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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm

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PostPosted: Thu Mar 01, 2018 11:49 am    Post subject: Narciso Reply with quote


Last edited by Millicent Grim on Thu Mar 01, 2018 12:50 pm; edited 2 times in total
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm

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PostPosted: Thu Mar 01, 2018 11:51 am    Post subject: Reply with quote


The touch of pen tip to paper releases a flooding wave of black, indigo children-- washed across the tea and sepia like rogue waves. Like a panther's paw running claws, obsidian and ebony poniards, through the hair-thread of pulped carbon and history. The kinetic (frenetic?) etchings seem happenstance and then I see the luminosity in the archetypes. The black ink swirls and spirals that bleed across the limitless possibility that is journal and notepad, crafting spinal landscape stories better shown than told as they raise and glisten and glower from the black towers and ancient scripts that seem to mesh together, one and the same, separated by neither time nor space on my page, at this moment, in this place. Ancient histories and litanies, pressing into my palm the smooth hand-warmed surface of my pen and the desire and ...malice aforethought mandatory for creation, consecration and sometimes recreation. The black paw of my thoughts as well as the sleek feline of my form run free and wild in both nascency across the page and in breathing and existing, form and electricity, in this quiet place of solitude and fresh air. Spring fills my lungs as the black shapes of the city condense into onyx butterfly wings and vibrating, space-black humming birds. Winged things leap and lurch into existence from my mind, leaving the page to fill the pretty green and sunshine with soft, mothlike memories who's tiny pelted, dusted wings drop rivulets of ink upon the ground, transmuting this warm spring day into black-gold images wrought from the journey of Fool and Magician in my soul... setting their first steps upon the ground. Chrysalis ideas that crawl with intention into being from the tiniest gesture upon the page, sprung from the black, wet womb of my mind. They glitter in the unsuspecting and innocent sunbeams -- neophytic and primordial, demon or demiurge. My thoughts made particle and wave, opinion and hubris. Looking for you. Looking for me. Hunting in glorious daylight as absence-of-light. Stalking and destroying. Defining and deliminating. Hungry but satiated by the mere act of their creation. Words like gods. Thoughts that are godless. Within limitless realms lies incorruptibility. We create and devour.
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm

Joined: 31 Aug 2016
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Can Be Found: The Sacrifice Club
5507.16 Silver Crowns


PostPosted: Thu Mar 01, 2018 12:12 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote


spaces between
the center of me
center of you
they don't have to be seen
but there's something in the spaces between

At least, I thought there to be.
Your words woke the hunters in me
They prowled to find
the ties that bind.
and as they kneeled
echoes revealed
there was nothing looking for me
just sounds, waves and territory.

This wilderness was built with mechanical procession
electric light of observations
years of
and fiction

But this sylvan conversation
is archetectural mastrubation
because the spaces between
are empty and clean
neat and pristine
nothing is not opportunity.

one you wont take
to bridge the gap
the spaces between
rarely seen
function and form
our emotional relatively
these places glitter with algorithms
work your magic
symbols and equations
I built electrical threads
selected, shining webs
connecting me to you
iconography and empathy

So I pluck out the heart strings
with surgeon's fingers
my razor nails, whetted and hewn
remove your diaphanous words
cacophony sigils of creation
snipping the sinews of caring and connection
disassemble at the joints
at the angles.
as dusk to forest paths.

hollow, ghostly echoes. phantasm.
that needed two breaths to breathe it life
...but you never exhale
And I've been waiting to breathe you in
open mouthed, vulnerable
a corridor straight to the core
I needed to spin my maps
feel connected.
cross the gaps
the spaces between

electrical strings,
pulsing, vestigial red
embryonic entanglement
the hunters of the paths...
recalled from their silvery tracts,
just in time to elude.
not fall to their deaths
in the empty spaces between.

they stand, now sentinels
new specters
veterans of our revelation
waiting for spooky action at a distance
that has the potential
to impart
to connect
To Architect;
for the spark and the fire of creation
of this revelation
in the spaces between
never seen
and blind cartography.
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm

Joined: 31 Aug 2016
Posts: 130
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Can Be Found: The Sacrifice Club
5507.16 Silver Crowns


PostPosted: Thu Mar 01, 2018 12:51 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Discussions in Red Intellectual Silk

Silken threads of discourse
left like trails
woven like armor
a tapestry
wound around and driven in with nails.

Dual natures entangling and ***
our sevles and engagement laws
with our mouths
with our skin
wet and warm; a binding clause.

