I inhale

September 12, 2013 at 11:34 am (Bodies, Halves, misogyny, poem, The Real) (, , , , , , , , )

I found Cissy wrapped up in a grubby paisley throw upon the riverside where I knew it was her before unrolling from all that matted red hair out the top it was luminous and partdreaded but perhaps would coil if brushed it lay on the dusty sunroasted asphalt clean somehow protruding bodiless from the O opening of greenblue weave I knew it was her before I rolled her and the face was when it came pale and unfamiliar though fitting  and the sight of my own sore hands on and rolling out the bluegreen cloth awoke me in some sense of myself as the centre of a tableau I was my own audience to and so she was unwound at the riverside which suggested drowning but her lips pink and dry and asking for I’m sure everything she eventually got as I thought cruelly my becoming aware of her discovery at all before here in venom though lucid I am paralysed I am  always paralysed for a moment upon revelation just as on waking the exception being so distinct from the rule I leap out of bed sometimes my chest throbbing onto the river bed perhaps lay her to rest either in before or since the rescue which itself was staged by someone else her counterpart my carer though a creation as much as any old thing I can think before I see but her is and that unrolling body tumbles about the bleengrue teardrops the wrists leaping over each other and clatter on her thin bones her body unfolded itself to me as she unfolded herself at my push a mile or two from gruebleen sea where she could have gone to drown it was not me for though I have the face in mind and the face was hers I had never seen it once before for as they say the brain will not conjure faces of its own accord but can so make ex nihilo the sensation of  familiarity that old measure of being what well we miss when pointedly in our present when déjà vu strikes stronger than any fixed memory the brush creaking through her knotted hair musksmell of synthetic bristles head bobbing back as though on a spring the wrists again now the wrists clattering over a broken neck almost bruiseless and quite peaceful my own hands in my peripheral growing numbish as I take the formality of her pulse two hunks of meat pressing into each other as the breeze dies down to tepid stillness like any sealed room the mouth lolling open in the dead air as my own breath tugs at diaphragm spasmodic I reverse the riverflow and drift backwards into my own blackness to see first the beginning.

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Some Poems – Eris and Dionysus

June 8, 2012 at 2:32 pm (Bodies, Female, Halves) (, , )

Eris

You touch the edges of my jaw
and I wonder if you could pull me out,
out of the disorder;

out of the haze and lifting
my face to yours –

clarity –

[Go hunting,
Take the heart of some small
something between your teeth]

and there is this delicate
tranquillity in seeing
the jagged edges and crazy fog clear, but
I hope you let go.

Dionysus

My spirit soars,
as the skin flays to nothing
in bliss
it blackens.

I am pulling myself apart
with this Dionysus
while my body disintegrates –
a flaming husk with a single living core
untouched.

Death is imminent,
but for now,
invincible,
I have nothing to fear-

everything to love.
As flesh and bone fall away,
my spirit soars.

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Obsolete Love Object (A Lesbian Ode to a Socket)

March 14, 2012 at 1:10 pm (Female, Halves, Observations, Rooms, Uncategorized) (, , , , )

For every tune

your partner is better,

and when you buzz

we’ll sing together.

Your sister orifice

is ignorant.

I’ll wet my finger

and electrocute myself –

you bitch, you complicated

rejecter and bleeder.

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Moments in the life of Arthur Sinclair

February 25, 2012 at 4:47 pm (Bodies, Halves) (, , , )

I first met Arthur Sinclair when I was fifteen years old. It was summer, but he wore shirtsleeves despite the casual sensibilities of the Spooky kids he surrounded himself with. His cuffs were tight, his shirt collar buttoned his Adam’s apple. He still wore prosthetic lips and a thick layer of pinkish beige cover up over his hands and face, but I didn’t know it at the time. I thought he looked ill and waxy in the heat, the beige paint congealing into little beads of sweat-like moisture on his brow. I knelt on the grass next to him, three cones of ice-cream in each hand, melting in crisscrossing streaks of stickiness past my wrist. I turn my face towards my elbow to lick my arm clean, a scoop of ice-cream drops on the grass with a squelch. The boys in the circle cheer, the girls titter, I blush good-humouredly, and Arthur Sinclair forces a smile; a speck has landed on his starched shirt.

