Author: foxtongue

Cthulu cookie


Cthulu cookie
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

So the Alastair laddie, he takes off for a bit, kindly running some errands for me. (Bastard also cleaned my bathtub, thereby slapping every single last joke about such in my face, but nevermind that). He returns with a paper bag with some pasteries in. Nothing terribly interesting. A muffin, some tasty crescent rolls. Then an hour or so later he creeps in on me, all unsuspecting of his nefarious catch of the day. A CTHULU COOKIE! A skellington of the Lovecraftian terror, no less.

We took a picture of his glorious prize, the likes of which I had never seen. It’s nefarious gingerbread scent wafting delectably upwards, he had mere moments to snap the evidence shot. I took off the elder gods leg, hamstringing him so that he may not escape my awesome bitey powers. There was great carnage. His head lays on my desk like the keepings of war.

my face burned with cold as I looked over my city this morning

This boy is a scrawny kitten creature of a man. Whipcord lean and alleycat sweet. I want to take him in to protect him from the cold. Take this saucer of milk darling, lap it up curled in my lap. Trust me lovely, I don’t want your skin to line my coat.

*locksnapclick*

It’s the season for warm winds blowing rain into uplifted faces. Hide your eyes from the too kind sky. This morning there was a mad scurry dash of activity when the water began. We had to get the fireworks under the tarp as quickly as we could. When I had arrived earlier, I discovered that I was remembered from the course. Jay had told Elliot that he was bringing his friend in today, “She was in the course this week. She would have been the blond one.” “Blond and purple?” “Yeah, that’s Jhayne” “She was the one who took a nap during class”

the sound of keys in a clay cup

Sentences are running through my head like my love line. A broken jagged thing traveling across my hand, unreadable for it’s lack of coherency. Damned post modern relationships. Sweet mother terra needs to rewire my attraction board. Take the pegs out and re-arrange to fit my place and physical location into the program. It’s my fault somehow for falling for people, not flesh. I remember once I scraped off make-up with damp sand. It was course, gritty against my cheeks. I don’t know if I was dreaming. Where was I then? On my knees in a skirt, the surf in front of me? Not what I was looking at.

This is the important time for set-up. A few blocks away is the practical experience to wiring up explosives, the learning what I need to know. I can picture them perfectly, moving back and forth on the gravel field. Lisa Lee checking her set-up paper time and again. I’m jealous of their cold hands, their volunteer coffee in styrofoam cups. Instead I’m working with the kids, a small heap of ill-won candy my none too healthy breakfast.

I see you

I loathe need

Tonight at SinCity some idiot slapped my ass and I growled at him. I swept around faster than I could think about it and caught him by the throat. He was on his knees, unable to breathe in less than a second. Black PVC pants half a size too small hopefully scratching on the floor. Shamefully, I didn’t say I was sorry, but just tossed him away from me. Later he brought me a small bowl of candy without a word. Only handed it to me and nervously walked away.

For almost an hour I sat in a corner, feeling very much alone, sucking on horrid artificial flavoured chunks of mouth slicing sugar blocks. Before that I tried dancing, but the crowded dancefloor made it difficult. Drugged up dancing goths in rubber shorts are dangerous people to be close to. Too many spikes they aren’t paying attention to. It was a miserable night. Someone dropped a glass, smashing it not a metre from my bare feet. I left the house alone, I danced alone. My night a sad symphony of solo. I walked home kept company only by johns slowing down to pick me up and drive me home. Hardly cheerful. My thoughts are pathetic company when I want to cry to tear hearts out. Death incarnate inside my glass fingered hands.

The cherry was standing outside my apartment box unable to get inside. I stood for half an hour considering the different ways to climb my balcony in my fluffy black tutu and constricting trenchcoat. If it had started raining, I would have been off to wake up Marc or Jacques. Into the houses of my friends who’ve given me housekeys and slip into bed to let them wake at my cold feet and tensed fists. “Set the alarm for 8:30?” It would have been the easiest way. Borrow clothing and go straight to work in the morning, trailing my 12 yards of netting behind me on the field. Setting up mortars with my fishnets on.

Sometimes I’m glad I can’t hide my quirks, but more likely I’m glad I’m in no position where I need to. I don’t think I could. I have a secret now that is almost mine, yes, but I am still keeping it for them, not myself.