Weaving words; lyrics of seduction
predator and pray
wearing our roles
shifting natures
which one for you today?
smoothing my skirts, high
my stocking'ed thigh
bearing garter and gun
petal-lips smirk
parted lips sigh

Wrapped up in the essence of us
pregnant silence and shadow
Desire like a blade
your leather and metal render
hunger in tow
the hiss of a belt
hipbones and svelt
master and slave
slick with possession
tasted and felt

Carrying our realms of personae
dark humor and individuality
macabre, painting with entrails
red and glistening
mercurial equifinality

Deep velvet colours of conversation
character is fate.
tasting our lush landscapes
golden leashes
tongue-tip tethers
Today I'll play the bait,
tomorrow I'll make you wait.
But of course, it's already too late,
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm

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5507.16 Silver Crowns


PostPosted: Thu Mar 01, 2018 2:14 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

from 2000

I hate it how you make me sad,
and how you make me lie.
I hate it how you make me weak,
and often cause me to tweak.
I hate how you knock me down,
and how you make me fall.
But the worst of this,
is that I don't hate you:
not a lot, not a little : NOT AT ALL
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm

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5507.16 Silver Crowns


PostPosted: Thu Mar 01, 2018 4:15 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote


I feel like I'm pinned open on a wax tablet, my sternum bisected and moths and butterflies and coleoptera flying out of me. I can't make them stop. My mouth hung open in a silent, cool, dead scream, just waiting for all these colourful, oily and glittery inhabitants to race out of me. I can't stand them in here.

I need to be hollow.

I feel hollow.

Made of wax and wood.

I want to scream until I can't exhale anymore.

Not so I can start all over again, but so I can finally know that it is done.


Full, numb, silence I can feel as a thrumming, pulse-ridden pressure behind my eyes.

Fill me with the smoke of emotions exheunt.
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm

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5507.16 Silver Crowns


PostPosted: Thu Mar 01, 2018 4:16 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote


Whenever he curls his fingers in my hair or around my neck I feel your name cotton-stuck on my tongue behind the inhale of breath or kittenish mewl. And it just makes my teeth sharper and my claws sink in, heavy with ownership and challenge. And when he growls, picking up the gauntlet, I hope our spooky action at a distance reverberates--our atomic Morse code-- the way it makes him take me. I hope it sparkles like dewdrops along our spiderwebs to your sensation organs that fire. On our personal channel you tuned me to. And I hope it hurts your throbbing heart.
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm

Joined: 31 Aug 2016
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Can Be Found: The Sacrifice Club
5507.16 Silver Crowns


PostPosted: Thu Mar 01, 2018 4:21 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Thanksgiving 2017

I lay my mouth against the back of my hand
imagining your tongue and lips intertwining with mine
Sent through space and telepathy
There with me.
and I'm trying to tell where the next piece of me goes.
Where we meet up in the distance
The light beams and dust motes
The pregnant silence
Puzzle pieces of flesh
Perfectly met.
The space between our chapters.
And I leave a kiss for you in the eddy of time
Like a letter on a desk or
A photo taped to a mirror
Kitschy keepsake
Heavy with heartache
Somewhere I know you'll look
Somewhere I know you'll smile
And you came into the room we share
The spare where we dance
Salsa and waltz
Your hunger wrapped around you like a cape
Night and shadow scape
The edges lapping and licking at your borders
The outline of you
A hunger artist
Scrawling saliva and ink on my heart
My eyes, my mouth
My pink parts.
A well of india ink spilled across my snow and ivory
That's been waiting here
Dreaming of your lips and fingertips
Smearing across my mouth
My shoulder blades.
My f***ing heart.

Last edited by Millicent Grim on Fri Mar 02, 2018 4:30 pm; edited 1 time in total
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm

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PostPosted: Thu Mar 01, 2018 4:23 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Wed, Apr 12, 2017 at 5:56 PM


Every single thing you do, blooms in me like plumes of coloured ink in a trough of icy water. The ripples of you coalesce and curl, spiraling like Fibonacci nightmares through my perfectly diamond waters. And through diffusion, the slightest drop of your most vibrant and most muted colours paints me red and cold and gold and gloom. The colours I fear the most are things of absence. Colours of grey and silence and latchkey empathy (a bright, shining colour that casts no shadow. selfish and lonely.) A true muse, your daggers of inspiration pierce and consume. Here I write of tempests of you. Storms you rage inside of me. Wet, cruel things that spin under my skin. Pour the dyed whirlpools upon a page and watch the marble maps display the labyrinths we walk with words. Ignorant of my shame and my reactionality. I hide the most vulnerable pieces of me. Because you've painted them pink and blue and bruise-violet. Kissing them awfully with "i think i miss you too much" and "I love you more than--"s. Writers are liars. Watch me spin and pirouette in the tempests. Ribbons from my heart snapping like hounds in the cacophony and perfectly logical chaos. Catch them in your fingers and press them to your lips as you pull.... peeling away armor, silk and skin. My precious order dashed like shards of glass. Just like you asked me. Or did you? I can't remember. And it wouldn't be so awful if you were here with me, whispering of "I'll never"s and "We'll always." Instead, you dip your fingertips in your own sea, swirling the colours into pain-flowers you smile at knowingly. Familiar. Enjoying the pigment storm you think I'll discover and flee from... When all I want is to shatter these walls and mix our troubled seas. Our storms. Our marble mazes. I forgot how to ask you to come with me.
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm

