| if you were the ship, who would ever get on. |
[Nov. 15th, 2009|12:29 am] |
my father and i had a heart-to-heart of sorts.
we haven't really spoken about anything but the weather in years.
it was as some small part of me expected.
no-nonsense, direct: cut the fat, don't put up with shit.
easier said than done but my father's never tolerated excuses.
come to think of it, neither do i.
always trying to please others. i used to be a pickaxe,
now i'm a pacifier. happier then; no mouths to warp me.
investments rarely yield dividends,
bad crops everywhere.
it hurts and surprises him, i think,
that i'm compromising myself without gain.
he feels genetically proprietary towards me.
i'm not terribly happy. nor happily terrible.
there's a film of mediocrity over everything.
such that i can't quite figure out the breed of shine underneath.
that low hum is impatience ticking.
regardless, i'm standing. i've got these legs under me,
where the last bit of my meat is hiding.
they taper into wicked heels; pincers, those. |
|
|
| since last we spoke. |
[Nov. 7th, 2009|02:44 am] |
seismic shifts. the landscape is unrecognizable.
i've started my master's,
finished the first draft of a novel,
working on the second,
ended a relationship,
begun a new one,
cut my hair a dozen times,
chewed the skin around my fingernails ragged.
somewhere in the midst of this, the corrosion's become apparent,
the fault-lines no longer hopscotch grids but canyons in their own right.
thigh-high stockings, lace bras once meant something.
i'm not unhappy. i laugh from my bowel up. eyesgreenteethwhiteetc.
i've discovered an aesthetic appreciation for well-constructed heels and strong shoulders.
i meet men's eyes on the street. now, i'm owed.
you thought maybe i'd say owned or awed, but no. debt collecting.
arrythmia's pitched a tent behind my breast, tapping every time i playpretend.
the good times, they're killing me.
the last few months have been just massacre.
there is a reasonable limit to what anybody will swallow, no?
but listen, i sleep so spectacularly well to the hum of my space heater.
i have expensive dreams of telling people off. lavish hollywood productions.
i stay in bed 'til noon, and even then i let the machine take my calls. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Aug. 18th, 2007|12:35 am] |
absenteeism. absentia.
sounds like high school tuesdays, scaling sidewalks and perimeters to stall the sleeping.
BUT. break to lovemake.
three years with my boy. dearest boy, i AM every bit as ecstatic as you are.
i've found, through you, that one of the sweetest pleasures is to know and be fully known.
to have a dialect between us, to read gestures and furrows and shivers.
we are very lucky. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jul. 3rd, 2007|06:33 pm] |
i don't fit anywhere.
no, of course not.
of course not.
please. please. let me feel even for once.
let me sustain the rush long enough to ride it.
maybe, sometimes, there's another end to it:
something other than the widow keening, glass bottles
splintered in the yard, torn sponges crowning in the drain.
empty gaze and piano chords echo into the attic;
braided herbs and mildewed blankets make poor shelter,
and my grandmother crooned sinatra.
yes, she did, and i do not. |
|
|
| really boring modern music, really boring modern girl |
[Jun. 22nd, 2007|05:41 pm] |
| [ | [noise] |
| | girl talk - ask about me | ] |
it is what it is.
it is what it is.
niceties are how most people navigate social situations. make a note of it.
what does it mean to be fixated on a middle-aged jewish woman at the front of the bus,
captivated by her disheveled hair and the way her mouth, agape, slumps open as she stares
blankly at the speeding fields.
the treetops are seizing like injured lungs.
sacs tugged this way and that.
exhausting pudgy boys with buckteeth and immaculately spiked hair,
slumping clumsy into subway seats, watching their friends so carefully,
so carefully, to see if they’ve been detected, if they’re frauds.
planting myself on a balcony, overlooking a crowded street,
watching people – trailing satchels, documents, children with their
haphazard arms, still testing how far they can reach.
//
i get a hard-on for women out of sheer pity.
//
and i think of your gaze, unflinching gray eyes,
still and placid like a pond,
a single shaft of light where someone has just drowned.
i remember wanting to watch you fuck somebody,
that’s how far away from love it was, and how close.
//
 |
|
|
| see them rattle and boo, see them shake, see them loom//stella was a diver. |
[Jun. 5th, 2007|03:56 pm] |
i wish i felt inspired, energetic.
i’m searching for a muse,
the bone structure to launch me,
some/thing/one to obsess over - so rare.
people pride themselves on their generic qualities, though.
telltale chicken chests and drooping muscles,
lines trenched into skin by dehydration.
god, you disgust me.
beauty isn’t the willful rot you breed inside yourselves.
our generation will be remembered for senseless wars and female idiocy.
//
all over the dovers.
//
thinking about shipwrecks. about the patient decomposition.
statues moored in bedrock, shunts driven into their bowels,
scaled mouths pursed inside their granite thighs.
the wind's whipping the cattails outside, and i wonder
how it is where you are?
//
//
 |
|
|
| bring me the sky. |
[May. 25th, 2007|12:13 am] |
tired. conflicted.
uncomfortable in skin, lethargy is pervasive.
mostly, paranoia that i’m not feeling things properly;
properly being a queer, ill-suited word. a hangnail.
everything registers through some viscous distance,
sometimes i note things as if through cellophane.
aluminum foil clots swelling my eyelids, iron congesting me.
nothing excites me. everything’s reflexive.
i’m going through an extended period of wading at the sidelines of considering myself a complete waste.
i can’t,
in good conscience,
go further without any justification.
so, give it.
everybody’s expectations of me are slowly nearing a crescendo.
so, bugger.
but, i have homemade coffee ice cream.
and almost $10 in overdue library fines.
watching fur [the 'imaginary portrait' of diane arbus]
was a pivotal moment of recently. curled around throw cushions
on the couch at one a.m. while my father arranged lateral flashes
around the living room, and wandered about with a mug of orange juice,
it was the most beautiful thing i'd ever seen.
i want to be able to reconcile the notion
of a vocation
with that of a career.
fashion ads from the 1990’s are hideous.
//
jess et maggie
 