His accent is odd. English speakers think he sounds Dutch; our friends from the Netherlands think he sounds Portuguese. He learns languages like most people whistle tunes. He copies, perfectly, and later comes to understand. On the planet Juvisia they have no language barriers; anyone can come to understand anyone else. They are all talented in that regard, but Arthur Sinclair is gifted. They consume liquid infrequently. They do not sleep, but they rest three times a day for two hours at a time. They cannot ingest protein. They are almost completely unable to sense temperature. They have four sexes. Our binary mating system shocks Arthur Sinclair. Orphans are unheard of on Juvisia.

Six years later Arthur Sinclair is holding my left wrist, palm upwards, and telling me lots of interesting things about blood vessels. He doesn’t wear makeup or prosthetics anymore; the presence of Juvisians on Earth has become widely acknowledged and they are now welcome in most of Europe. His skin is teal, his lips are wire thin. Human blood vessels are intriguing, he tells me. They are linier and blossoming in design. It’s a wonder that humans can function with a system so disorganised. The capillaries of the Juvisians are arranged in perfectly structured lines of little dots, each about the size of a full stop, showing on the surface of the skin with a slight purple hue. It makes them look speckled, especially in the heat. Arthur Sinclair tries to explain how they carry nutrients to the skin, but he’s worse at biology than I am. He ends up striking my wrists together in mock frustration and we laugh.

I am sick of people asking us how we make love. We make the best of what we have to work with. How did a green man get a job with the Translation Services Agency? How do we sleep and eat together? Sometimes I sulk when we have parties and lock myself in our room. Arthur brings me food and tells me how everyone is having a great time – they will be talking about our party for weeks. It’d be a shame for you to miss it, but I’ll leave you alone if you want. I hear him downstairs shouting and chuckling. He’s better at being a person than I am. I pout.

The doctors tell me that Arthur Sinclair isn’t really dead. He isn’t really alive, he isn’t really in a coma, or brain-damaged or catatonic. He isn’t really anything. But I should not expect him to regain true consciousness. He isn’t pale, if anything the teal of his skin is a little saturated. His flesh is neither cold nor warm.

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Denying the Correlative

March 11, 2011 at 11:12 pm (Art, Bodies, Costume, Halves, Rooms) (, , )

He is standing poised perfect on the brink of the stage. I want to scream, feel the dust at the back of my throat. It billows towards the stalls, balconies and boxes like a smoke. We know that it will take him into the footlights, the glare. Lead powder cakes his face in poisons, the narrow dress stretched across his shoulders. I realise it is the emerald velvet he always begged me to wear. Of course, that man is just a mass of flesh and splintered bone, but he asked for that and relished it. How degrading, abandoning us for the whole world. How could he leave us for a great hunk of wood and stone? I can’t compete with that, with all the water. And in the world this tiny room, reeking of sweat and plush. The golden bangles at his wrists clink and clamour as he raises his arms and lets his chest bask in a ghost applause. “All the world is a stage”, you once reminded me. And you are so close to the edge.

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I’ll Be Your Mirror

May 14, 2010 at 7:56 pm (Halves, Out) (, , )

I thought it was her at first, my fairy girl. Hair all purple and bright sour green, mess of synthetic fibre, wool and dyes, little fingers interlocked against the curve of her belly. But when I looked into those eyes, their steel woke me,
and I saw you,
rising out of the water with the metallic shimmer of black oil clinging to your skin and matted hair. You looked good. You looked fed, and you smiled as we lay on our naked bellies, laughing and whispering into the stones.

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Prisonic Fairytale

March 16, 2010 at 9:04 pm (Angels, Halves, Out) (, , , )

The stones were scarred here, masses of concrete in the distance built up into grey, oppressing Ts. Dry, delicate branches that were once tipped with succulent fruit turned to rot, and the berries became fibrous husks. Here, the faces of deer were human, vicious smooth and red. And here, Eleanor fed me the machine, pushed pins between my lips and never once broke the skin. We lay side by side on our rock. Nightly, the frost pulled our skins tight to our bones as Eleanor taught me the cruelty of the stars.

Tonight I hardly hear, the ropes at my ankles have cut deep into my flesh. The deer have started to lap at the wound, their cold noses buried into my skin as the nip and lick. Eleanor can see this, her dark lips curl back like smouldering petals and I glimpse a blaze of smiling teeth.

