Brain fart
Friday, September 29, 2006
Any Takers?
My lips are ripping at the seams,
Blood dabs on back of hands,
Flashes of red, my life.
What was in me is now outside of me.
A puncture.
Sharp pain like a sudden pressure release,
Slouch down and finger corner of mouth,
Feel tear again and again til it heals.
Three weeks now unhealed.
Even though I have not bugged it too much.
Conscious of blood smears,
Woman with red stain not pretty sight.
As if I don’t loose enough blood each month.
Gentle wet kiss it better maybe.
Need victim.
Who will take my bloody kiss?
Who will risk the smear down her cheek?
Every yawn is now a wince.
I need some healing lips.
Wet puckers of blood!
She'd have to like the taste of iron.
My blood is full of vitamins and minerals.
Good for you, probably.
I’ll tell her,
What comes from me is good for you. ¶ 1:12 am 0 comments
Blood dabs on back of hands,
Flashes of red, my life.
What was in me is now outside of me.
A puncture.
Sharp pain like a sudden pressure release,
Slouch down and finger corner of mouth,
Feel tear again and again til it heals.
Three weeks now unhealed.
Even though I have not bugged it too much.
Conscious of blood smears,
Woman with red stain not pretty sight.
As if I don’t loose enough blood each month.
Gentle wet kiss it better maybe.
Need victim.
Who will take my bloody kiss?
Who will risk the smear down her cheek?
Every yawn is now a wince.
I need some healing lips.
Wet puckers of blood!
She'd have to like the taste of iron.
My blood is full of vitamins and minerals.
Good for you, probably.
I’ll tell her,
What comes from me is good for you. ¶ 1:12 am 0 comments
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Furry beast
In the bath a light shines from the crack between the blind and the window, room pale green apart from the dagger stabbed ray of light falling over me naked swimming in the tub. My bikini line hairs holding on to oxygen bubbles. I haven’t bothered shaving for a few weeks now due to my perpetual singledom and lack of fuck buddy. Why do a lot of lesbians seek an idealised female body… that is, how we look from a male point of view…we are conditioned also to rip out our hairs in the name of vanity even though we are looking at each other in our nakedness and beauty. I still shave mine off cos it looks prettier. Though if a lady chose to keep her hair that would be cool with me… just keep it a bit trimmed, luv…for access reasons. After shaving it disturbs me how getting rid of leg and armpit hair makes us baby like… do we want to fuck babies I ask. Deny our hormones the right to make our hair sprout. Be afraid of how your hormones make you feel. Don’t have sex or wear a vest top til you’ve got rid of the sprouts…. Meeting a new lady, do you get rid of all unwanted hair or do you make a defiant stand against razor intervention and straight institution. In the wild we’d be naked in the mud with full body hair. Lifting my leg up, the slash of light shows off my razor handiwork to its best advantage…Job done, I drain the water and rinse out the fur my body wasted its time making, with a feeling of utter confusion.
¶ 1:23 am 1 comments
Sunday, September 17, 2006
For Ms Gudmundsdottir.
You inspire me to live… Your beats your beats flick on my tiny power switch in the back of my head. You delve into my unseen territory. You can evoke my greatest amazingist amazingist thing. My primal primal inspiration thing. A giant violent hairy monster which attacks at dawn or any other time it chooses to depending on the weather in my head. It can abuse me or use me whichever it chooses it can take me over and plunge it’s fist into my core and fills me up with love and furry things. You make my chest tingle and surge and somewhere you turn on a tap in my bits. From which pours you… inspiration in an upwards flow taking a choke hold of my throat and surging up through my chest and head in a spiritual rush of fulfilment and joy…. Going hunting. I want to dance in sleazy clubs where the bass line doesn’t stop and the walls beat and surge and become me and become you and the lights are our really light… sleazy and red and electric green and the odd shot of blue you touch me and you come from my fingers and fill other people as I touch them and move with them you are one with me and her and her and all these people in here who are they? You know them your voice knows them and fills my ears and drives me to such craziness I must fuck her because you move me and give me a glint in my eye, you drive my pelvis into the dirt and my words from my heart you make me want a more creative life. This is an alarm call I am not listening, your imaginary fingers touch me between my legs and egg me on to dirtier things wake up wake up now I will never be your genius, just make me come to your music with my heart open. Sit in the trees and watch me from on high.
¶ 11:12 pm 0 comments
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Hope. Less.
The warm smell of the bathroom.
A mixture of poo
And menstrual blood.
I have decided I know my fate.
I’m going to die on the toilet like Elvis,
From an anal haemorrhage. ¶ 7:33 pm 0 comments
A mixture of poo
And menstrual blood.
I have decided I know my fate.
I’m going to die on the toilet like Elvis,
From an anal haemorrhage. ¶ 7:33 pm 0 comments
We're becoming dangerously like...