never any warning

It’s been a strange and bitter week. she flicks her eyes up to his and holds them. “would you like to spend the night at my place?” she knows exactly what she asks and how much this means.   her voice denies it, but his blood knows. I knew I was in serious trouble when an hour into my second pyro tech class, I was morbidly hallucinating. I put my hand to my head and took it away covered in brain-flesh and writhing maggots. The classroom seemed threatening. After the first break, I sat myself down in a softer chair, one against the wall. In the darkness, I fell asleep very briefly only to jerk awake from a dream of midget prostitutes stabbing me with syringes made of sharp enamel teeth with burned edges. I wish I was kidding, I wish that was overstatement. her hand vibrates with light, every molecule a different frequency. It’s painful, but not in any quantifiable way. she only knows that if she touches anything, it will dissolve into sound. in her mind, she finds her husband. I have a party planned this Saturday which I think is going to fail miserably. I’m being blown off by my friends for a fetish night. A fetish night that I would be on the guest list for if I hadn’t already had a party foisted upon me. The depression just grows, my lovelies. If I had known that there would be friends there Saturday, I would have decided upon that. Some certified relief from the nasties that populate such places. One day I will get used to being forgotten. Perhaps I’ll even manage to go an entire week without being stood up. blue eyes, blue eyes, he’s singing to himself, remembering what she looked like when he shuddered on top of her. what a night, he thinks, what a bloody good night. he turns, closing the handle of the door. next time I might even pay her, he thinks. I picked up my paycheques earlier today and brought them to the bank. The way my account is set up, I need to make my transaction with a teller rather than the machine if I am to pay my rent and as well get groceries. The line-up was entirely made up of men, and the one fourth down in line picked me out immediately as someone he approved of. Long silver hair and a gore-tex jacket. The older Used To Be A Hippie, still kind, still hitting on younger women who don’t mind all that much. He talked to me and I gave him candy from my pocket. “Trick or treat”. Our discussion eventually included another man, a taller fellow, with wire thin frames and shaved down hair. We talked about how today is the 75th anniversary of the Stock Market Crash, space-flight advances, and physics. Solar Flares wiping the magnetic memory of everything on Earth. The two of them waited for me afterward, standing by the door. I watched out of the corner of my eye as they made their introductions. Together they asked me out for coffee. Today I said no.

some warning would be appreciated

um – right – so hot on the heels of my stupidly insane week…

Apparently there is talk of a party at my place. Thank you kind folk for ASKING ME. *christ*

But, yes – I would like to see this happen.

Would the kind people who also are seemingly planning this arrange some details with me please?
As I’m the only one with a housekey – you sort of need my participation
Acquiescence included.

If this does go through, I want as many people as possible to show up.

So – alright. Keep in mind I’ve no net and am going to be at class from 9 – 4 the next two days.
I am going to be too busy this week to set it up. I require some cleaning help.

(a decent couch wouldn’t hurt either – or floor pillows – or bribery)

I hate it here (oh wait – that’s taken. YOU BASTARD!)

I’ve no net connection save at my mothers until James moves in.

This is really, really painful. I never understood how people could be so attached to a place or thing until I’ve had to go without internet for any length of time. This is my Home. My Family is here. You, my friends, lovers, my INFORMATION. Everything that matters to me is locked inside the glowing box. Every single last morsel of my sanity is caught up in this digital drug. I shake for it like I shake for you. Blind in the world, I can’t be blind here. Save me from this! Keep me in the most precious company. Drown me in this sea of media. Temporary links to weird news, building my face out of facts. I can feel myself relaxing as I type. Muscles unknotting as I hit my obsession.

Late to bed, I woke early today as people came to help Gavin move. Too tired to drag myself from my bed of chaotic blankets and clothing to help, I lie half awake flooded with vague guilt. I fell fitfully back into sleep until a most welcome call from Javina dragged me fully into wakefulness. Perfectly in time to call the Pyro offices and arrange my week. Luckily I was off the phone with her before I discovered my link to the world had been taken away. It would have been a shame to tsunami-stress die on a friend. The ripple-effect would be a killer. It’s like waking truely naked. I can’t take it. Where’s my covering world?

Now I’m at my mothers. She’s behind me, clatteringly cooking in the kitchen with my brothers noisily upstairs arguing about video games and the best way to pretend to kill someone. I would like to think I have a good influence on them. In fact, I know I do, but the prima-donna youngest? I likely wouldn’t mind if he just went away until he’s barely a context. Let him vanish. He’s the most unpleasant thing about visiting. I want my memories to vanish him until it’s absurd to consider him. Maybe it’s just tonight.

Earlier I set out in the soon-to-be-gale-force winds on my bicycle, ferret slung over my shoulder. A less than wise move, but one what worked out without anyone dying. My passport pictures for my pyro license have been taken, and Skatia’s been set up with some of the same food that zoos feed lions until the petshop can get some ferret food in. Stuff so made of flesh that the scent of it makes my mouth water. The furry creature eats better than I do most days, I swear. I tried visiting with Alli and Nate, but in my perpetual distraction, I left their address at home when I left. My heart led me to wander back and forth across three blocks of 14th street, hoping one of them had suddenly clicked clairvoyant. No luck, as my calling names into the air only brought me unwelcome attention from the neighbors whose doors I’d randomly knocked on.

