| first third, raw |
[Jun. 29th, 2007|03:31 pm] |
a series (a ghost story?) i've been working on, probably ten parts in all. this is not so much the first third as *a* third; i don't know that i'm writing them in order. anyway, it's been in my other journal, but spaced out.
( so here: ) |
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| (very rough) |
[Mar. 10th, 2006|03:32 am] |
written out for you
these
how i twist and am twisting
writes
"i will open for you"
don't you hear
all my
don't you still hear
such little hymns
whose words
could wound
written twisting to
you still
little you hear how
i am born beneath
your hand
or my own remembrance
**this was private, because of roughness, but it's not doing anyone any good as a secret. maybe un-private-ing it will get me to work the idea in to something i like. |
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| non-comment |
[Sep. 27th, 2005|04:04 am] |
edmund clerihew bentley
should not have written frequently.
we must assume he failed at guessing
that slipshod scansion is entirely distressing. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 22nd, 2005|02:55 am] |
| [ | music |
| | jezebel-iron & wine | ] |
it's easier at night, and worse. everything condenses, everything is tidal forces, reckoned in small figures, two breaths. there is the light, there is the door, here is an indecision; not much. distinction suffers in the late hours. what moves this faint spark? only possession, maybe self-possession, holy possession, the stark procession of minutes and hours and two more breaths, no aching pause, march. no tides, not even these of thought and idle antic, deepen, nor draw from out me this last one, two, this wilding knot of sighs, all while we know there is only the space between hands. |
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| cross-posted to onehundredwords |
[Sep. 6th, 2005|06:12 pm] |
we are only strangers now; maybe acquaintances. your hands lie unflown, elsewhere, my hands are unheld here. and i don't care, it doesn't matter, i don't care that you don't miss me much. i don't care that i can't smell you on my skin, in my clothes, through these rooms. you would say, i'm sure, that we weren't like that, anyway. you would say you were a friend, a bird, and i would say, "but can you feel,
can you feel those drops of my blood inside you? i miss them when you're away, and you can't give them back." |
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| atony |
[Jun. 2nd, 2005|02:53 am] |
| [ | music |
| | the white witch-ivoux | ] |
curled on the bathroom floor, retching, i dream of a golden bear. in his mouth is a ball; in that ball is a room, is a floor, is a figure, collapsed. in my mouth is the endless flavor of sugar, aching, and i reach for anything. lift me, pull me; too hot to touch, too bare. i am laid stark and waiting. i am unwaking. i have left this prayer of colored stones, of cold floor; i have left this puzzle of light and sugar. now in stillness, dreaming. in my mouth is the answer, biting golden at my lips. |
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 26th, 2005|04:17 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | very slightly awed | ] |
| [ | music |
| | ask for answers-placebo | ] |
at three in the morning, i am fully full of doubts. my heart beats like a bird against a cage, an ache, my hands are tangled in my hair, and all around me there is space. inside me there is only space. i lose your love here in the dark.
lay your hand against my chest, slow my heart to measured sureness, come unwind me. help me to vanish these dark things. teach me to live in the space between your mouth and mine; show me how to sleep, in hope of tomorrow, fathomed in kisses, here in your arms. |
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| yet another hundred words. more swoony crush writing. |
[Feb. 25th, 2005|12:52 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | tired/thoughtful/happy/weird | ] |
| [ | music |
| | stranger-booth & the bad angel | ] |
i'm falling in love with you right now, this second, this breath. this is my heart dropping through the floor. i am too wild with it; it stretches my fingers, grins my mouth, and stutters and trembles and bursts. there's joy in the marrow of my bones, a lightness, expectation of you, searing. i don't believe in this kind of thing, this too-fast-too-much kind of thing, this crush kind of thing, but my disbelief is dropping from me like my heart through the floor. delicious, new, this is the best part. just the same, you terrify me.
(i'm not as satisfied with this as the last one. the rhythm gets all weird in the middle, and i think i might end up making it longer and changing a few things around. or scrapping it as an important thought that i can't package well in words. i hate it when that happens.) |
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| another hundred words thing |
[Feb. 19th, 2005|03:36 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | mellow | ] |
| [ | music |
| | colour me in-broadcast | ] |
just we two then, finally, icing sugar in our mouths, as achingly sweet as each of these songs: my teeth are on edge; i am dissolving. i bleed in to your eyes, your hands. your smell is faintly on my skin and i still shiver. wanton, soft, delicious, shy, and you are the strangest of angels; so up, swoony, stumbling, blind, still somehow strung apart, we are two too delicate, yearning. i will lick the salt from your mouth, rain and skin smells, and still this sweetness, the tenuous ache of tender kisses, oh! i can imagine no finer thing.