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PostPosted: Thu Mar 01, 2018 4:24 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Jun 29, 2017 at 9:47 PM

Nightmares in Psalm 23:5
(or "self-care")

The mercurial flash of reflected pixels in the mirror. Grey. A television tuned to a dead channel but jack-knife sharp, cutting the early morning hours in two. Bisecting the room between ornate hair brush and LCD screen. She sits. Habit and muscle memory. Self-care and worship. The deceptively soft white bristles sift like lovers' fingers through her raven-black hair. Disentangle. Divide. Organize. Deliniate. Divine. Her reflection in the vanity is just another image. Monochromatic chryselephantine sculpture. So many faces. So many reflections. The outline of her ethereal features flutter softly on glass. Two reflections - the mirror - silver. And the shadow box on the vanity (what a view)- an oil-slick of colours. The display is of butterflies and wolf spiders, coleoptera and hepialus humuli. Memories and keepsakes. Treasures and trash. She runs a soft, pale fingertip over the protective glass. Mimicking touch, intimacy and religion. The same fingertip that slid the needle in rejoices at the distance. A coup d'grace is for the living, but this barrier is as well. Not today. I wont take one of these out today (to touch the milk-soft petals, get the wing-dust on my skin). I rather pluck a new one from the candle flame. Oh to pin! To seek and to savor. To seduce and strangle. To define and destroy. A pink flush blooms on her lips, on her cheeks. A blush of life. All on her terms. Every single pin. Every tack. Every pose. I bring out the best in you. Tell me you know. Show me you know. She touches the pad of her finger to the flat of her tongue. Tasting a memory - dust and deja vu. Proustian tea. "What an abyss of uncertainty whenever the mind feels that some part of it has strayed beyond its own borders; when it, the seeker, is at once the dark region through which it must go seeking, where all its equipment will avail it nothing. Seek? More than that: create." Oh divine! Recursive, imprisoned self-discovery! Creating you for me. You. For me. A pulse of deeper red paints her flesh as her heart pushes heat and life through her porcelain skin. For me. But before I do. An aperitif. I must play the game of cups. The water and the abyss.

[ Deep at her center, emotions fill this cavern of delight and misery to the brim. Equilibrium. We dare not overflow. Never. Never! There is no vessel outside for us to mold and define, to catch and to contort. Chaos out there! Influence and terror! So we drain. controlled. We lick and savor each feeling from the wellspring of ourselves that can ever give forth (evermore!). We tend this sacred mystery until a cataclysm empties the fount and we retreat (without a trace) and envelope ourselves in our own cocoon. Re-mothing ourselves, never to emerge a butterfly. Why?! *** Why. So we play the game of waves. Watching the ripples in ourselves. Causing turbulent waters as we pull from the trough of ourselves, pour our tears down a drain, take exquisite, measured drafts that almost feel like abandon and sensuality. Sometimes sip of the elixir...our feelings liquid and silver - mercury is poison that eats memory. And we are expert haberdashers, changing our cover, our portrayal and our fashion as we please. A fashion thing to please you. A diadem of mystery. Delighted mad-hatter, an enigma as you please.

But always watching from the depths... (Never in the tea. Never in that jarring stare.) ... It watches from the bottom of that cavernous, subterranean lake, in the dark, beneath the liquid amaranth and asphodel... Peering through the waves. You glimpse it's reflection in your own when you peer in to execute your sacred rites. Its features quiver in your own like a fetch, like Truth and Identity. Oh what an Apocalypse when the waters run dry. Freeing that shadow thing. Evaporating its liquid bars and the sigils wrought so intricately on them. All your magician skills wrapped up in that seal of salvation. All of it shattered as it slaps a clawed, tenebrous hand against the slick stone walls - the sound of metal on stone (g-d make it stop) - scraping its way up from the grave you desperately want to contain it in. The shadows are coming. The creature is free. You tend it so long, spilling aquae vitae only on your own command. A game of power and control so exquisitely wrought because the ending is catastrophe and apocatastasis. You play Russian Roulette with the tides within you. The bullets are slick and black. ]

