back at my life, into a well of complete insignificance. Seeing others around me having
achieved their goals, made their place, and carry themselves with validity. I'm scared
of not being the best. I'm scared of being "good", I'm scared of being bland, I'm
scared of being easy to refuse. And of course, I'm scared of death, love, and lonliness.
I never feel so alive as I do the morning after. Intense vomiting, dizziness, headache,
nausea, soreness. The desperation, in itself, strikes me as a disgusting, poetic influence.
A love leaving for good, strikes me as a disgusting, poetic influence. The past, addiction,
hard times; all wiggle the same chord, that I hope will always exist, to provide some
sort of Taoist balance.
We grow up, we wither up. We float, we sink. We rise, we fall. We laugh, we cry. We
love, we fuck. Fear is universal...act accordingly.
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Who I'd like to meet:
Charles Bukowski, William Shakespeare, Edgar Allen Poe, Salvador Dali, Freydoon Rassouli, Sam Francis, Kevin Drew, Giuliano Giugioli, Alan Watts, Sigmund Freud, Fredrich Nietzsche, Charles Darwin, Aldous Huxley, H.G. Wells , Mark Twain, Leo Tolstoy, Ernest Hemmingway, Hunter S. Thompson, Karl Marx, Anze Kopitar, Colten Teubert
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