Author: foxtongue

We slept and I dreamed of you, I could feel you beside me. Your body warmth bleeding through as if you were sound, chords thrumming deep base through my skin. Long wave vibration modulated with your breath to kiss me where I couldn’t notice the touch, only the heat pooling inside of me. Fool me again, lover, make a difference. Memories want to apprehend your intentions and accuse them of shameless crimes. I’m not praising the ones who left me or left you, but I want their fingerprints gone. Washed clean again, like I used to be, like I think you didn’t have a chance.

Cries to god, I’m going to have them. Exclamations of christ, the death knell of ecstasy take-over. Your brainwaves are mine to taste, to play with. This is the power, this is the word. This is how to kill someone. Take their voice, their self-knowledge, strip them to desire, bare minimal sheathing of nothing. Civilization gone. It’s a capture of soul, knowing the word. The final song, the final spark of humanity available for eating.

The bitter taste of coffee on your tongue, it’s syrupy. Straining for reason, it’s not always my fault when you turn away. I reach for you to spite the defensive strategy endgame coming. Inamorato, keep yourself close. Gather me to you and let me question why. Slow exploration, shifting patterns of tragic I Used To Know You.

I miss you but I need to sleep.

I went downtown and got my cheque today. Catching up on myself finally, the weather gray and cold like the inside of my skin. I feel like an empire’s crumbled today, my blood draining from me in rivers. I’ve got a bowl of thawed strawberries from the freezer in a puddle of thick red, more liquid than my eyes when I’m crying. I guess I’m just lonely. I’m not used to it. Was the default setting and now it’s new and strange. People entered my life and some hung around. Shining company with vicious tongues, blazing buttery wit like toffee with a hint of rum. Tonight no-bodies around. I find it hard to wait. Chains and trains and the high seas calling at me. Wind whipping hair and the loss of self into fury. Snap of pretty girl bone, the crack of snare drum symbols, howling, watching. Gravity and rainbows, colour splash pulling itself from the ground, one painful heave at a time. What if they screamed as they arched? What if they thrashed? Open your eyes and look above you. Can’t you see them screaming?

Now I’m home after some fruitless being in stores with Javina. I feel a bit defective, I don’t enthuse properly or something. I’m lacking a basic gland that allows for shoe appreciation or maybe I could get it in a pill soon. Pop a tenner on me baby, I’m going out with the girls and wanna fit in right. Tight and snug, baste me up a twinkle in my eye and a love for christmas jingles. I want to give you my love, world, I want to slide up to your bay windows and know what to do to you. Lick the mannequin with my side-long glance, craving whatever it is that I’m supposed to see.

Shake for me girl, I wanna be your backdoor man.
How is it that every generation discovers Led Zepplin and Pink Floyd at the same age? How long can this continue?
I should leave now for movies at Ethan’s. People into my procrastination holds off the darkness better than Houses of the Holy.

On our drive back from friendly San Diego, where we found chocolate what defeated us, by the way, we caught sight of a Ferris Wheel and followed the Magpie Reflex. Shiny thing, where’s the next exit, there, now how do we get there, I guess we turn left, what is this place? It’s never failed us. We found streetlights decorated with stylized bows made of christmas lights along an empty curving road. We followed it to a vast dark parking lot. Upon finding the entrance, we were approached by a woman in a safety vest who told us we could go through, twelve dollars at the gate. It seems that the Del Mar racetrack decorates wildly with christmas lights and charges people to drive through where the horses would run. Over the radio they play cheerful holiday music. It was surreal. I can’t properly explain the scale. A dustbowl palm tree race-track christmas.

Our drive through had a dreamlike quality. Slowly rolling through the oval, giggling at the oddity of the situation, Billie Holiday chirping from the stereo. Fascinated by the incongruous juxtapositions of christmas and this fantastic discovery, we took pictures every twenty feet, stopping frequently to capture the newest absurdity. I love my darling, that he clicked with the display the same way I did. “This is unbelievably wierd. Let’s document, take pictures.” I can’t think of anyone I would rather have shared it with. Miles away from everything, we’ve now experienced the bizarre together.

That this may be the only festive display that some children see is a bothersome thought and I don’t do christmas. Some of the eerie lights were disturbingly innappropriate to our un-american sensibilities.

Note Santa’s sled taking off from a military air carrier.

