Cut Here

February 24, 2012 at 12:06 am (Sea) (, , )

I woke up this morning with the thought already clear and distinct in my mind that all the love has gone out of what I do. When did you last call me Grey Eyed Athena? White Armed Athena? Titan-Born Athena? Why was I always Athena? Like anyone else I have been on the mouth-end of a phone, muttering and scrabbling for the innate truths of endurance to keep the recipient ear alive and well for another day. I am bad at it, and I sense the same desperation in your voice. I deliver every prompt perfectly – every ‘why should’ and ‘what’s the point’ and ‘how long’. You got nothing, Hun; I terminate the call. Go the beach again. Write about salt, grit and doubt.


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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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Staring at the Sea, Staring at the Sand.

October 20, 2009 at 12:46 pm (Rooms, Sea) (, , , )

The point when you realise where you are. Sand covered, shivering, soaked to the knees and blue lipped. Your feet are cut, and you dread the next step. How far have you walked? The sudden blank sickness that makes you walk purpousfully away. Fearlessly walk towards nothing. But before you always stopped. Awoke from the trance, realised you were stupid. Possetions held you back before. Why do they suddenly not matter? And why now is your journy to “away” leading you straight into the freezing midnight sea? Why did its first cold bite mean nothing?
You were not content when you started that bee-line wander, but nor were you unhappy.

Why did you suddenly have to walk?

The sea slows before your eyes, freezes into crinkled paper. There is no choice. Just a thousand unvoiced, unformed alternatives. Your lips flake salt and the grit burns your thighs as you sink to the ground. Your clothes feel unclean, but can you bear to part with this last cold, heavy embrace? Someone must see you before you become an idea. You realise, bit by bit, that you are the absence, defined only in relation to others lusts and fears. Their forgotton thoughts become death sentences.
A sudden stillness. The sea laps, the wind burns in whips. But you are still. You feel yourself hot, a furious blush burns your cheeks. The bones are dead still. Stagger up, the waves cling and tug . Step by sodden step, how could you run? Run back to a void with four walls, a cornered life sentence to gaze eye to black eye with a stranger. To vainly numb your hunger for fire with a candle. Grinning, lungs shake to sickness with laughter. Your skin and hair rain sand onto the sheets and you shake yourself onto this second sea bed.

Awake in the gathering sun, stiff from salted hair to blue nailed feet.

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