{"id":1324,"date":"2005-03-26T17:25:00","date_gmt":"2005-03-26T17:25:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/2005\/03\/26\/sitting-at-a-party-and-stalking-the-room-with-conversation\/"},"modified":"2005-03-26T17:25:00","modified_gmt":"2005-03-26T17:25:00","slug":"sitting-at-a-party-and-stalking-the-room-with-conversation","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/2005\/03\/26\/sitting-at-a-party-and-stalking-the-room-with-conversation\/","title":{"rendered":"sitting at a party and stalking the room with conversation."},"content":{"rendered":"

I would like to melt my atoms down to something that I used to be, but am not now. It might have all been dreaming, but somewhere in my cells I remember being a different shape. I remember not having to deal with hips and weight on my chest. I want to write a story for my lover, something warm and pulse washed that takes this vague idea and pushes it out into something new<\/a>, visible and thick. <\/p>\n

I have a thing for myth, a hard-on for fairy-tales. I might, though this has yet to be properly explored, have a fetish for good sci-fi. <\/i><\/p>\n

There’s a thread of thought here, something to do with gender and how I catch flashes of memory that don’t seem to belong to me, but I know they do. I’ll have my eyes open and see something different than what’s in front of me. My hands will expect another sensation, my knuckles should be thicker like how I remember the scrape of a razor over my cheeks. Then it vanishes like a drop of water into the sea. I’m awake, I’m not dreaming, even if I’m waking in darkness. I can feel her body underneath me, I can feel her hair tangled in my fingers, but it’s not a her, is it? The same eyes and mahogany. It’s like there’s a switch been thrown, like there should be a drug to put me back. <\/p>\n

I think Kitsune stream of consciousness<\/a>, the morph of devouring woman into fox. All the myths are black widow stories when I tell them. I’m serious. I’ll tear out your ivory teeth and hold them on my tongue.<\/i> There’s sort of a Kate Bush feeling associated with it, like a sweet plastered melody is creeping up on my somewhere in the soprano range. Singing, it’s like singing, but I don’t know how. My fingers are not trained like my voice was not. There is no natural grasp of what I need to say. My tongue is too short for the outburst of emotion to be kind and I need it to be gentle. A dark swirl of crimson, (et al clover), you and I and I and we, it’s the dance again. I need to feel the dance again. I’m losing myself in this, I need to. Blast the music and turn up my inner monologue past hearing. <\/p>\n

Succubus, incubus, it’s a spinning whirl of arms entwined. Dreaming of futures that may never were yet. The sound of a page turning, the dry crackly rustle drifting up from the stage. It reminds me of my mouth at his throat, her throat, they’re all the same person, just as my name isn’t Jhayne, it’s something else, something I always considered too boyish, too young. I wonder what letters are in it, but my skin tone’s the same, my eyes are the same colour too. I remember my flesh prodding at your sex, something wet in the nest of fur. It’s impossible and I can hear it under my fingernails so I know it’s real. Hold me down, I’m spent and my body is weak again.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I would like to melt my atoms down to something that I used to be, but am not now. It might have all been dreaming, but somewhere in my cells I remember being a different shape. I remember not having to deal with hips and weight on my chest. I want to write a story … Continue reading “sitting at a party and stalking the room with conversation.”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1324","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1324","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1324"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1324\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1324"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1324"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/foxtongue.com\/dreampepper\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1324"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}