now you see me, no you don't's Journal [entries|friends|calendar] now you see me, no you don't [ userinfo | livejournal userinfo ] [ calendar | livejournal calendar ]

[20 Jul 2009|10:43pm] I am not a romantic. I’m a reflection of st. peter, the reversed religious dedication of apostates speaking tongues at late night checkout counters, buying time and menthol cigarettes. Be mine, but swear to give nothing more than the dragging cuffs of your crisp white shirts can soak up from the wet ink of your most trite love letters. In another life I would be frank, caught by circumstance between holocaust and blind, faithless, desperate love. I want you because it feels good, for a change, to have something there, nestled in my palms like a melting cordial, threatened by the sensate press of deception. Before we know it’s here summer is gone and with my skin still damp from the sweat I wish you were man enough to lend me, I wait, shivering in the brilliant light of a sterile room. I hope you never know her better than I. I wish that you drown among the fragile corals with her image indelible upon your eyelids, thinking it has anything to do with me. Kafka falls from careful ignorance to the soft carpet beneath my feet, as cheap as tomorrow. 3 < 0

[09 Jul 2009|03:33am] i have made even the hardest of men into putty. and tomorrow when you remember the prettiest face for miles, you'll be smelling my resignation on your sheets. 1 < 0

[28 Jun 2009|11:20pm] the collections of blood, the chill and the illusion of stillness are all familiar, but it’s the smell that has stuck to my clothing and lingered in my hair, wafting out to thread the sunshine with the most primal black and stifle the soft music of her wind chimes. i think about the peonies, melting in this heat. 3 < 0

[03 Jan 2009|11:25pm] in a cold sweat over forgotten cups of tea we rehearse desperate hand-written pages full of words that claw over other words hoping to find a bit of blank space but inevitably, he falters, the mechanics stutter, the clocks shake the dizziness from their numbers and it’s back to the beginning where our mothers lay pregnant, with curled hair and smiles. all the days of the week are in remembrance of the other pages and my hands cross-reference my sisters’ horseshoe-shaped scars, the soft hairs on my lovers’ knees and the exposed nape of a strange woman’s neck. i miscalculated these distances. he tells me to never forget that these cells beat and swoon full of latent religion, and he says breathe slowly to push the ink-black symbols to the surface. but sometimes it is too much to ask hands with carefully thickened whorls and blind fingers not to dig too deep, grasping for the electricity of your spine, stopping the impulses with our kissing mouths. maybe it was here that i miscalculated, but i don’t think so. i think that we never belong together. and so he ascends and so follow the letters confusing our lady with mata hari and the noise becomes its own prayer, a loneliness calculated on borrowed time. 6 < 0

[08 Dec 2008|03:50pm] my mother is dying of cancer.  i've been chaining beedies again. 4 < 0

[01 Nov 2008|11:03pm] i will fill each space with a letter, number or spit. surrounded by relics and indelible adipose sites, these rooms are ghost towns in waiting and i am casually loitering near the ceiling, unwilling to understand. it is real grief that we come as contorted as we are; our perfect long spines crippled and our bodies splayed like hieroglyphics.  the memories chanting mantras tucked slyly within the pocket of my cheek are a chinese foot-binding bestowed with painstaking care and all this obsessive detail. i will fill each awkward space with misdirected lust, with the guilt that is only fear of being defrauded, while secretly i have carried her around gingerly like a cracked egg, all these years, dusting and staining the arcs of her cheekbones, the real regret that her kindness has never been my own. i want to resist this, i want to insist on resenting it, but i am still here. 4 < 0

[19 Oct 2008|10:58pm] now that i'm your mistress we can get drunk on the beauty that means nothing and we can suck the marrow from the bones that composed the landscape of our alienation like pimentos from gin-soaked olives -- and we can forget each other when the morning makes our eyelids heavy. when i am here i'm in cairo and you wave across the room, kicking your feet off the great wall.  all the lushness in-between two spaces becomes a sticky, salty mixture of simple linear equations that dries in scales on the flat brown stomachs of all the actors lined up naked over the empty page.  it's too perfect outside to be desperate, but we don't want from wanting, and if no-one has any particular intentions then it's difficult to say who is responsible for keeping this mass breathing. yet here we are, variable in the same schema. you might say the panic tastes good and i might say, that's the msg. something i love unconditionally is to keep things within my reach. 3 < 0