//
moi et sequined headbands
 |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[May. 13th, 2007|11:10 pm] |
| [ | [noise] |
| | london apartments | ] |
i miss idly etching shapes and faces into picnic benches,
watching my thighs flatten and spread in cotton shorts against the wood.
climbing trees,
skinning knees,
skipping over muddied puddles along ravine paths in leather heels,
trailing gauze fairy wings and silk camisoles.
mostly, i miss passion. the fever of midnight creations.
writing stories, tattooing bones and organs along my ankle and wrist,
in the frenzy of a feeling like acute rage.
i go months without crying.
//
 |
|
|
| this boy |
[May. 9th, 2007|12:59 pm] |
recently turned 23. hallelujah.
i’ve been unspeakably manic lately.
something of me is in disrepair.
BUT.
feet in flats, strolling sidewalks. tagging wooden beams in unfinished houses.
fat cat is being a proper whore again.
doc called today - am terribly, terribly anemic. yay for iron!
//
|
|
|
| exchanges. |
[Apr. 29th, 2007|05:19 pm] |
always tragic, when bodies are drawn
towards a different landscape.
when children finger pebbles in the silt
and run clumsily into the froth, or whales are strung
along the shore by low tides, moored in
newfoundland air.
//
 
erin mcwhirtier photography - april07.
|
|
|
| today, alex learns what molasses is/are. consequently, they merge. sexually. |
[Apr. 18th, 2007|09:45 pm] |
|
i am molasses. also, pneumonia. it's infiltrated my pores.
at last, a marriage to celebrate.
just imagine the fornication - i was especially aroused by the sensation of molasses slowly inching towards my underwear.
it felt like hugh hefner.
there was a strange old man wearing an ascot inspecting my bare thighs from a distance.
although, perhaps, the elderly appreciate the convenience of easily spreadable toppings. i don't flatter myself.
remind me to never model in oakville again. thank you.
|
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Apr. 11th, 2007|07:49 pm] |
camerrrrra obscurrrrrra. rah-rah-rah.
nothing to report, except exhaustion which is natural state [see: entropy].
//
edit: rest in piece, you wonderful old crackpot. you were thoroughly enjoyed.
//
 