“She is a whore” murmurs a voice in the hollow of my ear. It is Aylogue the scarlet mantis, it is Aylogue my oldest friend.
“A hoar, a hoar, an old hare hoar.” He scuttles across my cheek and rests upon my nose, pink, perfect round eyes so close to mine, “Our little sister won’t put herself away. Too stubborn to close her brain or cover her breast – her wits are outlandish.” The sky has become lighter and mottled, it looks dirty. Aylogue rolls his bulbous eyes to the clouds solemnly, “You never write me letters anymore.”

My hands are bound, old friend. It is all I can do to lie here, and sometimes think.
Most often, I think about the Autobahn. I remember the path it cut against the tedious green, the smell of concrete grazed with rapid panic. Some walked upon it unawares and turned to nothing. Not dust, nor a smear or a cracked man’s shell; they disappeared completely.

“The Autobahn is gone, my sorry one, the lesser machines along with it. With so many hundreds turned to vapour, the earth shattered it with shoots and roots, all forest and thicket again. It happens in circles, while you lay on your back and viddy times past. When we peel back the angel, out crawls the limbed beast.”

You are not a prophet, Aylogue. You are a scarlet mantis, and I want to leave this rock. The deer smile so sadly here and I do not like their look. Old friend, your talk of beasts frightens me. Our letters were so kind, once.

“And I remember when you were more than a sorry sack of straw. Then, your life was more than another lonely affair between a woman and her marionette.” He climbs upon my brow and stoops down to meet first one eye, then the other. His antenna brush against my eyelashes. “I see. Eleanor as fed you the machine. You soft flesh and blood can endure such strange tortures, provided that you are promised a little comfort. It is your gilded future that cushions this terrible grind.”

A clamour of rooks are cawing in the dawn madness. Wood pigeons, sparrows and finches, I remember a chorus of sweeter voices. Only rooks and ravens are left to tear savagely what little meat they can from these tangles of dry grass. Horned shrews, worms, dark, scuttling lizards; all things bony and dry. Frenzied in the light of the red rising sun, they are found in clamours and murders pecking dying trees to pieces. At night they roost upon the Ts to admire this moor, their battered nest. It is so beautiful, it is devastating. I remember Lylando, Ayolgue’s magpie friend. If beady Lylando could only quench his appetite for mantis, the two may be have become closer than brothers.
Your voice is clicks and murmurs, little more. Over this crazy dawn I can barely hear a word, climb back into my ear and whisper again.

Behold! Eleanor dances. The latent tar of the autobahn that rises with Eleanor’s seasons, so rises my poor lungs as if I spit colour into the air- And I wish that she had never put me here, or fed me that damnable machine! Today it strikes me as wiser to live far from her kindness.

Yesterday she took a fawn with the face of a beautiful woman and held it close to mine. It sat wide-eyed in the crook of her elbow and trembled, its dark lips parted in terror and confusion. I had never heard a deer cry before; I could never have imagined such an ugly sound. The tears when they came were like its face, a bright crimson. Supporting the fawn against her breast with one forearm, she took my jaw in the other hand and squeezed gently. If I did not comply I feared she would slip her hand to my throat; I swallowed. The tears tasted like the juice of rotting berries. I remember, juice from autumns ago, a staggering fawn (it’s shining eyes, wide lips, early pubescent horns) under old fruit it would wilt, legs wilt, stumble, crack.

The meadow, the dark eyes of a randy hare, the moon is useless, the earth is dull a resilient, our mother is gone. Gone and we are grown, tried and pining, we (Eleanor) shape the mud between our fingers, roads grow pure out of the meadows. Meadows of shit. Help, we are living in the bowels of a dying man! He doesn’t know us, he cannot feel us, our earth is humid. The shell of the machine, I think I am the shell, am the shell, am the shell, am the shell of each machine we have ever known.

Not everyone lays bound to have their heart rubbed raw by the rough sunlight. She is such a different creature to my own sorry wreck of skin, my bloated gut heavy with metal machine, my withered limbs spread idle and compass like.
“Oh, poor martyr. Oh, blessed spread-eagled star. My pity and admiration, truly.”
That poor patience of yours. It wears so thin, it scrapes against this weary ear. And yet so like a brother you are, I let you make a bed of it!

My live is riveted with compassion. Aylogue makes a home of my body and Eleanor dotes upon me tirelessly. She smiles prettily as she mops my midday brow, listening intently to my every groan. She brings me what shrivelled fruit she can, the more I starve the more she picks, and lays it beside me with such tenderness. As I strain against these bonds to pluck the up most berry, she strokes my hair soothingly and whispers encouragement, tongue darting softly against my ear.

