she

If anyone is bored and has some free time-here is my blood...

This is what happens every day-these words are my eyes:

broken and shrewdly pitched- it rides on the wings of silence, bleeding forward from the golden darkness, she does not speak.

I sold my soul for a pack of bubble gum, I was almost six. The package was shiny, silver and, to say the least, irresistible. No one ever had to know it was slid it into the dark loose pocket of my windbreaker-it wasn't really me-but it's all a secret anyways. We chewed and chewed and it seemed like each piece could dance around our teeth in a way my legs could never let me move-the dance was inspiring and darkly humorous... I slid another chalky piece between my teeth today, I hadn't really stolen it-but it being a gift from the thief is never too honest either-I let the flavor soak the top of my tongue before I closed my teeth around it. I felt my sisters laugh from the belly of hell and wondered how they passed the eye of a lighter god. Wondered how their porcelain skin, soft light eyes, and pure innocence came to rest in the searing, ageless pits of an inescapable hell. Their laughter carried dark secrets of unsurpassed horror and filthy black intentions-I struggled to hold my atoms and to keep my fingers from touching every detail my eyes wandered upon. I never considered my face that of picturesque innocence, but could never see the venom of small children behind my own eyes-I could never compete with unknown intentions...My evil little habits could never compete with slaughterers in the making or demons slowly developing behind osh gosh jumpsuits or Gerber filled plastic spoons. Sickness and sleep turning my head, I close my heavy pink eyelids. The rain touches my fingers as it rises from the ground, I watch the sun soar around the corners of the room, past my peripheral, and into the shadows. The sun is a secret, the shadows bleed aching silence-begging for inquisition. I watch a man in torn clothes through the window-he lurches near a garbage can like a vulture-spraying silver vomit in dancing waves. A smell I know is purely imaginary fills my nostrils as the carpet moves in the rhythm of the vomit around my ankles. I hear my sisters and mothers comforting the man outside. I want to lock the door, but the dancing carpet dismisses my intentions and continues with its own joys. I feel like I want Iggy pop to stop, want to kick the turntable, but, of course, my feet aren't touching the ground and I can hear the ceiling aching from my weight. I could never understand this feeling, although I let him sing it to me. I hear so many echoes through the barrel of a pistol, through the vines of twined rope, through the sulfur of a crimson pill...through the teeth of smiles that no longer exist. I hope my smiles can give them some comfort-if I could bring more out for them to see. I know they see-their eyes are not dead...mine spark with hallow for their bravery, though I know they went too far-let it be too easy. Words are too easily confused. We heard what he did-again....we won't ever forget. I won't let anyone. No one will forget what I let them see-I'll bring light from the corners...pull it from the tips of the hair on the back of my head. I will see it. It will be mine and I will turn around, look behind me-into the dark..into what we think are shadows. I will not be afraid-I will press my cold pink lips against it-I will let it show me what they knew, and I won't repay it at all. I will take what I want. I do not have to sacrifice anything-it will not take anything from me. If it thinks my affections for it's possessions will allow me to be sold into its ideas, it is wrong. I will know the darkness-I will stare into what we hope is nothing, with the sun warming my back, knowing I don't really need either of them.

I am more than obsessed, but never possessed.

Ian Curtis is dead.


THIS is what happens when I listen to Throbbing Gristle...

Cannibal neighbor:

