Tag: morning stars

you can see the changes


jhayne silver curve
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

My house is divided. One night, two evenings, three days, four fingers, five. A hand without you, counted every time the sun goes down and terrified of my heart. Another night, another day, that’s two more. Arithmetic on my body. My shadow on fire, blazing something tired and nameless whenever I close my eyes and don’t hear your voice. Haunted by more words than I can encompass without looking into your eyes, by letters unwritten in every pore of my skin that remember your lips. I’m not sleeping so well. Instead I dream of stars, painful pointillist versions of a city I’ve never been to, haven’t seen pictures of. Fire on top of pillars. It’s all under the same moon, I tell myself, the words like a broken bridge tumbling into a river in slow motion. Instead my eyes sting with the splinters of roses and I imagine a painful sprouting of wings from my back. Dark feathers to take me away from here.

My fingernails are long again, white crescents I could place in the sky. I would offer to prostitute my soul if it meant that I would be able to create exquisitely as Alessandro Bavari does. His art is enchanting, captivating my eyes to the exclusion of time. I look outside and the warm air’s been pulled out over the ocean, taking the light with it like a blanket to tuck in the other side of the world.

edit: a re-write for lj user inktea

at two minutes before I go home

The man I love these days he’s gone so far away that I can’t look outside and point the way, it’s around the curvature of the earth. I want to describe what velvet words I remember, what clawfoot tub memories I have to offer, but I have no music here and am too hurt for silence. Instead I’m caught in lines that I wrote for a poet friend that he’s never heard. ‘you stand, and you look at me, and poems pour out. They slip under my skin and try to take me, licking like letters in envelopes closed.‘ Maybe because there are no letters except in reply to those I send. Maybe because I want to touch him again, feel his breath in his sleep and let him wake up to me, willing and waking, soft and inviting. ‘because when you stand and berate me, when you orate and confiscate the words of a thousand angels, I consider and weight the worth.‘ There’s so many complexities involved, simple ones, which is irritating. Neglect and side swiping kernels of something so close to lying that they’re on more than a first name basis, they kiss. They press lips together and gasp and their hands catch like rough farm hands on the silk of our love letters. Not that I get any, but still. Cliche are cliche for a reason.

this is your fault

Gravity plucks
the apple from the tree
easier than any hand
from flesh to divine
it’s all memory
the contest
the days next to water

She spoke quietly, looking out a window that was really a sheet of rain, her eyes painted electric green. “We didn’t have to talk at all. This town, the lights go dim when I press the power button. There’s a gasp, a sigh, and the energy inside collapses. You into me, relationships wearing coats of particles over wire. Tonight I miss you. I remember my name from your voice, how the inflection was different.”

The phone is a bare sliver of plastic, silver and blue-lit from within. “No, I can survive like this. Bare walls aren’t as taboo as an affection lapse. I felt like that bed was a refugee camp, finally I could stop running.” There’s a cup in front of her, slowly being stirred. The spoon is tarnished, antique and ornate with a dipped rose on the handle.

“I don’t know what makes you beautiful. When you reflect off my eyes, my heart eats you as shadow, intrinsic but ethereal, to live off later. Every moment with you feeds me, satisfies hollows inside me which say, ‘we have gone hungry long enough, there is no turning back’. I can’t help myself. Your eyes shone with a light that was devastating. It was converting, a religion of only you and I together in a little nameless room.”

She smiles, a new expression. She looks cut out of time. A glossy magazine spread featuring smooth lines and gray.

“I don’t know if I can explain. I knew I was flaunting something when I came in, that I was changing rules with my behaviour, but I continued onward. Before there was you and I feeling awkward, admit it. I was pushing past and forward. I was right on track until I was derailed by your eyes. Crash and burn and this is love in a manner I’d never encountered. Suddenly I was your salvation. I was every epiphany in the middle of the night over your entire life. You were the metatron and I the heaviest mote of light to have ever been dropped spoken from your lips. You made me think of fire, of flying.” Her long hair has fallen into her face and she pushes it back with one hand as she leans back in her chair, adjusting her skirt and crossing her legs at the thigh. Her stockings are black.

“There’s many nameless rooms, I know, I’ve lived in them, but they were not that one, they were not right there. That was a flowered wallpaper sheath for power in the middle of the night, that was a terrible fire that blazed in the softest little colours. You want to know what I thought? ‘This is permission,’ I thought, ‘for anything I want to do with you. This is something I have never seen before. If I am lucky, I will see it again. There will be no furnace falling from the sky to consume you, there will be no front page accident hurling metal like rain to dash brains into the pavement.'”

A similar person with core differences that I’m uncertain how to express.

There was a star, and it burned me. Scorching my tongue, words bubbled hot inside of me. I looked out a window to something that wasn’t real. Internal and effigy, strange days have come upon these. I am frail.