(this originally had line breaks. i'm still not sure whether i should put them back in.) |
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 9th, 2005|04:22 am] |
| [ | music |
| | see other journal | ] |
oh how i miss you
it started today, the black pavement parties, the iron lung, the endless flights of colourless birds; we watched from hung windows, breath frosting the uneven glass. our own glare caught us off guard, unbalanced us, but we've been falling for some time now. you held your hand bent back, a sign to stop, and i touched it once before the gravity spun us both away, flying, falling again. we've been cast to either end of things, distant, parted: we're not like we used to be. faded now, silent, i wish only for your star, your hand bent back, glass.
--
this is...this isn't, yet. part of something bigger, anyway. my head is exploding with words, and nothing is making sense when written down. all too wildly; i cannot unbend. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 19th, 2005|04:16 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | tired | ] |
| [ | music |
| | none. | ] |
( four things )
the last line i can't explain. the second and third were just what i was thinking about. the first i think i maybe like.
100 words total, but not posted to the community. |
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| most old, last new |
[Jan. 14th, 2005|12:36 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | quiet | ] |
| [ | music |
| | adelaide-old 97's | ] |
these are my posts from the onehundredwords community, where the challenge is to create any kind of piece stated in 100 words, no more, no less. they're in order, oldest to newest--most are fairly old, but the last i wrote today.
( here ) |
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| a dream |
[Dec. 19th, 2003|02:25 pm] |
the tables in the bar are sticky, bare, and closely set, and when you try to move at me, accusing, they stumble you. you don't kill me just yet. instead, you scream,
'she died for you.'
and spit, and keep talking, but my heart hurts too much to listen. i am too afraid.
the beach is important, down by the docks, but no one will stay with the seeds, and we can't take them with us, and no one will explain. you're not in this crowd, but i know you're somewhere nearby. a woman i don't know takes me to a library on a tenement block. i think she's a lawyer. she calls me a name i don't recognize and pretends to find out who i am, reading in the records room.
children are performing our story, in the manner of the actors in hamlet. there are many people to watch, and there's you, and you look so angry, and so sad. a monk or priest sits behind me on the bench--i can't see him, and i don't dare turn. he won't stop touching me, pulling at me, and i'm willing my body to fade, for his hands to pass through me, but it doesn't work. i stand to move away, and you lunge for me, enraged that i would dare to interrupt the pantomime.
she calls,
'don't kill her!'
i don't even think to cringe. my arms are out to you, in welcome or surrender, and you tear the length of them with angry fingers, but then push past me.
you kill the man behind me, and i collapse, weeping.
suddenly, i don't know if this is real, or just a game. i don't know if you're you or if you're him. but i do know that you kneel beside me and tell me
'you don't understand...you're still her. she's still you.'
and you hold me, and carry me to my friends, and then you kiss me...
...for about a thousand years. you kiss me like you need the air from my lungs.
you kiss me just like you used to, sometimes, and even then, i can feel the crack and crumble of my heart.
it's ok. i give up. |
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| definitive (archetypes) |
[Nov. 11th, 2002|04:09 am] |
| [ | music |
| | gold dust-tori amos | ] |
he·ro
in mythology and legend, one who is endowed with great courage and strength, celebrated for his [or her] bold exploits, and favored by the gods. a person noted for feats of courage or nobility of purpose, especially one who has risked or sacrificed his or her life
vil·lain
a wicked or evil person; a scoundrel
in·no·cent
a person, especially a child, who is free of evil or sin. a simple, artless, or unsophisticated person. one who inexperienced or guileless.
se·duc·tress
a woman who seduces
mar·tyr
one who makes great sacrifices or suffers much in order to further a belief, cause, or principle. one who endures great suffering.
bad·ass
a mean-tempered or belligerent person.
pa·ri·ah
a social outcast. an Untouchable. |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 3rd, 2002|05:52 pm] |
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a wash. a waste. i'm still awake. |
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applegrain's journal