She rose, indigo shadows streaming across her calves.
He forgot, he lost them-the slang fallacies pounding inside his teeming skull.
Gone.
the useless mass of information needed to read a pocket watch or change the television channel-
Emptied.
She soared in a sweet rush of silver warmth, gliding across the back of his tongue.
He lost his religion- his essence--
The space she needed was free--the taste he desired more than the beating of his own heart was beneath her fingernails-in her hair-just below her shallow breath.
She threw her cigarette butt into his dirty laundry basket and ripped the stack of bills out of his hand-counting it hastily, she jammed the wad into her silver handbag- tugging on her crimson red mini-skirt.
She turned towards the door, slamming her black pumps into his soft white carpet.
I love you, he moaned with a longing he never knew existed. He reached for her warmth, his arms stretched towards her Porcelain skin.
A soft laugh escaped from her ruby lips, a gasp, a twitter- of genuine mockery. The door slammed behind her.
He could hear her heels pounding on the hardwood floor in the hallway- he flung the door open and stepped into the corridor, as naked as the day he was born.
He watched the muscles in her calves pulse with each step, saw the bluish veins aching to be freed beneath the filthy tissue---
his passion threw him to the floor-
his love sank his teeth into the back of her thigh-
his devotion moaned as the flood of heat rushed between his teeth, rolled from the corners of his mouth-down his neck and into his heart-gracing his very core. His head rolled back in refreshing ecstasy as she screamed beneath him. The taste of her fingers tickled the back of his throat as they slid to his hungry hungry stomach. Her beauty was nothing more than a stain on the hardwood floor-she held no more warmth.
Horror stricken eyes gazed down at them, blind to their love-shadowed by doubt and fear; They would never know a love as strong as they had. They only know of tiny rooms full of gray metal and iron bars to hide the beauty they could never feel.
To not know the bliss of a beating heart in his hands-on the tip of his tongue- in the pit of his stomach- that would be the worst crime of all, the crime of uncertainty.
He could feel the onlookers jealousy, and he glowed with the warmth of fulfilled passion. He would never feel cold again, never again.
He smiled in honest pity at the approaching uniformed men as he licked his fingers Clean.


THIS is what happens when I breathe:

~ I am eight years old again, playing with my imaginary friend in the backyard, imagining a stick is a knife and eating leaves because I am on a deserted island. I shot a rabbit with my brothers bb-gun, I put it in a shoebox and kept trying to feed it for three days after it died. I kept it in the garage for years, until it was nothing but a rotted black blob. I buried the lawnmower in the backyard and never told anyone, everyone thought it had been stolen. I mailed the shoebox to Dan Quayle. Our grass grew long enough to start a brushfire, so I did. I spend three weeks under our porch swing, husking corn for my mother. If I found a worm in the corn I would put it in a jar that I hid from everyone. I put a small pile of dry grass in the jar and lit it on fire-I watched the worms shrivel and die. I mailed the jar to the X-Men fan club the day Kurt Cobain died. I painted all the mirrors with tractor paint I stole from our neighbors garage. My parents killed me on my ninth birthday. While they were digging my grave they found the lawnmower.


THIS is what happens when I spend a lot of time in the winter thinking about Ian Curtis and drinking coffee:

stories of our screaming skin:


wake into oblivion

a melting icicle of renegade irony

blasting like a cold wind across your cheek

never leave a single second open to the windy heavens

swallow her inside, pregnant of hidden desires-

lurking in your incandescent belly

windows to the open meadow-

scream of legless dogs and sorrow

mapping beneath pigeon calls

we chart the unknown seas

calling for some ancient pirates

adorn with leather drapes and scars

to swallow us into their fury

and show us what our scars are lacking

fuck her gently, tell her secrets,

don't leave chance to flow beneath you

make your scars worth the effort

close your eyes and dream.....

or paint a pretty picture

of dreamless wasted flowers red with lacking passion

against a wall of ivory paint

with your pulsing crimson brains


THIS is what happens when I feel like a feminist and punch a wall:

Hot On the heEls Of LoVe:

Born into the blue sky with the grace of angry daybreak tides; she curses this morning, fists raised high. the reins of social egotism pulling the wind to the earth; B-movie trails of blood, a finger pressed against your shining teeth. Pale, indignant whispers wake you from your dreams, to stare back at an unfaithful reflection. if you would like help painting, all you need to do is ask, he projects through his forced smile, her smile lifts his spirits and sucks his angry hands through the open window. Is there? Could there be? If I'm so backwards, why is everything moving in my direction? Here we are again, bolted with our silence, noticing the collected dust behind the television stand. There you go again, drinking my shadows like wine; showing me the taste of what the sun draws from my skin, Never sharing. The bleeding carpet silencing me, I want to warn you---I don't want crushed this time. I would let you drink my shadows, you could use my skin to shield you from the burning sun, I would line my bones one by one to show you the distance I would crawl to bring a pillow for your tired head. A return to dust, to the earth I was born from, beneath the roots and lilies, I will hold you, taste the air from the wind of your steps. I want to sleep before I go, I want some Elvis in my coffee this morning, I don't want you to go. I don't want you to go this time. I just don't want you to disappear into the dying sky, and I don't honestly know why. The damn sky is melting and I can't find my camera, I just want to believe again. She heard the tracks rattling weeks before the train wreck. She pulled the buttercups from the grass before the metal tore the soil. By the time the crashing metal screams echoed through the town, the flowers were nearly wilted, resting on her window sill. Something makes me think she has some secrets. Your breed silence once could chew on*, you know plenty more than you share, you fall in love more than anyone I know. Making Hollywood's heart throb, you turn to me and smile.