Back in the box, but no less home than I was out in the freezing rain, I packed my things into a large bag and finished my phonecalls. My apartment has never actually been messier than it is right now. Four of us moving all at once. I wish Alistair were here, he could be taught to be quietly brilliant at such things. We talked earlier, he’s been calling every day from San Clemente. One hour out of L.A. and he seems determined that I visit. Desperation is asking me to live off my photography. Talking to me must be the twist of the most gentle of knives. I call him back later if he sends me the number.

Tonight after I’m done on-line, I expect to spend the rest of my evening in the livingroom attempting to cut out my pattern on the box strewn floor. Everything for my costume minus the lights is with me. Ray has those finished apparently, but as he’s in Calgary for his Aunt’s funeral, I don’t get to play with them until Wednesday. I hope he gets time to visit with my painter Gavin, but I don’t think he will. It would be nice to have the chapbook. Hold his creativity in my hands, like having his blood warm me at night. I would cry.

Just for the record: the various members of this passions play, they write the same. It’s disconcerning.

I am girl genius

get down get down : play that funky music whiteboy

I am finally getting my pyro tech tickets. I will be legal when I blow things up. Paid to set fires. Apprenticeship begins this week. In my insanity of motion, I already have a gig. Saturday I’m working the Parade of Lost Souls. First one’s free. Another two shows and I can legally buy the Pretties What Go Boom. Send in my upgrade petition and bang – bang – my baby shot me dead. Tuesday I take the indoor course and Wednesday the outdoor. Two full days of training I suspect I should be well prepared to handle. Not only is this a poetic accomplishment that likely compliments my world quite nicely, being able to list Pyrotechnician on my resume will hopefully raise all the right eyebrows. If it doesn’t, well, soon I’ll be able to buy level two explosives.

a total eclipse of the heart : once upon a time there was light in my life : but now there’s only love in the dark

I’ve never made a tutu before. I know nothing of their construction whatsoever. I have no needle. I have no thread. I am not prepared to sew anything. I do however have a shining heap of painfully pointy safety pins and six metres of black netting. (Now twelve as I, in my arrogance, dared the scissors.) In spite of the obvious drawbacks to this situation, I seem to be doing alright. I hit on the idea of making an inside-out kilt. Odd, but it seems to be working. The fluffy is happening. Note: I have never made a kilt either. What I know of kilt manufacture is entirely gleaned from a ten minute conversation with Ross Nukem as he was making us food in my kitchen at four in the morning. A ten minute conversation filtered through the euphoric exhaustion of a heavy night of dancing at SinCity.

I was alive and I waited for this : right here, right now : watching the world wake up from history

don’t judge me like a little girl


1066
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

In another world, I have passion burning. There are grand and glorious eruptions of creative lucidity. Lying men don’t ask for my number. Brave darkness, troublesome lovers. Watch me take this and plunge it in, branding the heart with echoes of my voice. My hair’s only honey when I hate you.

Wax this moon budding into beauty. Preserve and control, bitch. Take this devil time and pray. Find someone to care about the rains devouring because I like it. I want it wrapped around my legs, a pet to play with. Sleek glistening lines, you know I never lied to you. There are no two ways about it. Only one path to this salvation. It cuts you because my blood burning is made of pain.

She rules the mountain, she throws you off the cliff. Watch where you land, boy. Break your bones on the shattered lives. Logic patterns circular. She’s addictive. She’ll eat your love. Spit you out, take your bets, toss the money down. How many fates will you lay on the table?

A woman unsheltered says anything, this woman unsheltered is divine. Face sculptures out of freedom. Acutest angle, this merry-go-round. Sweetest dreaming. You can wait until I say so.

inhale your breath as mine

You’ve got one of those seven faces of the pale skinned world. Every time I leave the house I see you. The shape of your skull catches at me from the passing crowd, the outline of your face. You’re so made of where you’re from it makes me ache. Pedestrian pub-crawl hair over perfect even teeth. Everything in between photographs badly because you think about it. I saw what you did with the camera. You move like a bird. Jagged, almost quick, everything you pick up a seed. I want a history like you have. I want a land, a people, a family culture. I want to walk on stones, feel the dead rise up beneath me in a rising tide of What Has Been. I can speak your voice now. You’re not getting it back until you beg me for it. This place is too new, too lacking in blood.

I’m known for desiring architecture.

Falling inside like water from a great height. Crane my neck back hoping to catch a glimpse of what I’m given, but I’m drowning in it. My eyes are closing. Slow lapping waves in this pool at the bottom. The base of this, this wash of caught tears. Strychnine stimulant for the central nervous system. Just add your hands.

Bleeding me like an older century doctor. Taking my pulse with a soft sweet tongue. It’s singing again, my bones living crystal. You shimmer and break me. This tone raining from your letters. It’s glamour you cast. Lasting for days, blossoming into heat to warm my fingers. I want to touch you to show you. I want to touch you to make you Mine.

Where are you taking me?