I've fled and the ribbons tied to my wrists (wrung through my hair) have run too far behind my steps to choose a turning back now. Write if you're after me. This isn't to say I haven't loved you madly all during the tea party in the cellar, dank and stony towards the pit of our castle (turret top biscuits, sugar sprinkled scones and sips from ( Read more... )

    I've got to sleep. Cancer doorknock in the morning and the rims of my eyes are suffering enough under dark tracery already. I think I'm moving journals soon, but I don't know how to figure out who wants to come along and who'd rather I left them alone, so -- comment, or e-mail, or something to give me an idea?

    I never want to spill the sugar out onto the cafeteria table and lick it from fingers dipped in the taste of understanding. Why don't normal people always take each other back? Why do they maintain their rifts for years past the seven month notch? I keep frowning, squinting, looking as hard as I can, but I can't calculate it -- excluding ' ( Read more... )

crushed by the way that you cry

    (I'm wildly self-indulgent with the task of swallowing this heaped up teaspoon of deranged adoration I've been chewing on [it's bad, terrible]. A messy eater? Oh, yes, I am. I can't go anywhere. Food spillage is the risk to be faced, you see. I'm bound to spit the sugar out and spray the place ten times over as I talk.)

    Since I've been beaming entertainment for myself in on a mental satellite from the brain to the brain for half the night, I keep giggling: I've got the whole world boiled down into a shiny play dough pot placed to simmer over the stove, and, oh, it's a riot of sand pit slinging matches and fistfuls of pulled hair. We're little children running ( Read more... )

    Here I lean forward in a twist tie bend at the waist; here I let the world strike fault lines through my forehead. "I'm a terrible writer! I might as well die!" Swooning, wobbling dove hand flung back to face on crippled white finger wings, I push one cheek towards you as if purple grape flesh swelling is worth the ink in a cheque book stamp ( Read more... )

    Love to Mr. Lennon, always.

    It's still a note tacked to the water-logged swell of your door's wooden backing, a white slip of blue arrow lined sheeting dropped to plummet chest first on the furry fibres of your front mat, curling, dark letter leg flap (p's a tease!), at the edges with the wind's motherly prompt. Mrs. Gust On A Tuesday?: she pushes, flora pink apron twist ( Read more... )

    I think that there might be a wadded pile of bills, envelopes rippling into crumpled white insides, and smoothly, serenely green salad crunchy notes (somewhere under the crush, pressed neat to give the floorboards a caress) waiting for me tonight. Demanding, insistant, irritatingly sharp-toothed and yawning mouths are snapping tiny toothpaste ( Read more... )