Author: foxtongue

lifting me up

I’m dancing on spider’s wings. My phone’s died, leaving me without voice to the outside world. Shameful, really, that I allow it to get into such a state, but oh! To send my glittering nets out skimming facetime. See who appears at my door. Being both needle and thread, tatting an evening out of a peculiar miracle. Chaos controlling, my favourite. Under the skin conditioning, supple and smooth. I assure you that your name is important to me, you sweet wordsmith beauty queen. The broken smile’s fixed, replaced by a mild “you make me feel rainbows”.

Call any time you want.

Outside my window the world’s been cunningly replaced with christmas card cut-out of trees.

I don’t know if it will ever be okay again. I shudder inside when I hear your name. With permission, I’d like to slip sex into your morning coffee. Quiver and gasp, silent in my eyes. Clever compromise, I never had any choice in the matter. Come to my window, I will pull you in. Conduit heat and passion. I’ll learn for you. Brief chances at happiness, I know. Forgive me in my youth. Allow me this, I have a habit of bringing back immortality. Impure dream with me, trace the curve of my hip with your fingerful gaze. Done right, there’s nothing to corrupt. This is pristine, made of whispers in darkness and an ocean between.

Hair-dye hum, all of it’s plum purple yours to curl fingers into. A shipment of my things arrives today, every packed box a mystery of it’s own making. People to help me haul know less maybe then I do. Words never said, dresser drawers emptied into cardboard surprises. Later I finally record my voice. Jagged notes maybe, burrs to catch in clothing and stumble over. Clearly, enough to bind me by.

the fundie kids make me slightly ill

I’m outside, trying not to look down the road too intently. There’s cars sweeping past, but only your headlights will crest the hill. I’m happy because I know you’re there in the dark behind the wheel. This is going to be the last time I wait for you, same as last time. It’s raining a little and I like how the lights scythe through the water, creating the illusion of something solid. You took me by surprise last time with the roses. A perfect movie moment and I hated you. You gave your life to that church, how could I respect that? You and your holiness. Glowing hands after dark, letting me see what my flesh felt like under your hands. The tracers were sexy, visible trails from your tongue, but I didn’t want you as a Saint. I wanted you as Mine, not theirs, every whisper and caress. I cried when it was time to drive the nails in.

east then west, it’s hard to turn

The candy is gone. Dark is softly closing in at four:thirty in the afternoon. My obsession needs to kiss me, needs to draw out my tongue. The rain has hid the sky, it looks grubby out, the sky painted gray-white by children with dirty hands.

I protest.

Today I can’t really stop hitting Send/Recieve. Hopeless, but there are no greater fools than those who work with children. I want to start work on my costume. Finally an idea that thrills me a little. The sort of thing that’s hovered in my brain since I was little. Ray has my sewing patterns. Hopefully I’ll get them off of him tomorrow. Then I’ll find out what I’ve got to play with.

Donations of fabric, however unlikely, are welcome.


The horses were tired, their brown coats flecked with foam. That’s how it goes, doesn’t it? Always flecked with foam in the stories and their hooves have to spark against the cobblestones and the carriage has to clatter. The coachman flanked by lanterns which sway wildly. At the convenient corner, one will smash to the ground, spreading flame. This is our opening scene, the same one we’ve seen many times beofre. The house will catch a litte, then roar up the walls of the house. We won’t see that part directly, but we’ll hear a child crying and see flame through the windows. If we’re lucky, a shot of the smoke will fade to black.

Music sting. A tiny flying cello humming past on graphite wings. I swat for it and miss. It gets me later on my knee. I scratch until it’s a sticky scab, but my leg won’t stop singing. Damn metaphor.

what has turned on here?

There’s been something wrong with me the last few days. It’s like the Strange Machine project downloaded too much information into my head. I can’t interact with the world without it spinning off into a thousand stories. Descriptives clinking up from the ring on my hand touching my water glass, the susurration murmur of the restaurant conversation drilling into me, seeking attention. Narratives spiralling off the most simple of things. I bite into my free-range beef burger and multi-plex layers of mad-cow, Briton, and end of the world shotgun scenarios unfold wetly like butterfly wings. Chemicals dripping from the udders of not quite cows. Something has snapped inside me. “I’ve never understood why girls date Boys With Cars, but Boys With Motorcycles I understand completely.” I wake up beneath an off-white ceiling, the window a blinded rectangle of dimly glowing light. I’m only one cigarette away from crumpling. Daddy said to marry someone richer than you are. The stars are spinning, the world is yawing off course, lean away from the turns, not into them. Momentum approaching torture. I stopped by a hideous house-party last night where everyone there was a caricature of a real person and it was like anthropology. I wanted to take notes.

