apples cold

I dreamed I had
&nbsp a lover in my mouth
His sex smooth & long & hard
&nbsp a silk pressure
I removed it and
&nbsp kissed the head
&nbsp as red as apples
In my dream I could tell that
&nbsp my teeth were mirrors
I thought
&nbsp “Maybe he will kiss me
&nbsp And break the spell”
But instead
&nbsp I woke up
Trapped still in the forest
&nbsp where the huntsman threw me away
Too much trouble
&nbsp he said
Too much trouble for soft
&nbsp pale thighs
I was fifteen
&nbsp and
my mother was queen

free bird!

A little boy looks up at a man with graying hair, “Why do you play with desperation?” The man, he puts down his worn clarinet and replies, “Because they live in every town I have a gig.”

Two-thirds of the populace were living alone when it happened. Hallucinations, at first faint, flickerings in the reflected blue light from television screens, almost transparent in the cheap halogens found over bathroom mirrors. There were rumours of an LSD dump in the reservoir. Doctors complained that there was no standard procedure for treating so many for psychosis. Somebody blamed violence in video games. A week later, they had mass, depth. Archetypes, like a fat sodden guilt that would sit in the fridge and pout whenever the door opened, were haunting the under stimulated, the lonely, and the old. Stocks in drug companies soared, there was a run on anti-psychotics. Cities were drastically effected, tall office towers especially, but not as much as the small towns, rife with tiny disasters. In one rural area, an entire nursing home committed suicide.

  • Fishermen catch a missile.
  • Pictures of the Mermaid Parade.
  • another day without anything to eat

    Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

    Beth wove my hair into french braids last night, two of them culminating on either side of the nape of my neck. I left them in overnight, the feeling of no hair around my head a novel one, and I wore them in the shower. I’m at work now and trying to imagine how one takes these things out. I imagine being kissed might do it. As if tipping my head forward into a warm chest would let the touch of lips on the crown of my head unravel every twist into tiny curls.

    Please give me resolution, bring me a damned child who knows what’s right and a blind man who can see through time. Bring me these things and other things and let me make a court of law where love herself may be judged. It is time to right these wrongs, bless the heathens free. Her face, we know, is red with need, but it can be signed on the warrant just the same. Bring me the blood of a marigold, a pansy, and a rose. Bring me a song that the first person sang when they invented loneliness as a minor chord. We’ll beat drums like hearts, like daffodil candy, like the gun shot that brought down the first born daughter who wasn’t wanted, and she’ll come to us, she’ll dream for us, and then we can take down her name.

    Tuesday again, a count-down day, one of many, one of few. No word yet from far away, and I wonder how long it will take. There wasn’t even a “I have arrived” or an “I am alive” let alone an “I miss you.” This is the way such things go, I presume, when things are dying. It begins with less and ends with nothing. Too much sublimation of self to pay for another’s way again and the debt isn’t being paid back. Part of me knew this would happen, just as part of me doesn’t know what will happen next.

    Work today is counting minutes, watching the digital white letters in the right hand corner of the screen and wondering to myself, “When do I get to leave?” whenever a plane goes by or a train. We’re close to tracks and the trains here are frequent, loud thunderous things with bells and hard whistles, every metal car grumbling about it’s own particular rain weather clickity clack. It’s on the edge of chilly here, like the temperature is a lake the city is walking beside at night. The calendar claims it’s summer, but it’s a man made construct and too rigid to contain reality this year. Each day has been something new, another volatile shade of unlikely weather.

    I should like tigers, not ponies.

    A group of Social Elite out for a rousing spot of entertainment at The Banshee, Cedar Estates, Smegma-Upon-The-Rise, England

    (L, Red) Sir Geoffrey Dupont-Beevers, OBE: A part-time druid and ex-Dundee callboy, Sir Dupont-Beevers received his OBE from Her Majesty in 1995 after successfully buggering a sasquatch. Now has plans to go in search of the Loch Ness monster with a specially outfitted rowboat. Much loved by the Welsh People.