Justify the light I carry. This lamp is heavy and it drags me down, it blinds me and burns me. I can see the blood in my hands, like glass, like papercuts slicing me open to the doctors gaze, my skin a million lines of wet red. Birds call but I don’t hear them. I only see the silent opening of thier beaks, the trilling of thier soft pink tongues vibrating from the air they push from their brave feathered chests. I blink and their lungs burst. Bones breaking open to splatter flesh on the vivid green grass.

Instead of aimless wandering, I fall into reverie. I spend long hours not moving, my eyes barely tracking the white fluffy confections that litter the sky of this country. Sometimes days go past, with my mind too far away to notice. I remember you, mostly, your graceful smile. The sweet atmosphere of careless affection you would carry with you, like love was a perfume you wore as a flower carries pollen. You were so beautiful. As I saw you from across the hall, I wanted to touch you. A pointless urge at the time, I came later to understand. You and your curse. I love it. The irony is delicious. Didn’t stop me wanting, of dreaming of you that night. I woke up with a hand between my legs and a single drop of sweat rolling down the inside of my thigh.

Over dinner I saw you again, a few tables over. Not so many that I couldn’t see you from where I was sitting, but not close enough to easily watch you without being caught. I covertly studied how you held your silverware, how your dark green coat clashed with the yellow cotton tablecloth. The secret red lining at your cuffs gave me desires I couldn’t focus. I wanted to snuggle underneath your jacket, my head on your shoulder, your strong hands holding my wrists in my lap. I wanted to be trapped. I thought of predators and prey, wolves and ridinghoods. A girls fancy of flight and capture, my thought for the day was my finger tracing your face from your hairline, down the middle of your brow, down your nose to your lips. Those kissable lips. I didn’t know your name. I skip over my next thought, the visceral sensation of having a full mouth. After all this time, it’s still depressing. I live in paradise, shackled to your possession. What a pathetic pun. I should concentrate on my song, my last chance of freedom.

“Say these words and you will be free,” you said, “Say I love you”. You tore my tongue out before I had a chance to speak. You cut me and cried.

Sadistic bastard, I don’t understand why you gave me this lamp.

blame

Okay, everyone! It’s embarrassing confession time!

My first crush was on Sherlock Holmes, and I can never, ever, spell silhouette without doubting my spelling to the point of getting out Google to spell-check.

YOUR TURN GO

and Sophie is trying to get 1000 posts to her 1000th post

Mike‘s Dj-ing tonight at Lick.

About time I get to go dance. Tear a heart shaped hole in the eloquent tongue of my bodies motion. Language darling, of sex and death and that unsteady beat, arrhythmia. Thumbtack toes and a sticky smile, not very many people have seen me go dancing at the lesbian bars. I grind and dip, swooping in to catch the pretty girls and let them go. I collect people, I play pool on the dark uneven table, I suggestively chalk my cue and abandon it for music, kicking off my shoes in a corner to collect later.

Wouldn’t you like to see? I like to have a room of people dancing with me, we’re all girls, there’s no lurking quietly in the dark. Hard hot hands, I grab you and twist you to me. My thigh goes here, gasps to the thud of the electric drums, clarify what you want. I’m not going to give it to you, but I’ll tease. Let you lick me, let you kiss me goodbye, but you’re not coming home. Dirty dancing, I only take.

Wish I had a fishnet shirt.

I’m not supposed to talk about it. I said I wouldn’t, I said it was yours alone. I didn’t lie, but I chafe like the leather collar you let me buckle onto you, like the cuffs that don’t have the fuzz inside. I search your face every time I do it, I tense at the gasp, a tigress relax of sin and skin winding themselves around keys and locks and your eyes, dear god, your eyes. They close for me, sheathing the blinding green conciousness in little flaps of lickable flesh. I could bathe in the lines radiating from your eyes, crows feet to claw me down and remake me.

placebo sofa cinema is love
brought to you by the isLove Generator

We got out of Tijuana alive, but for our lungs. A drunk man tried to make a stumble for it at the border, walking through the turnstiles and weaving for the exit doors on the other side. “Sir! Sir!” He didn’t make it. We didn’t see the finish of his story as we were being held up ourselves by the clerk. The ID I brought with me to get into the States wasn’t apparently enough, but he let me go on my word that I would be eventually getting a passport.