No one should have this much ego conflict. Climb aboard, the train’s leaving the station. It’s not quite a problem, but I think I might be slightly broken. Like there’s a crack my thoughts are leaking through, dissolving me in acid fairy-tales.

Bill’s been calling lately. He’s been reading here, he sent me a letter. Three in the morning, surreal to sit reading it in darkness with Gavin leaving in the morning and Strange Machine going up in an hour. I’ve talked him into getting together Tuesday evening. We’re going to go over the B&W’s from eons ago and he’s going to bring me some dishes. I miss him quite a lot, the person underneath, I mean. However it goes, it will be interesting.

least we’re jumping to amusing heights


FM – tophat 2
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

All dressed in uniform. Bone machine get-up, scintillating genius went into the design. Couldn’t you tell?

Looks like I’m going off in other directions for my halloweening. Warren, (who I recently saw described as “Our Cruel Overlord”. Thumbs up for collecting some odd people), sent me to a haunting site today: http://www.alternity.co.uk/

Depending on time and material contraints, I’m thinking a Steampunk hooker would be terrifically fun. Blue lights on black stockings and edging a corset with something improbable. I used to have little sparkers, if I could dig those out, it could be as wicked as a Jack-In Jack the Ripper of Velvet InfoFeeds.

I’ve always wanted an excuse for naughty underwear.

You really should have been a Dickensian fantasy

I am a goof. Also: Diepunyhumans icon.

My world obviously likes me.

 

Lying in bed, his head cradled on her arm, her body curled against his. His voice is quiet, accented from far away. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. I just, I dunno. The other day when you were over, I was watching you sleeping.” He shifts a little, his hair against her skin like cat fur. “Just your face, it was morning. I can’t really describe it.” She smiles to herself, partially expecting what’s coming. “You just looked… Perfect” Laughter. “No, not perfect, but.. unreal. It sounds stupid, but it’s true” She’s amused now, idly wondering what comes next. “Course, this next bit, it’s not the sort of thing I could really say to anyone else, but it’s okay with you. I know you wouldn’t get creeped out or anything. It’s just… you also looked dead” Her eyes open, she’s smiling to crack now. “Dead?” “Yes, well, I’ve never seen a dead person but you looked peaceful. Like the dead are supposed to look” She thinks back to the dead people she’s seen. No peace there, but on the television maybe. She understands what he means. “Like angels” she says. Mythology fills her mouth. “They’re not alive, yet they’re beautiful” “Yes”, he says, “like an angel”

my vial has a twist screw top

There was more to this before the heart missed the beat. Before it skipped, shattering my illusion. I dare you to save this. Salvage my poetry ridden fantasies from this burned out hard-drive. Nano-chatter black and white. One zero One, insert laughter here. Insert her laughter, her lips, the texture of her silk wrap sari. Meta/physical.

———-

Matter tickles. It’s not quite an itch, nothing I want to scratch, but it makes me squirm. This candy wrapper, the structure of the material, I can see it. It’s pretty, the way one side shimmers, the way it has a half life like the sun.

———

Ping like bone hitting schoolyard fenceposts. Reverberation, kick it again. The girl is underage, you can’t take her to the bar, but her barrettes might match your sheets. The wife’s at work this week, off in Alaska on a cruiseship. You want to bite the cheaply moulded plastic. You’re thinking about it already. The brown pig-tails on the starched bed would be such a turn-on. Tie her wrists to the headboard with a skipping rope purely for the perversity of it. You love it she’s in a miniskirt. Tough little scabby knees. Bet she runs around with the boys. bet she kisses them behind the portables. She’d know what to do with a grade six ass like that.

———

I remember flying. Giant black wings spreading from my shoulder blades, it’s tangible. Ghost memories from too many movies. Sometimes I turn my head, expecting my cheek to brush starchy feathers. My soul brims a chord of deep loss when my hands don’t meet anything more solid than air behind my head, the empty curve of my back like a betrayal. I don’t trail my fingers through my hair anymore. It’s easier to pretend with all my mirrors broken.

———–

When you’re ready, we’ll go.