She shakes her head. Breaking the spell of fear and self-discovery. Cheeks flushed to the cotton candy glow of snow white and rose red - f***ing in the woods alone. There is the sound of metal on metal (how much sweeter that sound) - a tintinnabulation left like a threat in the air between enemies. An alarum. A sharp edge has extended from the gilded comb and it is pressed to her feminine wrist- that cold kiss like his lips on her throat, like his fingers pressed into her waist. When he can't help but-- When he needs it so bad he lets the needles in... And it's a calm, familiar bend of the wrist (delicate and wing-like) that begins the blood letting. The libation an enjoyment, like crying to Syrian children dying to nerve gas on the screen behind her. Like tears of quicksilver in the theatre in the dark. A relief. A ritual. On my terms. Not for me. Not for you. But because I have to. Because the viscera and mercury must flow. Because it demands it. Blood sacrifice. For life. It feels like life. And if I hold the blade... no one else can. I know every sound of every drop as it spatters on the glass case above those dead things. Trophies you feel like you are paying homage to. Things you fed to it and also protected from it... They could never have understood.... it only wants Me. And I wont let it have me. Let it eat insects of you.

Last edited by Millicent Grim on Fri Mar 02, 2018 4:32 pm; edited 1 time in total
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
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PostPosted: Thu Mar 01, 2018 4:27 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Exercise in Alternate Millicents.

Nihlava on the Ridge - 2012

Her hair was the colour of bleached bone as it snapped and snarled in the wind with the edges of her ebony cape. Though her back was to him, he knew she was clasping the black shard that hung from an albanum chain around her throat. Since The Keening it had begun to glow with an ethereal black and purple-blue blight, the colour of the n’sthae berry and its somnambulant dreaming poison. This black light licked at her hair and made it shimmer like shadows over hot sand. He did not like the new seething power the amulet seemed to emit, but she said it had told her to come here, and they did not regret baring witness to the destruction that had occurred. The grey, smoke-laden sky was tinged red by a sluggishly dawning sun. He had been told that the sky was a dull, lifeless blue in the lands of the Dyvnathvar. But this sky was truly hellish and reaked of magic, hellsbore and death. Her half-devil destrier pawed the ground with its obsidian hooves. He took it as delight and then saw the sword-edge of half mad fear in the horse’s eyes. He reached to place his hand on its flank but he could not look away from the hooves. Had they not been laced in smoke and embers since the beast was winnowed from the caves?

“Who lived here?”

He could barely hear her as the hot wind ripped the words from her mouth.

“I do not see a landmark I would trust, Tzadikim. The mountains to the East look ripped from the ground by … our island. And the scorched mist to the West seems to have been a sea or lake. See how the south island of the archipelago sits …broken and tumbling into the basin. I believe we have lost the mire caves to ruin.”

Her body stiffened, forcing the red dawn to crawl along the crevices and groves of her black armor. The gleam was gone from it since they walked out into this mortal world and the ceremonial metal looked like nothing more than the shells of molten scar beetles. He had the distinct and annoying urge to polish the curve of her epaulets.

“Guess,” she hissed.

“The burning skeleton of tower at the center of that city looks like the court of Ilmyr, seat of the Dyvanthvar Sin’lath”

“Hm,” it was the sound of a smirk, and this was confirmed as she turned to him. Her grey eyes were made more almond-shaped by delight. “Then there is no imminent threat. The humans are leagues away. It seems the cataclysm itself has won us some time to catch our baring. Bring me my brother. Bring me Sevranth.”

He shifted his weight to his heal and began to turn back the way they had come. The movement was barely started when the blinding column of fire erupted in the distance. Beyond the boiled sea the line of fire rose from earth to stars, ripping any of their glimmers from the early morning sky with the blazing fury of the fire column. The Tzadikim flung up her cowl and shielded what she could of her face without obscuring her view of the spectacle. For a brief moment they thought they saw a black spire on the horizon, the point of origin. It flickered, roiled, disappeared in flames and then the entirety of column and castle disappeared. The next island of the archipelago crashed into the mortal world, tearing itself into existence and obliterating all that it took the place of. They looked away, a moment of fear as they expected a shock wave of sound, or heat, or pure magic to wash over them. She leaned into the black fur of her steed, its body between her and The Keening.

The destruction did not come. Grimlav stamped the ground.

“I will get him myself.”


“I’m in no mood for your familiarities.”


“That is not what I was referring to.”

“..I see.” But he did not refrain from his comment. “It may not be over, Tzadikim. We should see to the city. They will think we meant to destroy the Sin’lath, even the humans know what we think of them. They will think we will go to war.”

As she mounted Grimlav, she pulled the reign sharply and he had to twist away to avoid the huge beast from coming down upon him. “And what makes you think we will not?” All this time she had still been holding the amulet in one articulated gauntlet. Only now did she release it to grab the reigns with both hands and spur the destrier into a canter.

He licked his lips. They were cracked already from the soot and hot air.

He did not move until the final island of the archipelago slammed into the mortal lands. In his heart and his soul he heard the screams of ten thousand lives ripped from the balance. And he could not help but wonder if all of heaven and Ba’alrethsha would fall into the mortal coil.

Fall, and then what?

