come worship, I don’t want to be an empty church

my first try
Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

I think I bought a soul machine today in among the lipstick and the lingerie, the stockings and the twisted silver. An unexpected purchase, to be sure. It’s insinuated under my skin and it smiles at me when I look at it. I’m real today. I found a glass slipper and filled it, someone walked into a bus-stop when they saw me. A stranger, I almost stopped to help them up, then didn’t. Instead I smiled and pretended not to see.

I’ve never bought make-up before, I never thought I knew what to do with it. There was always the suspicion that these powders would be terrific fun, it’s nice to be justified. In spite of myself, I seem to have succeeded. I only pray that I might do as nice as a job for my photoshoot this week, when I don’t have the stunningly amazing shop women standing over my shoulder, reminding me the tricks of the trade. It’s easy though, it’s like dry paint. I know how to paint, though I hardly admit it and could never make pictures. With practice, I could get good at this. Suddenly, getting paid for modeling seems less as an amusement and more of a way to fund the pretty colours I can’t really afford.

I have another shoot as well this week, a more familiar set-up. I’m being paid to be a photographer. Tomorrow evening I’m being called into a rather expensive home studio to take shiny pictures of the equipment. Insurance proofs at $20/hour.

St. Nicholas of Vulnavia

Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

I met mad_and_crazy whilst on Island, (he says I’m charming, wouldja lookit that? How odd.), and yesterday he wrote me something based off of leftoftheedge‘s question meme. I cheated with my question. I couldn’t particularly think of anything clever, so I took a quote a sixties sci-fi novel that I found left behind in a hotel room when I was still on the road wih my parents. Something with a woman on the front in profile against a sickly planet rising in space. The sort that comes with yellow pages and quotes on the back which tell you absolutely nothing about what’s inside beyond the fact that it’s THRILLING! and A MUST READ! in red against white.

Supposing I did move to Europe, would he leave his daughter on the moon?

Yes, unfortunately. With you out of his life, his affections spurned, he was forced to turn to his other mistresses. Missy was high on cocaine and ammonium derivatives, like always, and when he found her she was knee-deep in a peat bog on Lesquite Island with a salt shaker stuck up her nostril praying to the mighty Tree Gods for miracles and other divine favours to be bestowed on her. Ellen had turned dyke, and had run away to Cuba with a lesbian lover named Imelda. “Her strap-on gives me what you never could,” she said in parting, and he felt a metaphorical spiked heel crushing his testicles.

The private detective that he hired to find Meghan woke up in a morning in a bathtub full of ice in Mexico, missing important body parts. He never got his refund.

As for his wife…? Pfaugh. She had an ice cube where her vagina should have been. Or possibly a snow cone factory, like those ones that you see at the seedier sort of carnivals, and they were all out of the raspberry syrup.

Spurned by the females of the species, his thoughts turned once again to his one true love – I refer, of course, to amateur rocketry. He started building vertical dragsters in his garage; large tanks full of oxygen and peroxide, shelves of electronics components and platinum meshes and a big box labelled ‘DANGER UNEXPLODED GUNPOWDER’ and an assortment of Korean automobiles in the front yard. The neighbours asked, “What’s he building out there?”, ’cause the respectable people up at Point Gray didn’t have rusting automobiles in their frontyards, damnit, especially not ones with voice-synthesized warnings telling you ‘please to be frashten sreet bert’ in broken Pidgin english, and if they did they’d all be MG’s.

The family worried. The wife took the kids and went to stay with her sister until this boiled over, but she knew it never would. It would end in either tears or explosions. He’d stay up late at night, high on benzedrine and paint fumes, and something took shape in the front yard. The city council was very alarmed, and the homeowner’s delegation sent people to try and see what it was all about. “What’s he building?” they’d ask. He bought a router, then a table saw, then a drill press, and tore down the treehouse that he built for the kids to make room for his command center.

Finally it was ready. He had a plan. He’d take the whole fucking family up for a ride, they could live in space, just like that terrible movie based on that terrible TV show. There he could relax, and regain her, away from all those OTHER FUCKING MEN – HOW DARE SHE SLEEP WITH THEM, muscular Aryans with blond hair and names like Heimlich who could bench-press a house and who paid for their steroids by renting their schlongs to demolition crews at $14.95 an hour. So what if he didn’t have muscles, he had two polyester leisure suits that he bought on sale at Value Village for five dollars and allowing himself to be groped by the eighty year old lady behind the counter who hadn’t slept with a man since her husband died in a tuna boat accident twenty years ago, and if that wasn’t good enough for her then she could just learn to live with it, just like she could also learn to live with his habit of playing Duelling Banjos every evening. The kids would learn to play Duelling Banjos. They would be VERY HAPPY TOGETHER OR ELSE.