    (L, in Gray) Amorus Pye: American born and bred; educated at Eton, expelled for an unfortunate misunderstanding about the concept of ‘fagging.’ Now runs a highly successful chain of bordellos in Prague. Goes through fifteen polo ponies a month as a result of his rampant taste for virgin horseflesh. Thankfully Single.

    (L, Back, Hiding) Adm. Gregory Japiro (retd): Achieved high honours in Her Majesty’s Navy of Sodomy; has retired from public service due to painful canker sores and burn marks on scrotum. Now spends his days hiding in bathing houses at Bexhill-Upon-Sea and groping eighty year old pensioners in striped bathing suits.

    (Center, blonde hair, holding Mallet) Lord Ffredricton Ghastly-Finch: The only person in this group who is listed in DeBrett’s Peerage, Lord Ghastly-Finch is the current owner of the Banshee, Cedar Estates, and is the only person in the history of the United Kingdom to be expelled from a seating of the House of Lords for performing Unseemly Acts while the House was in session. Currently married to Lady Ghastly-Finch (nee Twatillary), Lord Ghastly-Finch has also been linked romantically with everybody else in the picture.

    Lord Ghastly-Finch is seen here with his famous mallet, Gooley-Swatter. Normally kept under glass in Bath, the mallet is not in fact used for playing croquet, but rather is designed for Impacting against the Butler’s Testicles.

    (Center, back, hiding, wearing spectacles) Lord Ghastly-Finch’s manservant, Armadillo. Amongst the many, various and depraved services that he performs for his lordship, Armadillo is charged with breaking up the pustules on his lordship’s buttocks with a small hammer every evening after dinner.

    (right, black hat) Lady Ghastly-Finch: prior to marriage to his Lordship, Lady Ghastly-Finch was primarily known for eating an Australian opera singer. When interviewed by the press, she said that she found him fatty and unpleasant, and that in any case she didn’t think that she could finish a full one again. Her current project is said to involve hunting down, killing, and then smoking, Mick Jagger.

    (right, red hair, fan): Ms. Serpentia Hackorypunk: in close competition with J. K. Rowling as Britain’s best-selling author after her debut novel, “Buttocks In Flames”, won ninety-five literary awards, sold over 5.9 million copies, and was heralded by The Guardian as “… a sick, degraded, wretched horror of a novel, and besides which, most of the things the people do in this book are impossible anyway.”

    Likes ponies. Really likes ponies. Recently broke up with Seamus O’Seamus, her lover of five years and the man voted as Ireland’s least eligible bachelor, after he complained to the press that she had broken his anal sphincter into at least three pieces.

    (far right, dreadlocks): Clarisse (nee Claude) Dubois, Britain’s best loved transsexual singer. Following a successful gender reassignment surgery, Clarisse launched a multi-platinum record career after achieving media fame for ripping out Victoria Beckham’s uterus and forcing her to eat her now disused genitals at a nightclub in Soho. In this picture, Ms. Dubois is wearing a pair of stockings dating back to at least 1440, and reportedly ejaculated into by a pubescent Charles II during the reign of James I. Reportedly dating Boy George.

    (bottom) Sir Tyler Reginald-Mountsworthy: tonight’s entertainment. But he doesn’t know it yet.

    — excerpt from “Who’s Who in Amoral Perversion”, 2005 Edition

    copyright Nicholas mad_and_crazy

    flesh and blood are 90 points water

    are watching
    Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

    Andrea is taking July SinCity as conquest for her birthday. Her army is to be the Pantheon.

    I am part of that army, as Eris Discordia.

    If anyone has any ideas as to where to find tiny golden apples…?