Grimlav left no cinders in its wake. His black hair was neither fire, smoke, nor flame.

What else would be lost?

“Sevranth will know,” he comforted himself.
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm

Joined: 31 Aug 2016
Posts: 130
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Can Be Found: The Sacrifice Club
5507.16 Silver Crowns


PostPosted: Thu Mar 01, 2018 4:29 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote


the scent of electricity over my cheek bones and nose
webs of tangled light threading through the air
i swear i can smell it before it catches hold of me
it begins as inky fingers, unfolding from the ancient flower in my chest.
magnolias and coleoptera creating their own opera.
stubborn or eternal. maybe both.

...oh well. can't write anymore. not alone.
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm

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Can Be Found: The Sacrifice Club
5507.16 Silver Crowns


PostPosted: Thu Mar 01, 2018 4:31 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote


Time slices sideways
not end wise
or right ways
incongruent highways
misconstrued byways
synaptic entrapment maze
neurotransmitter causeways
causality haze
what memory says
about word plays
intention frays
the linear decays
perception lies
half-life denies
human thrives
time dies
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm

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PostPosted: Thu Mar 01, 2018 4:31 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote


[ A muscle spasm ]
Syndicated pornography,
that's all it'll ever be.
Polished down for the investors,
"Hmm, where the blazes did you get her?"
Lack luster implications,
blacked out eyes, lips and indications.

Shot gun blast, inaccurate frenetic
severing any gut reaction from genetic.
Questioning the meaning of the art,
filed down and ham stringed from the start.
"I can't bloody paint with this...
...drabby eyes and parted fish lips.
Someone get me something fresh.
I'm trying to expose love in the flesh."

She doesn't much appear to have meaning,
we're too obsessed with skin to be gleaning,
anything similar between her actions,
and our lofty, pure and perfect factions.
There's nothing that needs to be said,
if it merely moves us, and wakes our dead.
There's certainly nothing noble about vulgarity,
"Just because I react to her does not bely sincerity."
I rather keep myself from prying eyes,
than continue to be victimized by this disguise.

This ugly little experiment disclosure,
has backfired soot, ashes, and my composure.
Let's revoke the tickets and put out the press.
I've a headache and much duress.
This little game of truth and lies,
and my rather unwilling compromise,
has left me feeling naked and unfavored.
I'll take my paints and pain, savored.
And put this little test behind me.
And edit my words, contentedly.
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm

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PostPosted: Thu Mar 01, 2018 4:33 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

[alone the lioness: ] (2003-08-09 20:44)

i am a shadowcat, black of heart, black of paw, black of claw. gently purging all inky olfactory notions. conceptualizing the loss of poets in this meager mechanical time share. i imbibe the drink of a thousand years, ten thousand felines and jade loon crimes. there is something mad in depthless obfuscation. subterfuge and the wrap of smoke before the kiss of brow. pour me out like an invasion and cast your ballet votes now or never. light as a feather. i sink teeth down streets, walking rat-tat-tat through the alley way. alley cat. i am panegyric pantomime. panoramic habitat. already guilty already multiple. with all the makings of a red letter suicide. with my eyes at your back, with my tongue to tell the time. pelt or petticoats lost around corners, silken streamers leaving pennies for your plunder. play my vertebrae like the sullen cello, till your strings reach my stalking shoulder-blades and snap with itchy papyri cuts. i’m so tangible you need a hundred hands just to find the solidity of my hips. meet me with remonstrance, half past ten and on the verge of midnight phone calls. ruminating halls as supercilious indifference. i’ll capture the animals in your eyes and redefine them as chemical covalence.

Last edited by Millicent Grim on Fri Mar 02, 2018 4:32 pm; edited 1 time in total
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Young Wyrm
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PostPosted: Thu Mar 01, 2018 4:33 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote


She was always three.
Turning, burning inside of me
Hopes and fears, anger, need
She saw what I wanted, saw me bleed.
Iron nails bided and bound their ties.
Dove down hair and dewy eyes.
Timeless motions, and hands that soothed
Sweetest of smiles as she moved.
Rolled onto me.
Suffocated me.
Kissed me with silken lips of night,
Touches that stole my breath and bite.
Suffering apart, writhing when separated.
Lull me, take me, some are fated.
Please make the stars come out
Opening colours along the moon-misted route.
She showed me to be what they wanted.
A cloak, a mask, whispered and taunted.
Lingering fingers slid the dagger into my hands.
Feed them, teach them of my lands.
Smother them with honeyed memories
She raised the blade as they teased.
Whispers of ’welcome’ and ’do come in’.
’Show us that space deep within.
Show us that place only I can fill.
Tell us the Wait you’ve been waiting until
’They’ will not hurt you before you ask.
We will not take what’s hardly a task.’
They touched her.
They filled her.
The last milky drop wavered upon the brim.
The small waves causing motion within
Unrest in that which filled her ’space’.
She roared, she clawed, she screamed of taste.
And ripping the chalice from their hands
Ripping from their eyes the star speckled bands,
Tearing into the waters that filled them,
A thorn peirced the roses own stem.
They smiled, and horror turned her to stone.
Gasping, the sand of dreams alone.
Sleep slid under such unrest,
Shifting places of wanting, needing and best.
The raking monster withinme then,
Something deep in the hearts of men,
Turned and burned with her dumbstruck skin.
I let her out, but now she’s in.
It’s what you’ve always wanted.
But it’s just where I begin.
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm

