March 2012
51 posts
03.27.12
an obscure interpretation of the two of wands: a crossroads, a hotel room, a long wait: the classical interpretation: dominion: the spirit is the same: the flat occupation of space: the same illusion of stasis: when he is gone i drive his car: the honda has an elegant steering wheel: like black wicker, thin and hard and satisfying: power steering did not exist in 1979: when i park the car the...
i don’t even know what it is is it something is it a person: a globe that balances with mystery: the titles i am currently reading, a photograph of the books i have been reading: i never learned the right way the phrase things:
hyssop: i don’t have a mystery i have a wonder at my lack of feeling:
do i make up feelings for the girls?: to talk to them:
edible and medicinal plants...
“The book will be another huge success, for reasons not mistaken but...”
– John Banville reviews Joan Didion’s Blue Nights (via ofravens)
ripples through the muscles/skin/fluids. involuntary responses to spring. i match the visible arousal pace for pace. there are no emotions. only sensations. ripples and shudders and waves, patches of skin pulled from my bottom lip. tulsi teas. arugula. russet-mandarin lip cremes. second hand clothing from an old friend - it’s new to me - the shirt i am wearing still smells like her persian...
from a letter from elizabeth
or had a taken the biggest risk of all for a girl like me—namely, the risk of asking for what you want, receiving it, and discovering that it is not what you wanted after all.
03.24.12
language puddle: how to swell without a hand: reality and their gossip: meat for breakfast, muscle like a cupcake: coffee: blue tea: a hook: a girl:
fav review so far: i read your book last night. and then i became extremely anxious, and started bleeding. -Martha Stromberg
do anything for money // do anything for kicks
Anonymous asked: Simply amazing, your words are like the broken echoes of my mind
I could no longer play / I could not play by instinct
a flown over and half remembered landscape. landscape like a swollen cracked tongue, white and fissured. craving something sweet and ornamental. a pastille. a brown lump of sugar. a finger. can i suck on your fingers? she asked. sure, i said, but not while i’m at work. objects to suck: stones, buttons, a foreign tooth. to suck something is to know it in a different way entirely. it will take...
vid of c & z improv i am particularly fond of →
hiiii new readers! if you cruised over here cos of chelsea baby, thank you, hi hello!
the usual winter weight is evaporating, hems growing longer as the skirts slip lower on the waist. the veins over my hips look monstrous this year. it started last night, with this guy named ben (ben) doing a double take at me behind the register. asked my name. stuttered. so then i wanted to get a drink, something in a fancy glass. lauren met me at a bar. an anonymous man bought our first round....
it has been an extra cunty 24 hours:
first of all,
i have been wearing lots of plumping lip gloss.
ultra pissed at c for not telling me he wasn’t coming home for dinner (& i had asked),
so i ate panda express by myself
(beijing beef!
with the gift card his step mother gave me for christmas!
eat beef & then reapply!
stay plump and sneery!)
and then gave into the malibu.
it...
if you haven’t,
you should
purchase, pleasure
Anonymous asked: I'm not a tumblr-member, but just had to say that last entry "have i not been clear?" was enjoyable to read. thanks.
it happened last year, too. our bodies became a single body. or interchangeable. or overly familiar. like a parent. or best girlfriends. or starfish seemingly immobilized. dribbling green grey march. he’s never asked about the tattoos i showed up with at the train station, but he’s noticed the other people who have them. animal, animal, square. he says the most horrible shit and then,...
from a letter to oxen
the thing about our relationship is it is imaginary i don’t mean it isn’t real or that it is trivial i only mean that it doesn’t need the reassurances of fleshy relationships i think it also means that time isn’t a major element, either and so, you see, we are always talking to one another
thesilentfilmstar-deactivated20 asked: I think your craft is fantastic; eloquent and Beat and good goddamn the talent of Alene Lee or a female Ginsberg pouring away at typescripts emptying dank little universal souls onto the page --
03.17.12
panic thrum. this one in the throat and the deep belly, leaving the sternum a gentle meadow. i eat a small orange and the acid burns the panic. want to vomit (please god, let me vomit). if i kiss him too much he panics. if there is wind i panic. i feel clean because it is raining. the house feels clean because it is raining. my body is actually covered in oils; espresso, cream, men, hair. the...