    Today I feel as if I’m procrastinating, though I can’t think of what I could be doing. My playlist is on random, my entire music folder shuffling back and forth between righteous piano and demo mixes for obscure bands that I feel sometimes like only I’ve heard of. It’s appropriate, somehow, melding well with the invariable sirens this neighborhood attracts, and it occurs to me on days like this, as I look out my window at blank rainy gray, to ponder if art is created more at night. Every painter I’ve ever lived with, every musician, all the illustrators I talk to on-line, they’re always up late at night, running themselves into the ground to finish something, to get that last detail just right. I imagine all the insomniacs creating beauty to fill up their time and their loneliness while the stars turn overhead.

    Which reminds me, Chris wrote me something. In an odd way we wrote it together, much of it being pieces of my conversation, though he’s the one who put all the words on screenpaper. I want to actually try writing with someone, but I haven’t the first idea as to how one would go about that. Megan is having a blogprov week in her journal, and I’m tempted to do the same, just to throw me back into writing things down. (I gave her show me on the doll where the internet touched you as a seed line.)

    Sunday afternoon is the Mad Hatters Tea Party. An event that I am continually trying to get involved with, only to be thwarted by life in general. Chaos raining down upon me as if I’m simply not fated to be an Alice In Wonderland Character. It’s at Trout Lake (15th and Victoria) from 1-4:30pm. I’m due at Jenn’s Last Sunday Tea in the morning and early afternoon, but this is where I’m going right after. (Come in Costume!) Sunday is also DriveFest, a neighborhood event where Commercial Drive is closed off for a few blocks. There’s going to be performers for hours and little kids wandering around with face-paint on. If we’re lucky, there will even be balloons. Commercial Drive is the only unified neighborhood in Vancouver, so this should be lots of fun. There’s been gentrification at work, but it’s still the artistic core of the city. (Come one, come all!)

    actually damned impressively me

    I went to bed with light in the sky. Then the phone rang. It’s still early morning, but I answer the phone. The Crown has dropped all charges laid against me.

    I’m free. No finger-printing, no crim charges. Dance Dance Immolation.

    Also, I’ve a job interview this evening at Dream Designs, a delightful interior decorating shop that’s only a few blocks from my house.

    This just might be the best news since a possible breach of contract was the only thing what marked my birthday.

    To celebrate, here’s a piece that Nicholas wrote that is pure Jhayne-mockery: Strawberry Sickness.

    Serves me right for letting these people into my house.

    I’m leaving pictures until Andrew returns from the East Coast. This has been a run of bad timing Saturdays, everyone’s been busy. It doesn’t help either that I’ve been too preoccupied with the ridiculous packets of stress that have been landing on me to kick anyone’s asses. Of late, there’s only been varying degrees of more and more.

    I still have to write my letter to Bill offering the baby cradle that’s taken up residence in my home.

    the trick is to convince yourself that you saw what you wanted to see

    the correct answer is (C)

    I’m waiting in harmony. Skinning my relationships down to ‘crave the flesh, crave the affection’, hasn’t been working. I’m still caught in the web of words and desires without boundary. Fingernails against the glass. He sat there, I sat here. It’s something to do, you know?

    He’d point me in the right direction but give me an extra turn so he could laugh later over his hourly shot at the bar. Last time we went in together, he held my hand, put his lips by my ear and whispered delicacies as he stole my key passwords. That he talked dirty later wasn’t enough of an apology. This time my fingers slip lower than he intended. I touch fine wires of hair. This time it’s a little war.

    I’m considering making PostSecret cards and plastering part of my wall with them. These white walls are nice for photography, but I’m feeling recently that I can’t get myself together enough for what I want. I used to make boxes, a few years ago. Black things, enameled like a carapace, that opened to red and the velvet taste of kisses. They were full of twisted silver, little jet beads and embroidered poetry. I made my last one for my ex, right before things went bad. It’s summertime, I’m thinking of starting up again, but I’ve given away my materials. If anyone has a cigar box, one of the old wood ones from Cuba, if you would be kind enough to drop it my way, that would be a kindness. I don’t know where to get them anymore.

