Venus De Milo

January 31, 2013 at 5:36 pm (Bodies, For Larks, Uncategorized) (, , , , )

The feet had to go first. Or perhaps the anus, so she could exit this world by the way she entered it: embryonic, gut first. Didn’t matter which, she told him – she was a breech birth. He had forgotten their penknife, ‘ just a zippo and some keys’, he told her fumbling through coat pocket. Giggling now ‘Oh-don’t-you-fuss’ – he would make a fine job of it, she was sure that he would make a fine job of it. ‘Eyeballs can boil, you know’  suggestive. Her nodding, ‘lovely’. She laid out the plastic sheets while he dug around his satchel for the marigolds, blowing each into a bulbous little salute before donning. How he loved her.


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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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The Clouds Are Full Of Wine

January 30, 2010 at 12:46 am (Bodies, Observations) (, , )

Today I noticed the colours provoked by tactile sensations. It is important to make clear now that these colours bear no symbolic or psychological relation to movement or texture, the experience appears to be coloured either according to some unexplainable neurological code, or is even triggered at random. During sexual activity these colours are at their brightest and most noticeable, shifting rapidly. At their most vivid, my surrounding seem to be tinted, while usually it is only an idea of a hue that enters my mind, imagined clearly but involuntarily. For instance, the skin joining my right earlobe (detached) is cut.The colour of the aggravation caused by inserting a pin gently into the opening is a deep blueish emerald.

This is not synaesthesia. The hue of touch is rarely literal, like the consistent pattern of colours I see in numbers and letters, and these does not conform to any intelligible pattern of system. Currently the sensation of my nails hitting the keyboard seems to me a strong, dark indigo. You may disagree. No one seems to discuss these odd, prickly hues. Are they subtle or trivial? Perhaps they are so natural that this experience most often goes unconnected.

Take a well sharpened pencil and lightly draw its lead across the back of your hand.
Sky blue.

What about you?

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You Are My Sister

January 6, 2010 at 10:55 pm (Bodies, Children, Female) (, , )

To put her to sleep: lay her down, her eyes will close (or more accurately, roll). Feel the thick plastic of lashes on your fingertips
just for a moment
then push.
There will be a barely audible click that rattles your bones up to the shoulder.

Cindy had breasts that were smaller than a certain Barbara’s. Her hair was short, she could bend at the knees and elbows, her legs could open. Sometimes I would take off her trainers and baggy t shirt. Sometimes I would pull her red trousers crumpled at her ankles and make her shout “Help me, help me!”

It was all very coy. We barely knew each other, really.

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