The rain patters down with a sound like
tiny pebbles or gum drops, it
splashes onto the wind shields of cars and the
roofs of trains. We slip across the quiet
tracks, and through a hole in the fence,
tumbled and bewildered as Alice, washed clean
like watercolors melting in a storm.
The trees drip daintily. Our words slip like songs
from the future off our tongues, scraped out from our
throats like tonsils plopped on metal trays.
Rose paints her nails black. Her skin is
gritty like eyeliner. Could we jump through
the film that distances us from our
experiences, and come out somewhere
on the side? So we wonder wistfully,
is this what life is supposed to be like?
tiny pebbles or gum drops, it
splashes onto the wind shields of cars and the
roofs of trains. We slip across the quiet
tracks, and through a hole in the fence,
tumbled and bewildered as Alice, washed clean
like watercolors melting in a storm.
The trees drip daintily. Our words slip like songs
from the future off our tongues, scraped out from our
throats like tonsils plopped on metal trays.
Rose paints her nails black. Her skin is
gritty like eyeliner. Could we jump through
the film that distances us from our
experiences, and come out somewhere
on the side? So we wonder wistfully,
is this what life is supposed to be like?
Shadows slide down sky smooth walls,
they gush like waterfalls down sloped stone,
they trickle like rain.
A funeral crawls along in my head,
treading with a beat sick and constant.
They drape me in cobwebs.
They clothe me in silk.
The things they tell me:
It is inside, they cannot get it out;
but it will break open my ribs,
as it hammers against my lungs.
I ask them, why is god silent?
They give me no answer.
There is a hound howling in my blood,
it is dark and yellow eyed.
In the night grows a special kind of light:
it illuminates the shipwreck of my wonderings,
the disasters of my dreams. Creatures burrow
through my veins like nightmares,
they patrol each black capillary.
I stay in dark places.
I drink from rain clouds.
God is still.
God is silent.
Notes: after a quote by Richard Eberhart:
"You would think the fury of aerial bombardment/
would rouse God to relent; the infinite spaces/
Are still silent..."
they gush like waterfalls down sloped stone,
they trickle like rain.
A funeral crawls along in my head,
treading with a beat sick and constant.
They drape me in cobwebs.
They clothe me in silk.
The things they tell me:
It is inside, they cannot get it out;
but it will break open my ribs,
as it hammers against my lungs.
I ask them, why is god silent?
They give me no answer.
There is a hound howling in my blood,
it is dark and yellow eyed.
In the night grows a special kind of light:
it illuminates the shipwreck of my wonderings,
the disasters of my dreams. Creatures burrow
through my veins like nightmares,
they patrol each black capillary.
I stay in dark places.
I drink from rain clouds.
God is still.
God is silent.
Notes: after a quote by Richard Eberhart:
"You would think the fury of aerial bombardment/
would rouse God to relent; the infinite spaces/
Are still silent..."
I've been called a slut since I was 14, so its a familiar, almost welcoming word to my ears. Men become shocked and often disgusted when they meet a woman who surpasses them in sluttiness and sexual prowess. Is it intimidation? That I can have nearly anyone I want of any age? That I won't become devoted to them? That I am not submissive to the sexual whims of one man? That I manipulate and use my sexuality to my own social and financial advantage? God forbid a woman be hornier than a man- it is too severe a threat to a males dominance. The anger it creates in men I meet is surprising and disturbing to me in so many ways. My frustration is so intense sometimes I can barely think straight. All I can do is call myself a slut with pride. When I am called a whore I say thank you, to me they are the most powerful of women. Slut empowerment is the only option I see. So fuck fuck fuck away girls, fuck the patriarchy away.
Thread from Nepal, beads from India:
she winds them into a braid. She has poked
shells into beads, and twisted them around
on twine. Jewelry and cigarettes feel
grungy and glamorous when you are young:
you are the blonde girl generic in your
black and white. Boys with black hair will always
laugh at you, through white rimmed sunglasses,
they circle like sharks on their mid stained bicycles.
And the girls with blue eyes and high voltage smiles:
they don't know when to stop.
His heart- his rhythm- it pulses in her head
every time that he smiles. You see, the feeling of
green grass between toes is the most exhilarating of all.
Electrify me: I will kiss you hard, I will kiss you wet.
Between her fingers, smooth and soft, she gives him
white beads and one blue bead, entwined on braids
up which (she says) she'd climb away: but never did.
Her life- etched in city roads at sunset,
but more colored and twisted:
like shells wound on hemp thread.
she winds them into a braid. She has poked
shells into beads, and twisted them around
on twine. Jewelry and cigarettes feel
grungy and glamorous when you are young:
you are the blonde girl generic in your
black and white. Boys with black hair will always
laugh at you, through white rimmed sunglasses,
they circle like sharks on their mid stained bicycles.
And the girls with blue eyes and high voltage smiles:
they don't know when to stop.
His heart- his rhythm- it pulses in her head
every time that he smiles. You see, the feeling of
green grass between toes is the most exhilarating of all.
Electrify me: I will kiss you hard, I will kiss you wet.
Between her fingers, smooth and soft, she gives him
white beads and one blue bead, entwined on braids
up which (she says) she'd climb away: but never did.
Her life- etched in city roads at sunset,
but more colored and twisted:
like shells wound on hemp thread.
sooooo suicide girls.....
as I've been getting more into modeling all I hear about sg and staff is "what a bunch of fucking scumbags"
what do yall have to say for yourselves?
as I've been getting more into modeling all I hear about sg and staff is "what a bunch of fucking scumbags"
what do yall have to say for yourselves?
what I am is also the stuff of beech trees and
crystal streams, I am ivory and horn-
that which is true and that which is untrue:
but I will plant you sweet persimmons,
I will bring you white shells (to wear in your hair of
magenta wine, it curls like bird trills over marble).
I stop you now, I call you close, I ask you for a last word:
there is no certainty. There is no end.
crystal streams, I am ivory and horn-
that which is true and that which is untrue:
but I will plant you sweet persimmons,
I will bring you white shells (to wear in your hair of
magenta wine, it curls like bird trills over marble).
I stop you now, I call you close, I ask you for a last word:
there is no certainty. There is no end.
The past is gone- gone like lightning that lashes briefly in the electric nights of summer.
Where do the dark clouds come from in such a hurry?
From the other side of the world, where they pick up great speeds over oceans.
We will be swept up in currents, we will be caught up in whirlpools- we bend down in labor and get up again. This is more than fairytales: this is stronger than thunder.
Where do the dark clouds come from in such a hurry?
From the other side of the world, where they pick up great speeds over oceans.
We will be swept up in currents, we will be caught up in whirlpools- we bend down in labor and get up again. This is more than fairytales: this is stronger than thunder.