//
 
//
  |
|
|
| what kind of fuckery is this. |
[Mar. 31st, 2007|11:37 pm] |
| [ | [noise] |
| | amy winehouse. | ] |
old-shoe-familiar sensation of being stretched thin.
ribcage rising; collarbone, collarbone.
photoshoots upon photoshoots are only somewhat rewarding.
rembrandt lighting.
//
  
  
//
people don't dance no more,
they just stand around like this:
they cross their arms and
stare you down and
drink and
moan and
diss
- rapture. |
|
|
| gentlemen, to evil//henceforth. |
[Mar. 26th, 2007|12:59 pm] |
apropos [i.e. exhaustion].
i resent the lack of enthusiasm in myself lately.
all i want is bedtime/naptime and, by extension, to be extensively coddled by my beloved mum.
if unattainable [i.e. is], then to lose/loose myself in photography and creative pursuits because
schoolwork and work are crushing my, already quite tiny, soul.
//
in other news.
i really, really love boyfriendface.
for no particular reason except that he's really quite wonderful.
that is all.
//
  
  
|
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Mar. 20th, 2007|10:56 pm] |
| [ | [noise] |
| | dizzy gillespie - operatic strings | ] |
he looks at me, bereft and disconsolate,
when i admit to having no fond recollections of birthday candles.
this, and the volume of his body beside mine,
is tolerated,
less and less.
//
wide cables winding, tightening
stitching me inside strict pockets of space.
the wires leave traces and
my pale skin hums like a bridge
colliding with damp clouds.
//
'spousal abuse is terrible, just terrible,' she says,
as creases droop along her brow.
then, redeemed, she shuffles her shoulders,
props them proudly like sparrows on a telephone wire.
//
waiting, waiting.
whittling.
no; being whittled.
//
cheers.
//
  
  
  
|
|
|
| gartered cinderella. |
[Mar. 15th, 2007|10:02 pm] |
i am not rapunzel [but constricted, restrained,
claustrophobe leaving fingerprints between wrought-iron windowframes].
my hair is gone [good riddance].
//
  
there is something raw and unrefined
about the heave and ebb of her body;
a soundwave amplifying on a bed like a low
and feral hum.
she haunts the strip clubs,
a trembling wisp whose wrists are deep-throated
by the wrists of men who strain towards her pallor,
like lepers towards kindness.
her spine a straight splinter
driven into the linoleum, she stands numb, inoculated,
against the slap of thighs and affected moans,
feeling the collective shivers of desire around her.
eventually, the bodies meeting become abstract;
it is all strange then,
it is all senseless
and a quiet nausea gestates in her throat.
everything accelerates and becomes embossed –
the tanned ass marred by red palm prints and cellulite like sand dunes,
the stubble of ingrown hairs,
the staggered chorus of groans like schoolboys egging on
the castration of a squirrel.
all these bodies socketed so tightly
inside their brief ecstasies.
|
|
|
| fragmentation is a painful process//autobiography of red. |
[Mar. 6th, 2007|10:32 pm] |
|
please phone, as soon as you’re through the door.
i wear my bones, i wear my bones
my milk-tooth armor.
who are you? hungry for my shoulderblades.
fuck. FUCK.
i’m scared of my hands and my perfect skin,
of matheson’s pretty pink vagina winking at me.
i’ve whispered things to my keyboard that i would never tell you; i trust you,
i trust you, [i trust you. ]
connect the dots.
//
i am improbable, i’ll never die.
tangled in the stone root of a well,
my legs are blinking through dark water.
the stark white of splintered bones like
spotting pupae in the thicket.
my spine a shattered xylophone, flung
from a third-floor nursery, and i moan,
my gaze snagging on the outcrop of fingernails
sunken in the mortar.
the water lapping at my nymph nodes saps them,
a slow and tender biopsy that turns them into
pale, raw cranberries leaking sour cells.
all my pulsing red mouths, agape,
will draw moths to burrow between warm lips
in search of a deeper blackness.
even paralyzed, catatonic, i’m fertile;
the tender rustle of a worming thorax
nesting against my womb.
i will never die.
//
 
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