trying to cultivate these certain feelings but they shatter and then there is the complexity of the shards. it is all the same root emotion but with time there is the factor of refraction. the difference between forest green and moss green. when i close my eyes i see the images of eyes, eyes stamped on pyramids or eyes staring with a curved brow; this makes me suspicious that i am being watched...
weirdness flaring up like eczema, folks is popping down the rabbit holes. makes me nervous, watching sacramento flaunt her unseemly habit of taking hostages. sweet butter balls of damaged love. priestesses of the tit. i am trying to leave in broad daylight this time, so obviously there is a cause for alarm whenever someone says, what, you’re leaving?? today i almost started a malibu phase...
drop-blood soup in the girl tree. neither of us can digest food. i grow so quiet in cars. the movement affects me as if i were an infant or a dog. liquids i have used as mixers for vodka: green tea, milk and honey, water. nobody needs to apologize for anything, okay? We were wearing 50s swimsuits and we were frolicking in the sunshine in this strange part of Texas, there was a child’s...
tits again: i’m wearing these white men’s briefs this gorgeous dyke gave me (size small), she had a mastectomy and her gorgeous ex girlfriend cried. her breasts were perfect, she said, perfect. but she never felt like her breasts belonged to her and besides, she wanted to be topless at the beach in america. america: what a filthy cum rag you are. an email today from a woman with...
anyway, i’m not discounting the fact that i can’t sleep. haven’t been sleeping. i didn’t drink for months and then i acted like i could drink. it seems i am going to die. those were the centaur’s first words to me. he laughed, because it takes a while to figure this out. i am totally failing and paranoid. i am asking a great deal of people and i am offering them...
really bloody sex after an absence. several of us have had an absence and the bloody message i get is: that’s fine, i have a hicky on my tit that needs to heal up anyway. i am preparing food distractedly - badly: no salt, overdone and dry - and he is telling me about his shit. road shit. sticky. loose. a secret i know: more than any other indicator, if a man says he wants to show you his...
scalp salt, a mine for raw material. the descent into the city of fog: take me. you never take me. anywhere. i remember. you took me because i whined. you still left. now fog brain. the delicate parts mashed up into yams. tongue works out of synch with the sex, can’t they tell? i think they can tell. they are asking me banal, mundane questions and i am surprised they want to know. that? you...
03.10.12
anxi
03.08.12
from a letter to chelsea:
i cannot wait to embrace my mobile hermitage. more and more the lives of monks and nuns make sense to me, in the same way suicide used to make sense to me. that the best thing you can do for the world is to be absent from it. the beautiful, moving stories, the poems and songs and narratives that induce hope and joy, are all about healing. everything is just a reaction...
Watch
“Here I am trying to live, or rather, I am trying to teach the death within me...”
– Jean Cocteau to André Gide (after the death of Raymond Radiguet), 1924
03.06.12
Insomnia like clock work. Ash of missed sleep chaffing the eyes. Whiskey 7Ups, muscadine jam. Pole beans. Mouth working stupid and dumb. Mine. Light pierces the ash and burns the brain, the tender back of the brain. Cardinals in the crepe myrtle, barren and bright.
The Minor Honeys Virgin Absolute →
03.01.12
last night, shortly after we arrived at my grandmother’s house, a car exploded across the street. and continued to exploded as we watched from the humid porch, rain soaking the warm night. i was cooking asparagus, dad had just finished grilling streaks. in my grandmother’s spice cabinet i had discovered a bottle of beef rub i had given to her years ago. white pepper, coriander, exotic...
