Author: foxtongue

your hands around my throat

I went for TV On the Radio. There could only have been twenty of us there who knew who they were. As I said to Ben, I have never been in a room with so many people with bad hair. I was sneered at in the hipster crowd for moving to the music. It was slightly fuzzy, vocals not high enough in the mix, but still enchanting. The thing I will remember long past this, though, is something entirely different.

The keyboardist for The Faint can Dance.

I stood pushed against the stage not feet from him, the man there in the middle. Holding my place stubbornly with my elbows, even the couple having sex up against me was worthwhile to watch him. So utterly captivating I couldn’t looked away. I had to remember to breathe. I didn’t know people could move like that. I want footage. I want an hour of this man moving to music with nothing else in the way. Google says his name is Jacob Thiele.

I’d never heard of them before, but now I’m hooked. Ferociously fun distinguishing synth drenched rock with the settled hungry grooves of people who know how to make music. Tasty notes to throw your body around. Falling into that dancing because no-one should be able to twist like that. Balls of the feet twirling around, thrumming with it. I’m enthralled.

Beep Beep didn’t make it past the border.

cap

I’ve got a half nekkidy boy in my bed. I’ve insisted, he’s soaked. A friend of Lief’s I met at the concert. It’s pouring rain outside and I can’t justify sending anything out there nor anyone shivering in wet clothes in my house. He’s under the blanket now, toasting up. It’s a good thing to help out sometimes, however unexpected. Tea’s ready.

it’s not for everyone

I apologize in advance, but this is simply hilarious. I’m frankly quite in love, though I’m not certain it’s actually meant as comedy. Of course, I also can’t stop laughing during Sympathy For Mr. Vengeance so perhaps I’m not exactly a stable judge. Side note:  I also find the Care Bear Sacrifice sincerly amusing.

We’re Sorry is also sweet. Reminds me of the DPHumans Viewer, but sort of tastier to see.

up at six for an eleven o’clock flight

Bones along her body show
Art is never far below,
reasons offers equal space
bones that glimmer in her face;
art is never far from where
reason offers up its chair –
art is never far way.