There are many things I want to say, to write down and so excise them from my flesh into some sort of reality. “I love her, but I’ve told her, you fuck any of my friends, and it’s over.” I want to have a moment where I might find the disrespect to name my creatures, to throw down gauntlets of other people’s pain and simply write everything that’s been told to me. “He hasn’t worn the ring for two days.” This last piece of pulse time has been ridiculous, harsh in unexpected ways, and jabbing holes in my every piece of personality.

I left this city and came back changed.

Meet me by the water.

I’m thinking of opening my skin for you. Starting at the back of my neck, under my hair, taking my fingers to the one hundred little buttons that run down my spine. Held together by childhood fears, they only look like shadow. This is my body, it’s made of memory. I will stand with you and we will be alone, static crackling like a television screen across the street of the space between us. The girl thinks this and asks him a riddle of no consequence, conscience laughing in innocence. She says, I won’t tell them you’re here, instead my eyes will carefully close like trapdoors, invisible to the audience with prying ideas.

Now morning will die, taking with it the day, and my thoughts will turn to touch. It’s slightly inescapable. It’s asking, but memory smiles like it means it. My glance is softest gray iron, it only bends under the tips of your fingers.

I’m thinking of opening my skin for you. Starting at the back of my neck, under my hair, taking my fingers to the one hundred little buttons that run down my spine. Held together by childhood fears, they only look like shadow. This is my body, it’s made of memory. Inside I am warm, sticky with candied intimacy like a candy apple with the most inviting red. My hands will lift my hair away. My elbows will raise to my sides and I will try to be deft and fail. You will have to help me when I reach the middle of my back. I wonder if you’re willing, if you dream of cinnamon dry lips as well.

~

Does anyone in town have a tri-pod? I woke with a worm today nibbling in my mind, spelling out an Indonesian posture self-portrait set.

Also, don’t type “lemonparty” into google and hit “I’m feeling lucky.”

love like that



Destroying her thoughts, he’s a virus ravaging her mind. Across her brain the chemicals shift, wanting turns to desire to need to pour from her lips in a long drawn out sigh. Her hands reach for him to pull him in, meeting nothing but her own flesh. He’s telling her he’s lifting her, a chalice for his lips to drink from.

A vision of sweetest grace, she arches.

He’s telling her everything she never thought to think of, never thought to want. Her nails biting into her shoulder, she can hear him breathing to match the bee-sting flicker of his tongue. It’s surrender, it’s naked, it’s every secret spilling from the most tender of lips.

“Tell me now what you sound like”
“My voice is soft like my skin”
“Tell me now what you crave”
“You, here, with me.”

He takes her hair and threads it through his fingers, it’s silk, it’s sweet. If he closes his eyes, he’ll not see her words, but he can taste them now. Roll them on his tongue, she takes everything made of voice. She’s so beautiful, her fingers at her mouth make him quiver like a slick poison is taking over. It’s like his palace coming down. It’s like she lives beneath his skin.

“Kiss me”

And their fingers touch the glass.

foot in mouth disease

I don’t know who reads this, but I would like to pretend to myself, just for now, that you are one of them.

I can barely write prose, but I seem to try. I can’t write fiction, but I can write hypotheticals. Might happens are different. There’s places in between places. I can see you on this screen, I touch it and my fingers leave marks on the glass. It’s a poor mans sunshine, but it’s what I have. My life is beginning, my options open in a way I won’t have later. I’m an arrogant bitch just for putting this here.

This is a dare.

It makes me always happy to be reminded that everyone is human. Our heroes are fools, our scientists go grocery shopping like everyone else. Motivations are complex or simple but always personal. Shiny metal buildings organically curving above me and I thought of you. Again, at two degrees away from the exhibits. Stopped suddenly, I didn’t laugh when I realized what I was doing. Instead I held it. Looked at the shape of my thoughts. Small and round but heavy in my mind. A lump of etched silver, showing parts of the my motivation I rarely think of and never visit. Something has shifted.

Stupid and brave may be synonymous.

The world is dark. Shadows lengthened to eat my room, to leave me lit only by my computer. Interestingly, I am left knowing that danger is also a personal thing. Webs woven of the strangest politics are the ones we encounter when desire is involved. Desire of any sort. Want versus need versus what we think. We think too much and that’s what makes us human. Pieces here and there of animalism break through and we get murders and violent crimes. Thinking too much I agree with. I’m very, very good at saying No. My eyes may close, but I can still see the upcoming drop. Somehow, I have taken control but am still moving, one careful step in front of the other, closer to the cliffside. I can’t see the ground, but past this, the undiscovered country is waiting. I don’t know if this is a push, a leap or an accidental fall.

There is wind.