    My neighbor called. I think she heard the screaming. I told her it was a lunatic outside yelling at a whore. It happens here. She was mollified and hung up the phone. This is my world, I thought. Tired from tying my lover down, he struggled more than thought he would, I only wanted to lie down and rest, but I couldn’t. He was still awake yet, and that would be rude.

    My toe-nails are still chipping red. I’m in lime green and black, dressed right for an old apple convention. My hair is a blood rainbow with black purple at the bottom cascading down from brightest gold. I can’t explain how appropriately dressed I feel for something that’s not happening. Every step I’ve taken today has been back to my computer, not toward anything.

    It edges against sacrilege as heavily as the skirts piled against her waist, she’s thinking. Arthur’s head is between her thighs, almost invisible in the gentle moonlight, and in spite of it, her mind is elsewhere. When her eyes roll back, it’s not he husband she sees, nor even her lover anymore. The attractive armor of the knights had grown dull, scratched by the daily wear of routine. After the most honourable light in the court became hers, it all lost lustre. There was no challenge anymore. She laughs to herself, “Who knew being Queen could be outre?”. So now she dreams of a boy she met in the forest. His vows are to be silent, to worship until the priest declares him one of the brotherhood. Instead, she goes to him and he screams for his thorned father to forgive him and he grinds her hips into the ground.

    Meet me by the water.

    I’m thinking of opening my skin for you. Starting at the back of my neck, under my hair, taking my fingers to the one hundred little buttons that run down my spine. Held together by childhood fears, they only look like shadow. This is my body, it’s made of memory. I will stand with you and we will be alone, static crackling like a television screen across the street of the space between us. The girl thinks this and asks him a riddle of no consequence, conscience laughing in innocence. She says, I won’t tell them you’re here, instead my eyes will carefully close like trapdoors, invisible to the audience with prying ideas.

    Now morning will die, taking with it the day, and my thoughts will turn to touch. It’s slightly inescapable. It’s asking, but memory smiles like it means it. My glance is softest gray iron, it only bends under the tips of your fingers.

    I’m thinking of opening my skin for you. Starting at the back of my neck, under my hair, taking my fingers to the one hundred little buttons that run down my spine. Held together by childhood fears, they only look like shadow. This is my body, it’s made of memory. Inside I am warm, sticky with candied intimacy like a candy apple with the most inviting red. My hands will lift my hair away. My elbows will raise to my sides and I will try to be deft and fail. You will have to help me when I reach the middle of my back. I wonder if you’re willing, if you dream of cinnamon dry lips as well.


    Does anyone in town have a tri-pod? I woke with a worm today nibbling in my mind, spelling out an Indonesian posture self-portrait set.

    Also, don’t type “lemonparty” into google and hit “I’m feeling lucky.”

    love like that

    Destroying her thoughts, he’s a virus ravaging her mind. Across her brain the chemicals shift, wanting turns to desire to need to pour from her lips in a long drawn out sigh. Her hands reach for him to pull him in, meeting nothing but her own flesh. He’s telling her he’s lifting her, a chalice for his lips to drink from.

    A vision of sweetest grace, she arches.

    He’s telling her everything she never thought to think of, never thought to want. Her nails biting into her shoulder, she can hear him breathing to match the bee-sting flicker of his tongue. It’s surrender, it’s naked, it’s every secret spilling from the most tender of lips.

    “Tell me now what you sound like”
    “My voice is soft like my skin”
    “Tell me now what you crave”
    “You, here, with me.”

    He takes her hair and threads it through his fingers, it’s silk, it’s sweet. If he closes his eyes, he’ll not see her words, but he can taste them now. Roll them on his tongue, she takes everything made of voice. She’s so beautiful, her fingers at her mouth make him quiver like a slick poison is taking over. It’s like his palace coming down. It’s like she lives beneath his skin.

    “Kiss me”

    And their fingers touch the glass.