Joined: 31 Aug 2016
Posts: 130
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Can Be Found: The Sacrifice Club
5507.16 Silver Crowns


PostPosted: Thu Mar 01, 2018 4:37 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote


she’s been crushed till relatively sensitive,
muse back’s broken, yellin’ in the imperative
’get me the f*** out of here, f***er”
is quite the way i heard her mutter.
got me a pocket full of free-form contemplative.
there’s a nervous system riot on the go
running straight down the lace work spinal vertigo.
sparks are flying from the section down,
singing songs of how all the *** sweetly drowns
cells making a class A piece, inspiration overthrow.
Hum my baby to sleep because she’s been around.
can’t quite catch ’em any other way, I’ve found.
melody, prose: that’s quite sensible for their sake.
not turning back, 8 more left to tenderly break.
scream all you want, sweetheart. It’s only sound.
i’ll kill you right, make art out of the neural nets
pin you down pretty, f***ing you in sonorous couplets
ain’t that the way you like it, baby?
’shoot me you lousy writer’ Maybe.
a few sisters left. meat and taught wire in the organic garouttes

Last edited by Millicent Grim on Fri Mar 02, 2018 4:34 pm; edited 1 time in total
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm

Joined: 31 Aug 2016
Posts: 130
See this user's pet
Can Be Found: The Sacrifice Club
5507.16 Silver Crowns


PostPosted: Thu Mar 01, 2018 4:39 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote


organic thesis of the chemical makeup & imbalances of one I.A.S.. soul negotiable/negligible under the strictest terms of
cynicism and nihilism. existential-bio-toxin administered upon birth by request of the second X donor and self-deception
of the first. extraordinary creative component spinal tapped early after conception. allergic remission/rejection of these
recessive gene overlays was noticeable within nano-seconds. micropore self-deprecation immune inhibitor assimilated
what was left over (1.7 GHz) but immune system response may be cancerous and terminal within one to two decades. for
further monitoring, circuitry layover of spinal landscape has been grafted and accepted, but has created minor damage
to humanistic response, compromising emotions and social skills. however, therapy and hermitism have brought about
fraternization with limited but influential other-bodies. contagion is high, but beneficial to the species. awaiting
termination request [pre-accepted by auto-unamusement relay].

a child of literature. a child of music. sometimes the night just sings of prettier things, wrapped up in vines and
oroborus. she was mercury-kissed and razor bled. siren and sylph, serpent and sidhe, angel and mermaid. lamia and vampire.
a victim to the whims of the Romantics and an arrow head in Achilles’ heel. she listened to the undertow of it all, pairing it
like fingers with her sea-secrets (hidden in her deepest reaches). - all the better to devour you - wilde white hair and witche’s
eyes, kissed at their corners by torn off wings. a poet, a painter, a musician, a writer, a murderer, a Humanist. Existentialism,
please Yet, an antiquarian lay buried in here somewhere. Hypnotized by cathedrals and cemeteries, by the sea and the sky.
a cigarette in an obsidian holder, and a smirk and a sneer before the night is over. i have a thousand and one stories to tell.

winter lights 1:29pm

discord, servitude,
misery in empty sea
over-analyzing intuition
and absent disregard of destiny
lack of direction
embrace my inclination to be
a human in spite of my
spinal circuitry.
with child wonder and
endless empathy. inertia-stand-still
sick and smoldering. like
wisps of smoke above the
trees. city-scape looking for
me. where there hopes decide
when to set them free,
i stand upon their shore,
codifying their wild tide.
watching grey become the sea,
like the mention of witchery and
t.v. parody. static-scape, changing
beyond the construction of pointless
edges. When i see the cohabitation
and marvel at their naivety.
Do they invite me for profundity?
do they hope to ride my electricity?
so they say this earth is grey. but i
see density conveyed.

vocabulary: solitaire 13:36pm

a black jack voice,
long gambler’s fingers
riding the air like
the ace of spades.
the thoughts are green,
felt in seismic waves.
tectonic plates shuffled
with the syllables of
the game. black and
white eyes, unreadable but
heavy with play. I
am without a doubt
that he’s lost the
game; and thumbs
my unbent edges just
to touch my hand.

customer’s receipt 1:44pm

customer’s receipt.
stitched out in an
appalling sigh. I
watched the exhale
coil like smoke on
my skin. leaving
a silver snail trail
of your tour de force.
so you’ve spent your
gender’s reserves
and back burned
into the way we
die. blessing
be that, last
strike of grace.
if that’s all you
have then we’re
at mutual mercy.
– i’ve been running
on empty.

