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To Be Continued.Not even a thought.
( i don't wanna think about it anymore. and the evidence isn't 100% anyway.
deeper ditches, hotel rooms, debt. it was hospitality, the right thing to do.
broken bed frames, forty dollar deposits, polluted air
Modesto, California. )
Austin? Am I really just imagining this?
I was wrong.
Is it so difficult to think out loud? And yes I want it. I want it very much so.
Blazing heat. The smoothened sexy of a Californian accent.
Intoxicated; pulsating pheromones.
His smoldering orbs. Those molten globes caught in shadow.
I remain fixated. A deer drawn to headlights.
And I didn't care. I didn't even know what I was asking for.
Not that I was right. I was insistent, morosely stubborn, but mostly I was wrong.
( comfortable; cuddled against easy decision
LEGALLY literally INSANE I could tell you a story of beauty and butterflies and fuzzy feelings, but it wouldn't be accurate or useful. It wouldn't be entertaining, or helpful, or even truthful. It would be lying, and I would be the liar.
So I'll start by saying, I have a freckle between one of my toes. His name is Fred, and I try to talk to him, but he refuses to respond. I speak of the garbage disposal, tell him of the tiny teeth people trying to grind away my fingers, and even though Fred doesn't talk back, I bet that if he did, he wouldn't believe me.
Sometimes, when I'm shuddering and paralyzed beneath my sheets, I call out to him. "Fred?" I say, "If ever you were going to speak, please
Pisces"…so drown me. I mean, if you can."
A threat in her eyes. Triple dog dare.
And I'm on edge but I don't wanna show her just yet.
"Now you can't honestly expect me to be foolish enough?
Drowning fish is a fruitless endeavor."
She smiles, all fury and triumph. Her ocher eyes ignite; flickering then flaming.
"O' but sister, are you not a fish, same as I?
Are we not of the same blood, the same scales?"
And I hesitate, ever-cautious.
What's she hinting at? Huh, sis'?
What's that card sewn up your sleeve?
I hesitate for just a moment too long.
"And you would believe it impossible, no?
A difficult enterprise to say the least?"
She carves words out of atmosphere,
pronounces every syllable with refined practice.
An artisan's articulation.
I find myself shivering; hyperaware and feverish.
I am not of you, I am of nothing.
Blood is water, blood is air.
And I'm too silent and shaky and she knows,
scintillating.It is August and I am alive.
I am breathing but the sensation becomes invigorating. The air tastes lithe, cleanly - like light pouring into my lungs.
I find it rejuvenating; youth electro-charging my slackened flaccid muscles.
I feel you; an impossibility. It's high voltage, electric eels, hissing transformers.
It's a spark.
Does It Bother Your Mind The Way You Bother MineIt could be defined as this unintelligible sympathy, refined
and infinitely describable. Words are a feeble comparison.
My speech is slop, fecal matter. Repulsive residues spew from ineffective
communication. And you're speaking, but what the fuck are you saying?
To be wrong.
It may run deeper than that, an invasive core crowding the marrow of your bones.
Humiliation in strength, pungent structure uniting beneath sinuous muscle and
skin. Imperative awareness skittered across paranoid psyche - psychosomatic ridicule glorifying nausea.
Illness; festering determination.
You are difficult in your footholds.
The Nectars of Irony and Self-PreservationInverted influx
I have not the strength to care.
Your eyes were shark skin
greasy, greasy tears.
Honesty was always optional
but I couldn't quite grasp it
why someone would say
the exact opposite
of what they really mean.
Then I thought of irony and of you
and that grin
that isn't really even a grin
it's a snicker.
The sweetness of enjoying your own joke.
Red Feathers and Metaphorical OceansI found her degraded,
slathered in pomegranate puddles. Juicy sweet.
Timid blueberry tears dribbled
atop her raw pancake tissues.
Her offended coconut flesh
feigned feminine composure;
I noticed off-white muscles
paranoid and taunt.