Phones ring out in open air,
ears deduce a message there,
noises fall into place,
tones that need no special grace;
letting half her reason go,
art is never far from so,
never far when she will play
dancing bones on reason’s day.

~~~~~~~~ Bones Along Her Body by George Bowering {canada’s poet laureate}

It’s been a time of poetry lately. I’ve been pulling it from my tongue like a magician with coloured scarf notes. Alastair wants me to write some of it down, so I will. Some of it, what I can remember past our taxi ride this morning when silences were filled by the driver’s Rod Stewart radio. Oh rhythm of my heart is beating like a drum with the words “I love you” rolling off my tongue tends to block anything made of water. Liquid words dry when you realize that however truth ridden you might be, you know the words to this horrid song. Somewhere in the background of your mind you can taste the lyrics threading along with the pastel drum machine music and it’s terrible. I was blessed with company that laughed when I suddenly looked pained. Understanding immediate without a word. Underneath it all Wolf Parade has been steadily playing. you know it’s the easiest way a godsend rescue.

So I go.

I bought a keychain and dark chocolates on my way out from the airport. I find something soothing in taking a physical object with me when I go. Something denoting that I was there and left behind. Equilibrium balanced in the simplest forms. A vividly coloured beetle encased under glass in functional clear plastic. Gold and purple, royalty tinted with chitinous legs. It’s a beautiful creature, perhaps from the same country the cocoa is from that makes my chocolate so perfect. Heaven melted over spun sugar. It’s addictive, this heady love thing. I had to firmly push him, “Go now”. I leaned against a booth and watched him as he didn’t look back, not knowing my eyes were following his scribble of a body through the harsh white hallway. I walked away satisfied, I’d accomplished my day’s need. He didn’t leave alone, nor did he want to go. I am well. I made the call and sent him off. Let tears wait until later when the chemicals hit past my distractions. I don’t have any now.

I have a new song to sing

On the bus back I suddenly realized I wished Larry was here. I’ve never met him, but I was flooded with the feeling that he’d let me rest my head on his shoulder and talk. Babble on about my boys while we sat in the back, rocking a little as the bus crested the bridge into the city. Gavin losing the studio and Alastair’s leaving, how I miss them, how they make me feel maybe that I could make something one day. Listen to him tell me about his sweet La Sherazade. I only noticed as it struck me as odd that I haven’t anyone to talk to in the city I live in. Instead I have this and here. Welcome home, me, I’m writing. Hope you don’t mind.

straight answer form : the sound of smashing bottles is the sound of you can’t touch me

:one:
for my desire.

Dark breath caught, need separated by together move now secrets and here like this please. Give.

:two:
for my body

The strings that hold heart in, the Word. Pale earth moving skin senses stance mine, thick inside with stars. Taut soft breaking, a country, I shut my gates now it’s cold.

:three:
for you

You taste like a cathedral. Soaring woodwarm centered on a man tied to two sticks. Laced to the cross for three days, the guard wept as he plunged his desire in. Three times the sun rose and three times it set and on the third day the guard wept as he thrust his desire into the wasted body

I don’t expect a phonecall, all I know is that you’re not with me. It’s blinding, I couldn’t see to walk home. It’s cold here. If there is a chase, then I have lost. Reciprocation, I should have no reason to leave. You look at me and I don’t know what you see. I don’t know why you stood there, I don’t know why it was okay the first time. Why in our littlest beginning we were even and now it’s not allowed. There was nothing but caramel honey melted and wanting to. Now there’s pressure and only leather lock snaps. It’s a pathetic broken song, this sitting alone again.

stupidity is thinking I’m wanted

I can’t live scared of blood. This is my medium, my glory that lifts me from everyday in into time. I count by blood as if every month were written on a wall with my careful bodypainted fingertip.

I can live with enough. It is not nice and I will not claim it to be satisfying, but it is survival. To expect more is simple bitter idiocy. There is no way for me to fairly claim more. I don’t deserve it, there’s no reason for me to ask it. To want more is always there, ignored. What I need is to be addressed, not what I want. It always seems the simplest way. It doesn’t have to be happy if it works.

Then comes my chemical nightmare. My onetime connection with myself. I would love it if I were allowed to. I was a painful fool tonight. It’s not my place to expect. It’s not my place to assume. I expected when I asked to be granted a little more to match my enough. To taste for a moment the lucky half of the deal. I’m sitting here in the dark cursing myself. There is no justification for expecting anything other than rejection when it’s all I receive. I’m going to head out soon, go home to my personless room. Needing and having nothing when I’m alone is expected. It’s the closest I have to normal. I can’t stay. Being thrown away three times will be too much.

Tomorrow he leaves.

I never have a problem

Her hands are covered in little cuts. She smashed a glass washing dishes, not noticing until she found the counter flecked with red. Her eyes swept over to the broken pieces of clear glass, catching on the shard with a single drip of rust. She picked it up, “isn’t this pretty?”

I’ve discovered something interesting under my friends elbow. It’s a document, practically illegible under years of grime. Registration instructions from twenty years ago, grubbily taped to the counter. I’m sure it was once possible to read words around the middle before someone cut a ragged hole through the desk. No longer, so now it’s an artifact. I took a pen from his distracted hand and wrote I APPRECIATE YOUR PROFESSIONAL ATMOSPHERE in dark blue ink along the left edge. He was busy discussing air freight charges with the man behind the counter. Walking away, I looked to the walls for something to examine. I always do in such places, but never find them. In among the ubiquitous framed prints of generic art, and certificates claiming their legal business, one sign claimed “If transporting live tropical fish, the customer is responsible for the oxygenation of the live freight”

He came to her over wires spun of thinnest information. His voice swept into her from small speakers she suddenly hated for distorting this precious thing. “Love me”, he said, and she did. “Touch me” he said, and she wanted to. Aching to trace fingers against warm flesh, she twisted, willing herself where she wasn’t. Something inside cried for release, though she didn’t know how. Her hands are useless, her mouth unable to shape the words to free her bindings. Pressing her lips to the inside of her wrist, it happened. Something shifted and with a snap, she moved. Electricity screaming free, complicated molecules shining into the purest desire, the body dissolved into an amalgam of sound. “I never knew this to be easy. This is never what I read about” Another letter arrived on screen. “I want you”, he said. “It’s time,” she thinks, then goes.

bloody passive boys

There is something both satisfying and not about wearing thigh high fishnets around the house. Tie ups with PVC trim, they’re certainly fun. It’s secretive, having them on underneath a long skirt that sways to the ground. Secretive is somewhat sexy, a little self-alluring. The idea is to let the other person find out, to let them discover and then want. It’s all rather useless if there’s no pique of interest. Thence the Not. I suppose it’s the moon of month to feel under appreciated. Too much need.

It’s time to take things out airport for shipping. Time to slip on my matching gloves and slide out of the house. Sit in a car feeling not quite enough. Tomorrow I’m at the airport – very first thing in the morning. Hang out in the blue seat area until it’s time to die a little. Another I Could Go With but Am Not. Another waving them goodbye and damning my eyes because I can’t watch them walk away. They blur into nothingness, blends of colour with no meaning attached.

One day I’ll see my lovers, until then, I hope they send more pictures.

btw

I have been reminded yet again that not everyone knows of the handy websites I use every day.

http://s3.yousendit.com/ – allows you to send large files. I use it mainly to share music and shorter videos.

http://del.icio.us/foxtongue – stores bookmarks on-line, accessable from anywhere. I’m newer to this and so I forget it, but I’m finding myself growing to like it very much.

http://flickr.com/people/foxtongue/ – exceptional linked photo space for sharing, blogging, more useful as anything yet made

http://www.mperia.com/ – a bitpass place for indies. A wide range of tasty music, all listenable without payment.