Sometimes at night, after he chlorofoam’ed everybody and launched them into space, he’ll look down at Europe through the window of his space capsule, and yes, rest assured that he will think of you. Everybody else, of course, will think MY GOD GET US OUT OF HERE, but this is perfectly normal behaviour for a rational human being so don’t think too much of it.

not with a bang

She walked home feeling ill, her stomach twisted, the sun rising cold into her eyes. She walked home because she couldn’t afford the cab, because maybe he would redeem himself in the two minutes between the car and the front door of where he worked.

So tell me why, exactly, you’re not coming this evening.
Because I canceled on her twice already, I promised her some time. She’s going to make me a nice english dinner.
Well why don’t you bring her?

He bowed his head, It’s more complicated than that. She wants some alone time.

Her foot hit a stone, sending it skittering across the ice crusted puddles that spotted the alley. Her eyes, following it, found graffiti on the wall. Scrawled excerpts of The Hollow Men. “We are the hollow men, We are the stuffed men, Leaning together, Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!” Should have been Robert Frost, she thought, I could have found irony in that. Instead her thoughts were glued to her week, her last few days, her empty morning. She’d needed him and found nothing. I love you, he said, and it hurt.

“Our dried voices when, We whisper together, Are quiet and meaningless, As wind in dry grass, Or rats’ feet over broken glass, In our dry cellar ”

She looked up at the rusty barbed wire at the top of the fences and considered climbing them. She imagined, for a moment, the metal slicing into her hands, giving her something to concentrate on. She stopped with her hands sticking to the frozen metal, one foot in the fence. How was she going to handle tonight? There was a crowd expected, and she wasn’t going to have the shield she needed. He’s standing her up. Again.

Inside of her, something had screamed. Complicated?? Have a great fucking time then. How much of a bitch do I have to be before I’m accorded the same respect? I pray she gets your name wrong when you’re inside her. I pray she gives you the name of someone you hate. She’d just carried his child for a week. It had been seven days alone, tailing an impossibly painful weekend. She’d needed him, he hadn’t called. Out loud she said, Forget it. It doesn’t matter. Because obviously, it didn’t.

“Shape without form, shade without colour, Paralysed force, gesture without motion”

When finally she saw him, told him, there were guests over. Let’s go, he’d said, and she’d agreed. Let’s find somewhere to be alone. He said a coffeeshop. Instead he brought her to a nightclub to play pool with his buddies. It was dead. She sat alone, watching the smooth coloured balls roll across the table, attempting to understand what possible motivation could explain their presence. She used to work for that night, visiting it now was like visiting a good friends grave. Any minute now we’ll leave, she thought, and the minutes continued, the hours passing. It was hell.

“Those who have crossed, With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom, Remember us — if at all — not as lost, Violent souls, but only, As the hollow men, The stuffed men.”


My phone-calls swell in strangeness, they caress in sound, using words to simulate the brush of fingertips across my lips. I think of weight, bodies touching, my hands gliding as if on ocean across your back, salt on my lips like the edge of a glass. My calls cry out in darkness and in daylight, shy but willing to bare, to bear, for the price of sweetness, for the delight of it. Send you home singing, send you home to my name. Send you home with hands.

All this week my heart has been aching like a bad writers cliche, feeling as if it was replaced by a chunk of pale bone when I wasn’t looking, when my eyes were glued emptily out the window at my countries endless bramble and trees. It pulled from my chest in magnetic grace for my love, keening at night for his voice. Every face was underlaid with his, every breath fighting to see him like I was living an out-dated novel. This poem came to mind when I wondered what the doctors had to say, when I caught my hand to my throat in pain. I never knew who wrote it, but in luck, someone posted it today in the comments of a friends journal.

Apparently the author is a woman named Pamela Gillilan.

Four Years

The smell of him went soon
from all his shirts.
I sent them for jumble,
and the sweaters and suits.
The shoes
held more of him; he was printed
into his shoes. I did not burn
or throw or give them away.
Time has denatured them now.

Nothing left.
There will never be
a hair of his in a comb.
But I want to believe
that in the shifting housedust
minute presences still drift:
an eyelash,
a hard crescent cut from a fingernail,
that sometimes
between the folds of a curtain
or the covers of a book
I touch
a flake of his skin.

Pursuit of the fox spirit: a cento for the living

It’s always 4 a.m. in Ishtar’s temple, blood drops pattering softly around a cage of bone. But the only coin that changes hands is Judas silver. ~ 13

A friend on-line took this picture, and riffed off my journal to create the text. The internet is making itself my home again. People creating, playing muse to everyone. I post letters sometimes, and out and out confessions here. There’s nothing too personal. This week I was drifting away, falling into myself, fearing that I was sick with child, that my lover was dying. I never have an answer why when people ask me, but to point at things like this. I brought someone a creative thought this week, they took the time to make something. There are few things more important. It’s salvation to me.

you should ask as well

  has Answered me a Question:

“Why wasn’t I informed?”