Bones bracing for the sizzle.
into someone solid.
blackened texture - rabid, raven-eyed
complexity beyond explanation
submission - succumbing to indifference
Ghosts boast the ability
to seethe adicity through cemetery breath.
They remain inaccurate, spewing centur
Even The Ocean Is Weak.Rivulets of moisture along a wilted iris. The lush velvet is soft to some but sharp for many. Foreboding purple petals.
It once consisted of kisses; youth and growth and light.
" Petal lips may feel smooth now, but happens when they wither?
Am I not the first to tell you that all flowers die? "
She said it like it was the only thing she ever wanted
"Leave Me Alone."
the ocean is tumultuous
a cascading imprisonment
She said "Drown me."
The sea, she is restless tonight. Black sand beaches darken already polluted waters. Doubt churning through anxio
The Beginning To A Better Ending.That's me, the quiet one popping her fingers in the corner. At the moment I'm feeling acutely awkward. I really don't know anyone in this room except for my "x" and his new girlfriend, not exactly prime candidates for conversation.
I notice Austin: six foot four, quarter-inch shaved hair and patches on a bleachedout jacket. Sam persists that he's hilarious but I've yet to hear his German pornstar impression. He mozzies on over to join our circle, plopping down beside me.
I feel the cool of glass pressing against my wristbone. Someone passes me the pipe. I think her name is Minnie but most people calls her Hollywood. I ignite the neon green, sucking in a lungful of skunky sweetness. The world swoons, a subtle inflation. Glistening. Some quality bud. I knock the pipe against Austin's forearm. He turns and takes it from my hand, a wordless exchange.
I sit here silent, stoned and attempting to pop my knuckles in
In the Death of Winterelusive daylight
humming low instead
split-cracked breathing patterns
rasping through a respirator
(her blood whispers in a hospital bed)
8. somersaults in snow,we
wintered in imagination,building
igloos from the residue of storms
18. i slipped on ice, and you cradled
bruises in your arms you cradled bruises
you cradled bruises on my arms
28. rattled loose locks and fear of bleeding
i love(d) you and it hurts,broken bones
we are not made of stone,she
said, and with every ounce of all his being
he said time and time again --
"i love you" reset, reset,restart
judgementwith heavy hands they came,
irises of carbon cloaked in eternal damnation,
dispelling dystopian symbioses with a gust of arctic wind:
with heavy hearts we knelt,
knowing far too well that only righteousness
can waltz god's icy breath
knotlimbis there anyone who doesn't need to be
told to stop indulging pandora to stop
forcing sleep into moats with the other
corpses and to show up as you are? and
you are: fumbling around thinking bones
are blades, not a born weapon but a natural
executioner, ribs like razors slid down
the backs of your summer dresses and your
winter coats. you are: too tangled in the
many layered sheets of delusion which snag
ankles and twist calves into the girl who
knew too little, thought too much, spooked
gaspgripped at the cattleprod of there being
no exit to the dream. no noose in the attic.
you are: pretending. my dustsheathed skin a
poor translator for the rich sumptuous inner
sanctum with its fishtank luminosity and its
unbarbed offerings. the outside took my
tribute and made it penance, on my knees with
the faucet running into the tub and my fingers
down my throat and the outside excavated the
cave where i keep all my paintings the outside
took them and gave me legs torso neck nose
and how can i b
g r a/e ygray
is the open sea
and long stretches of worn asphalt.
is wood ash
washed-out city skylines
concrete and rain-soaked sidewalk chalk.
Lurking CobraI have to tell you the truth:
there's a cobra lurking just beneath the skin
and coiling through your veins.
"I love you" and "I'm sorry" and "Please, come home with me"
drip like poison from your fangs.
I know the weight of a lie, darling;
I search for the scent of others of my sex in every shadowed corner;
I regularly check your sock drawer for love letters and ring boxes,
for any sign that this isn't just another hunt for you,
but I know it's the hunger talking
when you whisper those things late at night.