Aylogue, did you hear that scrape? Things clatter a clutter in the nearby forest.
Someone has put the metal birds back. Wire contraptions, simplistic and delicate, resembling birds only in that they appear to nest in trees. They are, on the whole, spherical devices made with curved and jagged pieces of scrap metal held into their roosts by heavy chains that allow them to bounce and spin amongst the branches. These mechanical animals remain in their trees until rust causes them to either crumble or seize. Eventually, they will fall from their mother-chains and become forgotten, metal carcasses on the forest floor. But whoever used to put these contraptions in their lofty chain nests I never knew. They stopped replacing their fallen birds years ago, yet this morning I was met with their metallic melodies and scraping chirps. The wildlife of this wasteland is returning, slowly.

“Never. This forest had nothing before she, before the rocks. Quiet, muddied. The deer were dumb and expressionless once, the birds were fragile. Look at the glint in Eleanor’s whisky eyes.”
Whisky? Whisky sounds beautiful.
“A heady drink of fermented and fortified hops. Causes dryness, disillusion and sickness.”
It sounds vile. “It is vile, it is the purest of man’s merriment, drunk beyond those Ts.”

How fine it must be for these men who live beyond the stones to have both delight and sorrow in a single glass.
I know that one day Lylando will pull my last true friend out of my ear, leave my head still and silent. I shall become more picture than man without your clicking whispers. Aylogue, are you safe? Speak, I can hardly hear you breathe. If I did not fear missing you, I could rejoice in the negative space between clouds and eternal stars tonight.
I remember something, friend. Dots and lines and some instrument to make noises. Was this paper, Aylogue? Did I ever know paper? I have heard of it, I want to use it, is it a container? Could you keep whisky in paper?

Lines appear in my thoughts.
Perhaps the machine Eleanor has fed me is a metal bird? I could not stand that, those slight wires, thin steel of something that may as well have been alive, more alive than I ever was upon this rock.
Aylogue, brother, even the stones are scarred here, what chance do I have?
“None. It will not grow back, the machine is in your belly, stewing like a medicine, and Eleanor is smiling.”

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Let the Caged Bird Sing

March 11, 2010 at 12:10 am (Bodies, Halves, Observations, Rooms) (, , )

And he says something like, “Don’t touch me, we shouldn’t be two people.” leaving me to this back broked soggy mess of flesh that is what I am now. I think body is here, I think butterfly and flying fish are dead in this air because you spoke, and made my body

Then scoop up the wormy innards from my lap and put them back, because I don’t really want to be anything at all, you know? Every titchy pinchy action and slip of my fingers makes me flinch and clinch, cause I think these stupid coils will feel pain and that’s stupid because they go beneath the nerves

and I hate those fucking nerves. There is sometimes this whole halo of bit that is just air really, or maybe real thin. Skinny nought. Then there is a wall or a spoon or a woman and they break it and it’s, Eurgh, opaque.
So then he mutters a thing to me, and it doesn’t seem like a word or anything at all, just all grunty hurt beast noise, like boar.

Remember we rode boar backs in the forest and we were two people then cause all the hooves and thumping on the shitstink ground were from these two different piggies and all their horns and biting happened in different places to eachother, and the creatures they ate went only to their own bellies.

Don’t want to live here anymore, it is scum. It is skin and scum and nooks in the wall, you hate it too.

My eyes are numb, no feeling to where they look now, just lots of different seeings of the room. It is the innards, they full. The shock of them against the nerves has hurt my head and it will pass.

Why is he looking at the vermin in the corner? Not even an insect, no wiggly, stalky bits. All gross fur. Now I do not want to go back because his eyes are feeling all the lice and grease, his eyes are licking lice and grease, might make us ill.

Put it in a draw, put it in a desk draw, old bamboo heavy draw where it won’t ever be out of chinese darkwood dark. And I would not have done it if I had been in air, so!

So I win. Fishies and butterflies are deadened at your knees, and I have a vermin in a draw in a desk in a room full of walls and skin. So this is the place I made where I go back, back, back, back, back.

Bye bye, him. Bye, you. You will be all floaty skinny soon. It was disgusting that we met at all really, but I resent nothing. It was natural that there was a whole bough of it all, and it was only normal for it to be in the different bits that made it a thing at all. Bye bye.

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Silent View, Hollow Mind

January 25, 2010 at 11:58 pm (Halves) ()

To feel so intensely yet remain a shadow makes me wonder: can no one see this savage?

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