[21 Aug 2008|12:27am] this is, personally, a newsprint anecdote transferred to careless elbows everywhere that reads backward by someone in the morning's first elevator as an unparalleled prose piece.  or, just as intimately: the directions to mata hari's secret unguent, meant to ease the spine of some dictator's autobiography.  this is where the final crease lies in the popart paper dresses of hideously well-known idiot women or the line signed and dotted by your savior -- your delivering doctor, illegibly.  this might be my delusion of aneuritic grandeur or perhaps a smattering of your sacred blood hissing tenderly on a too-hot brain.  something close enough to kiss two tablets and a paperful of translucent powder that are still right down here, in the pockets of forgotten trousers that slide on like a shed skin, like a memory of what's worst for us. put on your gloves and your dancing shoes because tonight, fortified with lost cataclysms, we go out again.  this is personal. and i won't be misunderstood by just anyone. 0

[23 Apr 2008|04:15pm] reason, the duplicitous bitch that got me here, the cock and balls of florida tucked neatly in its sweaty armpit, downing six pills a day so that i can work seventy hours a week and drink and puff my way through the rest. oh god help me, and i'll be an agnostic again. the truth is, science is all about making shit up. i've been your doctor for years! 0

I SAVE CIGARETTE BUTTS FOR A POOR GIRL [03 Apr 2008|12:21am] [ music | daniel johnston ] the darkness is leveled and sometimes 3am is more than a fifth can do to keep the fear crumpled down naked and soft between my lungs.  i remember being just as ugly in a city a thousand, three thousand miles away, naked on porches that don’t remember me. the same balmy winds blow pale and the same orange-lit empty streets line the white undersides of my arms, the same lonely winter taste of solicitation bursts in juniper berries across the forgotten papers on my kitchen table.  here there’s no telling but you and i know it’s the center of a careful regression that won’t suffer a luxury like: growing soft dust patinas to satisfy the ghosts of a quiet rage or sucking poison from week-old spider bites.  i’ve cultured these small ills before so let’s pretend there’s fruit to bear, this time, for the sake of self-salience. just as suddenly as time ticks slow, it’s pouring rain. the spanish moss glows green again, waving slowly from the dark oak trees. how many nights truncated by dawn before it’s long enough, before i’m done  simplifying these heavy architectures. stop going; i know you're gone. this house is too old for your heavy feet to seem soft. 1 < 0

THE FEMINIZATION OF FUCKING [30 Jan 2008|04:27pm] up close we’re just as pretty as we are far away, that nauseating every-thing color blocking the gaps in the sky out countless times together, pitch black canvasses for the walls of dead philosopher’s museums, not as obese as terminal things should be but not quite starved like the past incarnations. a few more shades of you and i’m just about as repulsive as it gets so, together, let’s be that captive audience’s new gaia, as old as the taste of spit and more terrible than absolutely nothing. together, we’ve got self-clotting hearts pinned to our sleeves, the ultimate commodification of empathy to drop like berries in hungry mouths and tomorrow that shit’s absolutely golden, thanks to the evening headlines running through the gutters of our egos. congrats in our meticulous order for making science into an utter unreality, we’ve become irrelevant to ourselves. and yes it’s perspective-perfect, macroscopic, clean-shaven. just this once, a change of pace, i'll try hating you. 2 < 0

[07 Jan 2008|03:20am] he’s the taste of terror a soldier without a woman who cares enough to give him a new home has between their blankets and the blind metallic click of fear is not enough to take us away from ourselves anymore.   How much longer, do you think…? We both have our positions. We’ve been set against each other from the beginning.  Our positions are casual lies 5 < 0

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