We are the selfish generation. We are the ones who live and consume just for ourselves. Stuck to interior furnishings like shit to a blanket. Stuck to TV programs about interior furnishings like shit to a blanket. Stuck to the nice TV on which you watch programs about interior furnishings like shit to a blanket. Stuck to the latest cleaning product that cleans the nice TV on which you watch programs about interior furnishings like shit to a blanket. Stuck to the person holding the remote for the TV which is also cleaned by the latest cleaning product which cleans the nice TV on which you watch programs about interior furnishings like shit to a blanket in the vain hope he or she will live up to your conditioned fantasies of happily ever after.
¶ 7:31 pm 0 comments
It's the old routine.
Falling to work in the morning there is a tasty pile of orange sun baked vomit on the pavement. Birds have already done away with anything nutritious. I lift up my knee-length skirt just in case it drags through. Nice. Someone had a not-so-very good time last night. I nearly drive myself into a wall. Can almost feel my cheek scraping down the rough red bricks. Can I fit into the seam between the pavement and the buildings I wonder? It looks so comfy to be lying face down with my nose pointing into the 90-degree shape. Maybe I’d disappear. Become a rubbish bag. Maybe I could poke my fingers out like bits of chicken bone for foxes to chew on. Or I could live in a drain for a few days. I want to pour myself into the gutter and down through the cast iron grates. Throw the smoking fag butts back out at passers by. Tiny children flash brightly past me like tiny race cars cutting me up on corners. I’m getting my tubes cut. Don’t shout like that. My warm morning bath is still pulling my skin; I didn’t give her enough time this morning. I’m depriving her of my body. I’m sorry Miss Bath I will buy a herbal bath soak thing and together we will make soapy love for hours on the weekend. Folk smile past on electric scooters. Give my best half-arsed grin and notice the luridly coloured tat in charity shop window. My reflection always disappoints me in the morning.
¶ 7:25 pm 0 comments
Friday, September 08, 2006
It's a phase most gayers go through...
I didn't really want to post this one as it seems a bit naff... But then i thought, what the hell!
Indigestion. I can't stop writing. I can't start writing. Something good please. I'll have two orgasms. One intense bed sheet gripping, one full - body please. Maybe finished with a dessert. And caffeine free coffee. One mint or two? Because you've bought me a drink I guess you have some rights. I've been tipped over with alcohol. Nice and easy. I've been covering up my cracks too much with social butterfly tendencies. I give myself no time to stop and think. Apart from when hugging my knees and fighting the nausea on the toilet leaning against the Formica and graffiti. I've tired myself out, I won't resist you. Have my hollow body. When you've finished there'll be nothing left. I'll try and fill it up with hot tea. Peppermint or chamomile? Vodka? Can you see through my exterior? I'm quite proud you can't. Yes I have such a fun life. Cue smile of the clown. Yeah fuck and flirt and have fun and drink the emptiness away. But that doesn't really work does it... deception and silly shoes and a drunk smile and a pillow that shares no secrets at 3 in the morning. It's all so gloriously decadent. ¶ 4:24 pm 0 comments
Indigestion. I can't stop writing. I can't start writing. Something good please. I'll have two orgasms. One intense bed sheet gripping, one full - body please. Maybe finished with a dessert. And caffeine free coffee. One mint or two? Because you've bought me a drink I guess you have some rights. I've been tipped over with alcohol. Nice and easy. I've been covering up my cracks too much with social butterfly tendencies. I give myself no time to stop and think. Apart from when hugging my knees and fighting the nausea on the toilet leaning against the Formica and graffiti. I've tired myself out, I won't resist you. Have my hollow body. When you've finished there'll be nothing left. I'll try and fill it up with hot tea. Peppermint or chamomile? Vodka? Can you see through my exterior? I'm quite proud you can't. Yes I have such a fun life. Cue smile of the clown. Yeah fuck and flirt and have fun and drink the emptiness away. But that doesn't really work does it... deception and silly shoes and a drunk smile and a pillow that shares no secrets at 3 in the morning. It's all so gloriously decadent. ¶ 4:24 pm 0 comments
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
To her.
Toxic monitor radiation that might give me cancer is not a problem today. 50 emails in two days lined up like planes awaiting take off.... This is ground control... you'll be given a warning if they catch you on that silly social site again.
¶ 5:23 pm 2 comments
Dianna Troy you ain't.
The I’s stand up like fractures, they splinter my text the way they splinter me when I talk about myself. Hand from hell, rise up and grasp me and pull me down to your depths… I don’t like talking. About myself. When I do, I’m my own wank stain. Me my me. I. I. I don’t like those words. They hurt my lungs when I talk and strangle my throat like a snake. Tighter, Sid. Make it hurt. I’m not obsessed with myself but what I feel is desperately unimportant. Really. Look at me and know who I am. It’s not that hard. If you wanted to be inside me I’d let you, don’t make me explain myself, it’s too fucking tiring.
¶ 5:13 pm 3 comments
Friday, September 01, 2006
Faultless
My new love,
Will she grasp handfuls of my hair
Or spread it over her thighs
Like a blanket? ¶ 4:01 pm 0 comments
Will she grasp handfuls of my hair
Or spread it over her thighs
Like a blanket? ¶ 4:01 pm 0 comments