[untitled] (2001-10-14 18:01)

interior annihilation something second to the thrift-store philosophy i’m throwing out the side window of my will-o’-the-whisp ride. taking the light to the end of whatever horrible path i’ve chosen. a mystery with a black hole-sun. shadow happy, that’s all i can be right now. because temporality has taken my entropy and carved it into some glass artistry set to crash at the count down to termination. that it? that all I have now? magma’s building up and starting to set this violent coruscation to my mid-life eyes. mid-life you ask? absolutely, been on this journey for six years now and the rest of the twenty-one were just seats for denial. that’s right, denial. gonna be a rock star, crash and burn with a needle in my arm. who ever said that wasn’t for me? three-penny mozart hiding from the people who can read this just as surely as those who don’t even know this exists. i have a couple in my head, and i’m in love with a fiction-boy. hell, why not make it two or three of them. so what if one i can touch and taste just like any other drop of blood coming out of me. i need somewhere else to go, before i go head long into the end of the show, and get swallowed up by the infinities i’ve seen with my own f***ing eyes.

[comechildrenofEden,praytome] (2001-11-04 14:11)

just spiraling forward. not really down or out, just away. farther and farther. spread out, spread thin, dissolving and dissipating through ether and logos. falling apart like an equation gone negative-material. implosion. like binary had nothing to do with the reality from the beginning. who ever thought they could put us down in a text box or in symbols that are nothing like the real thing. shatter. break. F***. STOP. SCREAM. PLUMMIT. DIE. you have no idea what i mean. my context is mindf***ed. slurred like the repetition of the letter is. nothing like the wall in my head. the filter, the gimlet-eyed creature that says life is right, death is left. hang a hook and meat you on the other side. yes, meat. because that’s all there is and you better be happy with the time you have. humanity is sobbing in my ears, and i gave the cold b**ch a good roll-over so she learned how to take it like everyone else has. she left eyeliner on my pillow, it smells like lilac and the way she said ’harder’. i used to sell laudanum for fun, never telling the sorry princesses the right dose. sleep for ever, what the f***’s the difference? what i need next is the appropriate weapon, everyone understands a sharp edge. that is what i want to find, my next mode of communication. carve it in, scream to the Judgement that will never scar-tissue on my skin. and yet in all the ferocity, i have lost my inertia. i am still, and more silent than before. chaos has so surrounded me, i feel it humming in the air. i feel it making me sick, corroding the contagion of... mdma made breathing so much easier. i can negate myself. i am.

[dissipate] (2001-11-17 20:2Cool Music: placebo - pure morning

i put my chin in my hands, pressing my palms and fingers to the soft filigree of my eyelashes and skin. just pressing hard enough it feels like a yawn or a stretch, some relief from this chemical taste i have in my mouth from what must have been days ago because i thought it had been a while. days and nights and minutes and mornings just going by, not ever getting somewhere, just going forward, no place to pull over, it’s like that bridge to the keys. somethings stuck in my throat, and though it feels like something brought in by a person gone somnambulant, i just don’t see how that could be. i had a dream last night, they sewed wings into my back finally, and they were black and his were white. i don’t know why my mind chose him, i barely know him, but they had to make the white wings longer because he’s so tall. i remember him saying ’ever since they knew about it they’ve always wanted to fly here’ so we fell under the tarps of tradition and went straight to Olympus. I can still feel the marble under my fingertips, the greecian accolade, and coming down, down, down... soft until it became a mystery story, someone putting their hand over my mouth and holding me for ransom. they wanted the wings, that’s all, and i don’t know how they were white now, but they were and they wanted to tear them off... they wanted to give them to someone else. he went looking for me, he never found me. and in my dreams i dreamt of going fishing with my great uncle and an indian shaman from ancestors back in my father’s line. i was wading in the cool, clean water of a stream, unwet, uncold, asked to do something impossible, and i could never remember if i caught anything, but the point was the processes, not the end. and so i’m sitting here, exhaling into my hands. closing my eyes, letting oxygen touch every cell in my avioli. i try to catch hold of what i am thinking, and its that silence again. as much my decomposition as my composition. as much my destruction as my integrity. i am still, there is no psychic wind through my hair. there is no tension in my sinews and smooth muscle. i am as silent as a cypress, and as timeless as smoke. i am. and yet i am diffusion.