The stitching on my heart is slowly unraveling,
All my clumped-up stuffing flows out of me dying to escape;
I lose myself in the beat of your heart
under my skin
and the sigh of my name
from your pouting lips...
but I don't remember leaving
That hickey on your chest.
Maybe that's the crazy me talking.
I've always heard them talk about the last threads of sanity;
You are pushing pins and buttons farther than they should be pushed.
How I can rearrange my face
deliverance and the furiesswallowing smoke as if every graceshuffling
gulp is of rosewater. i belong to you, lifting
my chin into a mountain range of pride; my
eyes as godhooded as stainedglass windows; my
shoulder blades clenching a band of steel
between them, stinging white as a staticshock
hiss (the jolt, of lightning of newness of
the gullible reception of skin). wandering the
hot splendid world, how could i not contribute
my timid turbulent spirit? how could i not tear
off a strip hunk morsel of overflowing audacious
breathmongering movement and attach it to your
medicinal mouth? and how could i not tug you into
the barrel of my arms, hold you slick and sloshing
as wine? i do not run out, am no measurable length of
rope; ownership of myself means accepting infinity
and offering it up like it is your right to have
what you take like denial is what happens when i
tell myself how small and unneeded i am (a pack
of lies, a throne more miniscule than the mole on
your chest). when the outside interrupts the expa
translucence and the hyadesand on a good day, my niece unlatches
the cake carrier and the upside down
pineapple falls facefirst on the persian
rug. i have to pull into the supermarket
parking lot to sob a little against the
steering wheel, cooled complacent by the
air conditioning batting away the tears.
and on a bad day, my scapulae are like the
uneven rim of a churchdome pressing in pressing
into the bloodbag lungs and the lurching
loving sternum; a body barging into strength.
regardless of the flexing or retracting of
my claws, i can be seen. be understood as
flighty or falling or failing or fawning over
the lakepondsea before me and you can choose
now (i am letting you; i would rather you not,
but you may peek through your fingers) whether
or not to watch me try to swim it. just empty
words, i was told. he told me. just empty
words like they all aren't
until you uncap them
and spill into
them all your
blood and bathwater.
just empty words like even empty words
have no sense of urgency to cover the
grains of sand could never make it whole againi.
flashback to the day your record player died,
a stranger stole your heart & it rained for a week straight.
remember how cold it was at the bus stop, how the ice streaked the sidewalk silver
& songbird's cries for spring fell like roadkill on the pavement.
fast forward to tomorrow and it's all a little better, the sun comes out
& there's fresh dew on the lawn,
when your boss cares more about covering up the bruise on her neck
than anything you could possibly do to fuck up.
today it's partly cloudy, the world still damp with memories and for now
you're forced to wake up to the radio alone,
even though vinyl still lines your bedroom walls
& you think that some things are better left broken.
A Year Ago Today1)
Joe's become a functioning alcoholic,
which I'm okay with. As long as he drives
in a straight line, I don't refuse our meandering
journeys: around the cornfields surrounding Plano,
where the suburbanites raise chickens and flirt
with country music. I like Johnny Cash but
Joe blasts something drawling, with an acoustic
bass thumping to the time of a drunk tractor's
sparking cables, returning from the bar and
driving crookedly behind us. Joe passes me
the joint, then takes a long swig from his flask.
He was a heavy guy before the cocaine,
but after I moved from the city, he went clean,
and there's something about the rounded
slope of his jaw that makes me want to cut
every excess fold of him until he's beautiful,
like the night he drove up to Bridgeport and
bought me a case of beer, fucked me on the stairs,
then pleaded for five more minutes in a voice
that sighed and pitched like the unsteady sway
of a pontoon boat on a windy lake,
"The thing about you is,
I always end up comin
Note To SelfTruth is, I don't know anymore.
Every string, unwinding, unweaving.
The unlikely demise of a tapestry.
I'd like to remind you of… well, a lot of things.
And I'm sorry, but there's no theme.
No message to be had.
These are just words.
I am just words.
Keep in Touch!
^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More