Stopped at San Diego on our way back. Our impression was that it’s a friendly place, the gaslight quarter a martini blend of Seattle and San Fransisco. We were on the hunt for delicious chocolate, and we found it almost right away. A marquis sign advertising fudge caught us into parking.

exploding cell phones

This came out of thenowhere putting up an infidelity story, and slinka putting up a fridge-magnet sillything. If my brain considered simple sentence structure as this flowed out, I think it might have turned out. Cest la vie.

I suspect that at some point I will have to attempt an infidelity koan. A rather odd topic, but one that it seems every damned female one of us has brushed against. In a way, I like that. Wickedness abounds my lovelies, a further assurance that the world is as odd a place as we’ll let it awaken to. As perfect example of real-time plot twist, it turns out that our house-guest won’t be staying as planned. She’s going back to her husband, she’s a married woman now, like she was eleven years ago, half my life ago. She’s put the ring on her finger. It’s that step into blooming unknown that I like the best. Forcing myself to put my foot down the dark alley that a thousand films have told me not to. Dare me, my darlings. It’s a pity she’s going to Winnipeg in winter.

Check out the latest insanely good inking by vagrantkid by the way.

Tonight I found a local has discovered me from Warren‘s journal again. A friend this time, someone I welcome. Readers trickling in, he’s the second brave soul that I know of to attempt a full read through of this unwieldy thing. He’s cementing the approximate two-hundred number of those who drop in here from time to time to kill time. Who are you people anyways?

I’m craving some sunshine, a hot heat hit of warm weather with my boy holding my hand. This mad gray world fills my space, a cloudy brain at the freezing point of water. I’m made of it, drenched pores in cold, skin made as stone. I’m happy though, flesh and blood in a blanket of loving memory, may he rest in peace, may she, may they come together in flame. Procession of thoughtbeat, flickers of trees leaning toward the ocean in endless rows. Legends, blurred.

I love you my darling, I hold you, you’re mine.

From the restaurant in Tijuana we could see very little. Bright stores packed corner to corner with tasteless trinkets. Wrestling masks, sombreros, stones polished into aztec suns with inset mirror eyes. Everything was decayed, the buildings cracked and the street torn open, leaving sewage to air. Our food was delicious, though we made sure our drinks were bottled. The staff was kind, smiling because we couldn’t quite communicate. Only the headman knew passable english. He walked me to the lavatory, taking my arm and promenading me past the empty dancefloor, streamers brushing my hair in time to the dated music.

I left Alastair at the table and I held his hand when we walked the street. He looked like a tourist, a skinny brit in a yellow jacket. I don’t know what I looked like, but everyone assumed I knew Spanish. Trickling comprehension began to solidify in my brain. Frustrating to understand and not be able to reciprocate. I’ve never been called a wife so many times in my life. Walking, I wanted to memorize the city. Blade runner lights off in the distance, we went north to an arch scraping the lowest bits of sky. There were no stars through this pollution, only planets spinning brightly above. Under the arch was darkness, a dead sign hanging from wires, REVOLUTION, the beginnings of wary interaction with a dangerous city. There was a circle there, streets spoking off in all direction. We went right, where the lights were. More tourist shops piled to the ceiling with nothing worth looking at.

Waking from cold at four in the morning lends me to a few conclusions. First off – no matter how hungry one might be at such a time, do not attempt cooking by throwing random cans of edibles into a pot with insta-soup noodles, the noodles are a bad starchy idea what hates you. It doesn’t matter if you have nothing else, it is a weary path of thick sickly glop. I think I’m going to give up on this “soup” and freeze to death with my comfort food, stave-off-the-lack-of-sun-depression frozen strawberries. Second – a warm pair of pyjamas is apparently vital when the bed is not shared. As it’s been a few years since this was last a problem, I had utterly forgotten about it. How ordinary is that? Third – I am assuming the ferret is in the room, so therefore I can extrapolate from previous behaviour that he will wake me up at six and again at eight, so where the frag is the ferret? Fourth – shopping for real food has to happen, and pots, and a pan, and I have to pick up the package at the airport and… goddamn those noodles were a this-must-be-the-sort-of-thing-drunk-people-think-are-clever idea. You are all more intelligent than me. I finally have proof and it is in a pot and glaring at me.