Author: foxtongue

This morning is a candle-lit depression sans candles or depression. It’s seven:thirty in the morning and I’m decked out for fetish night. All foreseeable actions include bearing broken wings.

Get ready to have your fortune told. I’m going to scry your damned eyes. I have the patience of a little death. Wheedling miseries offset by happiness. Arching into Barakka on my ceiling. Sight flutters open to see the world above me, the sounds and passions cold lighting my room with warm reflected life. Hot white world. Even without my eyes, it’s beautiful. They’re on the floor, the other side of the bed from the projector.

Darling, when you’re Mine, you stay that way.

I have just seen the most romantic film I have ever yet to see and it was called The Secretary..

There is a flower blooming today.
I rode barefoot on my bicycle to better feel the Fall. Chill air numbing my skin and the delicate patter of my feet touching ground an unexpected sensation when I arrived home. Dignity wrapped in a gentlemans jacket.
It’s a beautiful flower, petals tightly closed.
I put the collar on and I don’t know how you did that. Crunchy guitar from the computer machine. All the better to hear you with my dear. Give this and take it and the sound of the word Yes. I don’t know how it was done, what mechanism wasn’t tripped. You deserve whatever I give you. The word is a stone.
It is a full flower, heavy and rich.
I’ve found the chocolate left on the bedside table. The brown and white jar looks out of place on the plastic fushia. That’s what caught my eye. Seventies theme against the bright Ikea celebration of colour. With my boxes here, I can settle in. I can swathe this wan box with comforting vibrancy. It tastes like welcome.
Hold it, not a rose, not quite, something bigger, more complex.
This is a gift. This is a gift that I don’t understand, but appreciate and crave. A baffled tangle of the perfect courtesan moment. If I were a different person, you would be scared of me. You would never let yourself take what I give. I make people happy. This is danger, this is addiction.
You think the word Crysanthymum, but you are wrong.
Today I sat on the back of a car, watching a house. A hand slipped from between classic lace curtains, picking up a jar. The sound when the hand put it back sounded so far away as to be unbelievably distant. As if sound could never sound from so far away. Glass against wood reminding me of the praires. The endless seas of green grass and yellow grain.
It fills your cupped hand.

It pulses with bloody warmth, hotter than you.

Happy birthday Jenn, we’re on our way.

I’ve been cleaning all day, (if anyone knows how to troubleshoot a lava lamp, I would be grateful for suggestions), with short visits of Alistair dropping things off. In a shocking display of unusual behaviour, I decided to actually eat the food I’d made earlier. Perogies & sour cream in the soothing light of my singing computer. In theory, a good idea, what with strummy pop on and some amusing media to pore through. Instead, I got distracted by a Jones Soda label on my desk. So! You! The Reader! I really don’t know why I bothered to do this, but I think it’s Your fault. Vote for me here.

How the hell did I get so domestic? My house is full of boxes. Mine and my roomates, AV Gear and Alistair things. Mix them all up and we would have a wierd studio covered in glitter. We could destroy the world from my messy box. Death-defying horror and strangeness. I like it. I want to unpack. Start with my room, then find homes for the lava-lamp, the lunchboxes full of glow-in-the-dark dinosour skeletons and concert tickets, the tibetan monk-made jewelry my ghodmother bought new in San Fransisco the year everyone looks back to, wishing they lived in Haight Ashbury. Nevermind the sewing patterns, the embroidered films, the dreams flying in a hundred odd objects.

Walk this damn line. Defy and dissolve whatever the hell it is we think we’re doing. I’ve got music cranked, I’ve got food started in my one last pot. Someone I barely know is moving in. Water boiling and I’m barefoot dancing with a shiny cleaver in hand. The ferret is scurrying everywhere, exploring the new topography of my apartment. You would love to see this. This is simple reality beating, burning skin deep. I’ve ascertained recently that this isn’t normal.

This is class.

My world has expanded to include other peoples inspiration. My friends have been infected back.
Take this paradise and shred it.

Life is doing it again.

Yesterday I wake up somehow entangled with a boy. Fifteen minutes after arriving home, a friend arrives crying. This continues until she’s better, she leaves when it’s dark. Hours have passed, but not minutes pass until I find out that Jon is dead. The phone rings as I feel myself dying. Then the ex arrives, who also cries. It is a long hard time.

I discover this morning that I have been beautifully painted by riotlounge who posted it here.

Today the boy is moving in.

I’m sorry to pass on this news. I can’t tell you how very sorry I am.

Jon Gaasenbeek is dead. 

He hung himself on the back of his bedroom door. His family held a service in Ontario. I’m considering holding one here. I’ve left my number where he was living for anyone who calls. I have his mothers address, if you would like it, please e-mail me. He meant very much to me. I’m sorry.

 

 

I remember, I used to be like this. There was a very basic lack of understanding that still persists in curious ways. Of course, in very many ways I’m no different. I’m missing your filters. I’m still the same, but more myself. The deepening of soul and senses, it’s like learning. I don’t want to be like you, but I want to understand you. I want my communication to work. I’m AIDS generation. I’m this and that and not the same.

I suspect that the younger folk in the article will fall into the flesh later, though I continue to hold that preferance colours opinion. The body can be wretchedly annoying.

All in my mind.

Back breathless from the bi-weekly poetry slam. My pulse is ready to tear through my skin but I push it down. Lately I run the last block home. I don’t know why. It’s dark, in front of me is a field, I run. Anyone watching would think I know what I’m doing but I can feel my body’s still broken. It’s frightening to run. Feet hitting the ground in such delicate pounding balance, this ankle’s going to go. My faulty eyes can’t see the ground so I focus on what’s ahead of me. I feel like I could go forever. I feel like I can pretend to be whole again.

I’m lying.

Mine from the stage. His words rolling so skillfully on skin that he could almost talk me into loving him. “I was sick for you, but I think I’m better now. Recovering.” I worried last time I saw him, his illness a sheen on his skin, a catch how he looked just barely at me. It hurt my soul. There was nothing I could do. Nothing that would be honest. I’m going to wait for him just a little more. Keep him close to watch him. Skin to taste and bones to break, these words can’t tell what he means to me but not, might I add, enough.

Something will die the day I break a poet.

Victoria posted T. S. Elliot today. I need to post it as well, as I know the same things. It’s a wierd sad place to live my dearest, and a strange road to walk. Lonely when it’s supposed to be home, but it’s not, because we know how beautiful the rest of it is.

“Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow”

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