Oh merciful dark radiance of the heavens [etc. etc.; copy and paste the full greeting],

The unfortunate incidences were deemed too trivial a matter to trouble you with, and in accordance with the principles of your infinite wisdom (The Vast Red Book, volume DCXXIV, 27th authorised edition excluding apocrypha) we were guided to monitor the situation as it developed until such time as it warranted your peerless attention.

Naturally [of course? – think of something better!] we were sufficiently bathed in your munificent understanding to be cognisant that you, who knows all things, were aware of the former Most Gracious Lord High Admiral’s disposition towards more refined tastes in the manner of the Imperial Court [N.B. DO NOT use the phrases ‘unusual’, ‘perverted’ or ‘skullfucking babysplitters’]. We would not dream of presuming to bring such thing to your attention, or by doing so imply anything untoward where no such thing exists. [Grovel appropriately]

I was personally honoured myself to have His then Grace take a brief liking to my infant daughter, whose still-living torso he was kind enough to wear as underpants to your recent jubilee. It came as a great dismay to me when the true nature of his tastes came to light, and I was horrified at its devastating effect on your [insert honorific] majesty’s imperial fleet. It is quite rightly your own sacred task to declare treason and heresy, but may I have the great boon of saying that I prostrated myself at your shrine and wept openly when I discovered that he had betrayed you.

I was in fact in the process of bringing this information to you myself when the news of your great and terrible wrath broke, and I chastised myself greatly for not realising that you would of course have known all this yourself. It is to the eternal benefit of your great and undying empire that you discovered these plots yourself and took such swift and decisive action.

Your deepest servant [throw in something suitable grandiose],

Alyster Kamb’ell,

Imperial Intelligence

Smithers – tidy this up and send it off to the big-eared old fart before you go home tonight, will you? And for all our sakes make sure you burn this note; if any of those blood-drinking kiddyshaggers in the court get their hands on it we’re all screwed. I don’t want to end up buggered with a roasting spit and served up at banquet like the last head of intelligence. AK.


dis fiction

Sky bring me crimson before I sicken and swell and burst. Bring me life clotted in sticky strands, red drooling obscenely down my white pale legs like the spit of a cannibal who’s recently eaten. I’m having impure thoughts, world, I’m carrying the seed of destiny in my minds desire. Create a path of reasoning away, please, create a river flow tumble of flesh and need and peace without death. I’m not craving blackness, I’m not craving a grave, but the opposite. The womb calling logically, little two feet with both our patterns upon the sole. Bring me blood, world, let it be mine, world. Praise me with patterns, praise me with lust, praise me with the most basic of needs, but allow me to package them in the way I desire. Test tube sterility, like fucking a pump. It’s late in the night, early morning in hour, writing this now means few will read it, few will see it. I’m learning, life, to hide in plan sight, to claim in tongues made clear by dreaming.

I went to the play today, I was enraptured quietly by birds made of people and the relationships between them. Love triangles with multi-species dimension. After we spent time with the One Yellow Rabbits, catching a taxi with them to R&B food at the Swans by the water. Michael Green is enchanting, gentleman sweet, I see completely why this man is family.

My paid account runs out in three days. Thank you to the mysterious benefactor, whomever you are.

You smile so nicely that your eyes glitter through lo-rez photography.

Mishka, my dear mouse, is tiny. She lives in a petite body, curling to sleep so small that my hands can barely find her. She fits into my chest like a pet, her heat burning brightly. Sleep claimed her early, and me at four o’clock. We got up at seven:thirty. Re-discovering how quickly this house runs out of hot water is something I could have done without, as is that grimy feeling of putting dirty clothes on once clean, as if to say, “didn’t I wash this all off?”

I have a photoshoot when I get back into town. If anyone has any alt clothing they could lend me or make-up, it would be highly appreciated. I was asked to “Bring your own make-up, and at least 3 different outfits, if you got anything along the lines of leather/fishnets/etc please bring them.” but I don’t particularly have any of that, especially the make-up. I don’t believe I even have lipstick anymore. Not, of course, that I particularly know what to do with the stuff, but I’m sure I can hack something out once I have supplies. Even someone with me to pick some up or show the most basic application techniques would be a gift, I’m so unaccustomed to pencil greases. This would be a sooner than later sort of thing, so anything lent would be returned quickly. Also, any recommendations as to what to drag along would be fantastic.