THIS train wreck is what happens when someone asks me to write something in less than 10 minutes:


the most depressing boy in the world: a character introduction:

He fucked the last strain of hope out of himself and could smell his neighbors dinner burning as he put his clothes back on. The hum of traffic outside his apartment scraped across his bones like rusty nails. He shivered and turns the television off, tired of the pearly smile of the blonde newscaster. The weather pours through every crack in the wall and through his skin as if it were made of paper. He soared through halls, buildings, highways, sidewalks, and the motions of everyday life. He passes houses, children, smiles, and worn skin without wanting to care. He hates love and wants to drown in his own sorrow. He watches black and white movies on his tiny television and fills his stomach with blue and yellow pills, hoping he doesn't crack a smile. He is unrelentingly beautiful but doesn't own any mirrors. The wet air fills his skin and makes his feet all the harder to lift. he pulls his heavy legs behind him as he trudges his way to a job he hates. He fucks a girl from work in the storage room, she tries to talk to him as he pulls his uniform back on- he doesn't hear a word she says.....he nods a few times in case she said something that "yes" could be the answer to and goes back to work. He is younger and should be full of more hope than most of the people he sees everyday and he likes to sit in a field on a farm near where he works when the weather isn't horrible. He is a piece of formidable garbage and wouldn't know what to do with himself if he wasn't. He starts wishing his blood would run thick like wet soil and he could disappear into the waves of wheat in his field. No one can remember his name when they speak to him and he likes it that way. He sometimes yells for no reason at no one at all---usually he doesn't speak at all. He wakes up every day and wishes his bed was broken timber floating him into a pit of inescapable sludge--it never happens, but this thought gives his mind something to compare most of his days to.


The most depressing boy in the world laughs at a squirrel:

He fucked the last strain of hope out of himself, and could smell his neighbors dinner burning as he put his clothes back on. The hum of traffic outside his apartment scraped across his bones like rusty nails, he shivers and turns the television off, sick of staring at the blonde newscaster. He waters his plants and lights a cigarette, brushing the hair from his eyes. This is everyday. Life. She tilts her head with the wave of his curtains in the slow breeze, hoping she hadn't made too much noise moving from window to window. She runs through a quick clumsy excuse inside her head in case he noticed her crouching outside. She wonders if she would eat the butt of his cigarette if he flicked it out one of the windows--she wonders if she was in love with him or if she is just mesmerized, never having seen anything so entrancingly, tragically beautiful. She lets a small warm tear roll down her cheek-- he stares at his living room wall-bored beyond belief. His brain is slow and cloudy from yellow an blue pills and a half a bottle of old rum. She rolls in the dirt outside his window and nearly melts into the deep green grass. As he shuts the door behind him he hears a scuffle in the bushes to his left, he turns in the direction of the sound and laughs softly to himself at the sight of a tiny squirrel chewing on his cigarette butt as he continues down the sidewalk.

THIS is my letter to the president:

(The chronicles of a malicious doughboy once lost to Christ)
sample feeder ion,
I miss your wavy indigo. I wish to be splashed with your urine tainted bath water.
Lacey will not feel upon the nipples of a kitten Christ any less than you or eye.
Her stains call upon the will of ancient demons....semen on linen will not do for the tablecloth......not for the ministers dinner. You must be baptized for the horrible things you and your sister do on my linens....
but before they wet you in the juices of Christ I want you to feel my moisture once more...
pulling me closer, eating me from the inside....suckling gently on the bottom of my heart she left me in the arms of a man with a white collar.
with an erection.
Write me back
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooxox