Adding breath, not thinking. Multiply the female form, causal and effect, touch here but don’t. Lick with your eyes, don’t talk, take your tongue and tell me. It’s a corridor. There’s a little drop of blood on the floor. Four doors, eyes opening to souls. Watch this, it’s a trick. I take the tablecloth away and leave me naked. We shouldn’t be doing this, but we are because I like you. Easier that way, if it’s my fault. Just don’t consider what will happen otherwise. It’s a a mastery of the little deathly suggestion. We know I don’t make you look.

This world gives us anything. Chances to meet, darkness to hide in. Anonymity precursors to dreams, live wire real world. Tragic moments when I want to know what you taste like. Heart beating a sound like amber, clear honey jive of the ministry of communication. Clear thought heat of sweaty palms and damp pressure drop. Guitar jangle metabolism, I sang to you when I was alone last night. Sweet melody along with my monologue of thrashed missing notes. Sometimes I can’t believe I tell you the way I do, push you past my craving until you have it too.

we miss you

jhayne & ferret skatia
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

I thought about writing you a love letter, telling you how I dreamed of you and woke up with my fingers bloody. I decided I didn’t know how to do it and the idea fell by the wayside. Instead I started thinking of spoken word, lilting with voice and a little bit of song. Telling you, instead, of your mouth, your words, how they cling to me like electricity is playing with static soley for my benifit. I wonder what what you’re doing sometimes, at any random moment. I’ll be looking out over the ocean, slate gray waves under a silver sky and you’ll come to me. I’ll turn my head just right and catch you in the corner of my eye.

Recorded because I can.

such a sweet discussion seduction

Looseleaf singing is ringing through my head. Harmony like bells in the old fashioned chuches. It’s a contraceptive against love iconic. Radio transmission from the inside of my brain. Trying to stay awake, trying to make things matter.

Murder of crows time, stepping from the shower to find a letter from an imaginary lover. Maybe I should send them a picture. Knuckleball warfare, an adventure in breathing. Bomb thier harddrive with sex, don’t let them sleep peacefully.

We may even meet one day, a solution to this damage control.

because you want me to

My mind stands still when I’m working. The children wash over me in meaningless waves. I had an interesting discussion on theology with one of them today. He signed on as God_loves_me and began to ask me if I “knew God”. I told him that I know a person named God, but I don’t ascribe to what he believes in. I think I made him cry, he’s very sheltered. I feel somehow that I might be doing something wrong, but I can’t abide the brainwashing. He’s twelve and has never heard of Darwin. A private school kid in Jackonville, where-ever that is. We chatted for almost two hours. I don’t want to take away someone’s comfort, but wandering around with a stupidly happy grin because science doesn’t exist isn’t something I can approve of. If I’m the devil walking up and transfixing him with a heretical brain, I can live with that. His parents may not like it, but there’s no reason I can’t tell him about evolution.

the married ones are insane by proxy

I have just received a phonecall that I am usually guilty of giving.

“Hello! Inexplicable question? (round or straight)”
“You’re not allowed to be me!”
“Yes I am. Answer the question.”
“Um, answers question (round)”
“Another inexplicable question? (silver or gold)”
“What are you doing?”
“You know what I’m doing, answer the question.”
“Damn you, you’re getting me a present? I hate you. You’re getting me a book, aren’t you?”
“And the answer?”
“Answer. (never gold)”
“There is it then. Thanks! Love you! Glad you read my post.”
“Which po-”

Now I know what it’s like to be on the other end of such conversation, will it stop me from calling people with things like this? No, of course not, I am unfair. I am wretchedly unfair, but now I know for certain what it does to them.

I didn’t even call back.

I like the way your eyes glitter.

I’m 22, social and not completely unattractive. You’d think it would be simple. Instead I’m hovering over my keyboard, waiting alone for my night to blend into daybreak. I imagine the people I love lying in beds I might never see and how they curl in their sleep. Different personalities looking lifeless but for breathing. I can touch their hair in my mind, take their hands and lay down beside them, but it doesn’t matter right here. Really, I’m listening to my pocket watch ticking the hours away until the sun rises to strip my clothes away and I can finally fall asleep.

The smell of a boy is in my hair. A perfume spice, a personal holy water. It’s a perverse distraction, like I expect to be able to lean back and meet a welcoming body. I should write for him, I think he likes it. Talk about our elastic inevitability. It stretches, but there’s no escaping it. Such a personal oddball relationship. Sort of waiting for one of us to pick it up. We the polite with the painfully sharp wit. Sometimes I think, “at least we don’t leave bruises.”

(I’m listening to Wolf Parade again. Months later and it’s still showing up to haunt my play list with deathless bouncy rock. Now say, it’s in god’s hands, but god doesn’t always have the best god damn plans, does he. Watched The Life Aquatic again this evening. I still laughed the second time around, though not so much at the cinematography jokes. There’s something compelling about the soundtrack, I find it odd that I’m finding it hard to download.)

I want to reach an antennae to heaven. A wire to catch the sound of crying angels. They spit on us for rain, manna pooling on the forest floor with water and we never notice. How this is possible, you’re not allowed to know. This is my secret, my earthly curse. My wings are dying, fading fast. I require True Love’s Kiss but it doesn’t exist. It’s a human thing, a fairy tale told by the women in romance comedies to the younger women in front of the television with a pint of depressed ice-cream. Programmed behavior and it can’t save me now. I’m lost, my signal blaring unheard. I never flew on feathers, but dreams.

I’m thinking I want to be lying in warm sand, dry sand. That california beach sand baked by the sun I didn’t get to see while I was down there. I want to curl up under a tree, in long dark grass, with hot light playing in green shadows above me. Lie on my side and let the branches keep off the skin burn. I want to be in bed with you, my head in the crook of your arm, content and tasting your kiss on my tongue. I have a trick where I can match heartbeats for a little while, I’d do that. Really I want to be somewhere there’s heat and daylight, somewhere where there’s a pillow of natures flesh. My fantasies are of lying down, letting rest overtake me. I want the day to come, to release me to dream.

this is a life

Shame erases needing my own little world to stay in. I don’t feel pointless when I’m around you. You don’t get angry either. I still count my years because I need to, I don’t know what you do. There’s always something. A little thing, unmentioned. Trigger moments, I can’t believe I talk about it. Here, and again, and touch me please.

I was in the shower, enveloped in heat. I remembered being cold. I remembered taking the pills and my fingers turning blue. A different room, another life. Teeth chattering fit to break. The water turned on so hot, so hot, not hot enough. I burned myself, crouching in water, dying. Watching out the open door for someone who wouldn’t come to me. Smoking in the basement, probably more important. This is devotion.

I was at school when they stole me. My father had broken down the two inch door and the cops had come down. A woman in a skirt who was too fake for me to like her, she came to my classroom and tried to take my hand. The principal told me to get into her car and I was quiet. I was trying to remember every word said, evaluate and plan.

He tried to hit me and I got away. Slammed my knee into his belly and twisted under his arm to the door. I wanted to sit a moment in the hall and catch my breath, but I knew that would be stupid. My neighbor wasn’t answering her door, she probably heard the one sided yelling, the crash as I ducked thrown dishes. I sat on the street a few blocks away. There were stairs there, and a fountain, the open courtyard of some apartment building. I had nowhere else to go.

sternberg was scurry of capillary in gaucherie

I am thinking about a chair. How two bodies may fill the same space. I’m thinking geometry. Jezabel angles and the curvature of spines. Skin and bones.

Yesterday could have been fiction. A brass band of events strung together. My mother woke me, my mother with plans for my brothers teenage birthday. Brr-ring. I pretended to be more awake then my four hours of sleep and nodded when I needed to say yes. Tumbling out of bed, the phone rang again. I wanted my quarter back, but no return. There was a strong Thumbalina moment of wanting to crawl back into the rose petals and let the day continue without me before I sighed and answered the phone. Discharged the day before yesterday, my friend was free from the coma ward. Stress snapped like a band wrapped too tight. His voice shattered my branded pictures inside my head of stretched canvas people, baffling in their immobile insensitivity. Two days under, going on three, they wouldn’t let me in to see him anyway. He’d fallen and couldn’t get up. He’d fallen from a building and his head smashed in, cracked like an egg cliche. The surgery was delicate and the surgeon admitted that he had no hope. His call was short, “come see me”

So I went. He’s taller now and his scar spectacular. Building webs over his left temple, it radiates outward from a moment of impact. Time encapsulated in pink lines, lobotomy style. I like it. He seems practically unchanged, his grasp of words the only missing piece. Strangely, I’m not worried in spite of supplying half the nouns in every ten sentences. It seems like something that can be dealt with. A drawback that can be worked around, a concession which could possibly go away. The doctors are amazed he’s alive. They were shocked when he sat up and spoke.

I took he and his mother for dinner. Robin’s birthday and they’re family, after all. My book was gone from Taf’s. Someone found it yesterday, told the staff they found it and said, “but I’m taking it with me.” There was nothing they could properly do, I understand, but it would have been nice if I had a chance to finish it first.

We went to Sweet Confections, after, on Denman street. The tiramisu cheesecake may not have been the wisest thing to order on bloodtime when I know I’m going home alone, but it was worth it. I was not alone in my response, we all drowned in flavour. Quality sweets can be where it’s at. Fingernails clutching the table. Robin overdid it, had to excuse himself for a moment of feeling ill, but recovered admirably and finished his cake. On Monday I’m taking him to get an ear pierced. We don’t have ceremonies into adulthood anymore, transition state moments from childhood that mean anything, so I’m going to do my best to give him something permanent this year.

Mum dropped me off on Davie Street at Burrard and I stalked up to Numbers, stripping layers off as I walked. By the time I reached the door I had clothes what met the dress code. It was the official opening of The Leather Loft and a partial celebration of the Vancouver Bears Club yearly anniversary. Upstairs was filled with shirtless men in harness, leather pants and vests. Officially, I was there to take pictures, but I mostly stood waiting for the award ceremonies while S&M gay porn played meaningless on the monitors. Silva was being honoured, a certificate and flowers.

From a micracle recovery to a teenager birthday to an S&M night. I like.