[autobiography] (2001-12-03 21:59)

eating Coffee with a fork
twenty minutes left till i’m gone.
got something nauseus in the back of my throat
tastes like the cigarettes I got addicted to when i was 16
never really had the character of an addict, i’m a quitter when the going gets too easy
f***ing sixteen years old, acid tabs in a hippy field
f***ing ground looks like lizards, cloaked like the Predator
wont touch that again till i’m with someone i love,
dualing it out on the side of the Mississippi after finding Jackson Square closes at dark.
chasing a dream, he has porcelain pores and looks right into my eyes.
he’s all scar tissue, but it’s a beautiful thing, the pitch of his hair, the way he says ’thank you’
she didn’t cut her hair, it was all tricks. and you haven’t met anyone till you’ve met his landlord.
cutting up some lines so in three hours i will know what hundreds of dollars taste like
tempted to change my ways just because someone told my truths better than me.
lying in a bed, bleeding from the first time.... wondering what in the world i did, and why i don’t want to wake him.
a kiss on the beach, full mood tiding, the way he put his hand on the fishnet of my thigh even though he had to down shift.
the way he played that honest game, and that’s what mattered not his arrogance
the way he says i always look angry, and i told him maybe its because i am
the reason he brought her over, even though he knew i’d f*** him whether i met her or not
knowing that my best friend will wake up, and he really didn’t care as long as i did it right.
the way he saved the moments to make me ask, not for Dream... for Destiny.
the way i got mad when she kissed him, in the same bed, and i put on my clothes and left
drop me off first, i don’t want to be in this car anymore.
the things i should have said. the letters i never sent.
watching sunrise come over the hill, goldschlogger, roof climbing and ritalin
yellow lines, an offer that i could so simply refuse.
a gun in my face, the truth the only thing that’s saving me.
feeling like my skin did not end, and that we all felt the same song, desperation and solitude.
i can’t remember the last time you had your head in my lap.
about to go out, but i’m just going to let him dye my hair green till my father picks me up
that night, walking through three towns, watching the leaves turn to me and tell me they’re alive.
the truth of inertia, my body walking out of the fountain at 45 degrees, reduced to wondering if you’re ok.
telling you i didn’t care, never did, and didn’t want to change anything... you hated me because i meant it.
your clumbsy hand up my shirt, sick and precious outside once they stopped watching
the way you kept turning around, as if to tell me it was my turn, speak...speak... and now you’re gone.
that shy smile you had... till i let you hide in your headphones again.
writing this right now, wanting a cigarette after days and feeling sick to my skin
the way your fingers brushed my hands, while handing me Brahms
the way your painted nails slid across my wrist, laying some coins in my hand.
the way it felt to just lay there and breathe, like the snake swallowing nothing but me...
the day i felt hot tears on my cheek, and how simulated sea could drive the brine out of me.
spending sleepless nights, killing our childhood with politics and fantasy
the way you laughed, how perfectly sarcastic, i loved the way you made me hang up on you.
it’s ok if you want to talk music to me...i could listen forever, as long as i heard those heart strings pulling you away from me.
the way you turned your lips away when i asked, until you found mine yourself (i’ll never know why)
taking a shower, washing you away and out of me.
telling you i love you, and knowing i didn’t know what i meant
saying i love you, and knowing i was lying.
speaking of my mother and almost crying
facing one way out of the back window, listening to my sister cry as she framed the world through her own side of car.
wondering if the last thing you remembered was me pushing you out of my way
carying you when you couldn’t walk, saying a last good bye.
growing up somewhere else, again and again and again.
realizing it’s ok and that we never needed each other anyway.
hearing you cry on the phone, and wondering what someone else would say
hearing him tell me his life, longer than any of us know.
showing me the scars on your arm after wondering if anyone was going to walk in.
and nobody did.

[crashed car] (2001-12-09 18:30) Music: just the bang an the clatter as an angel hits the ground

and the night is running low in the bottle. ivy trip traipsing tarry things into my veins. open and yawning for something less solid and something more ephemeral. gossamar. will-o’-the-whisp. leading me like a mildew light, decaying under the hypnotic swamp song of the every day. dark matter running its negative course on the undersides of my androgyne-exposition. unmarked, everything. iamall. white matter under the skin exposes itself to the taunting of a sharp edge, they say special K makes you drunk and sleepy, but all it does is postpone my sobriety. my consistency. my inertia towards the raging force of sweet, sweet, humble gravity. humble just like me, because it warned you it would never cease to commit you to its whim. forewarned is not always forearmed, didn’t Neil tell you that? i can’t smell the sunlight anymore. she must have closed her golden legs and left night to usurp her noble face. an enormous, empty bitch holding her mouth closed with her sweaty palm pressed to the point of indentation and infatuation. sum of all these parts. sum of all these problems. at least i’m f***ing consistent. at least you’ve never asked the right questions to save your own masochistic tendencies. it’s all right. we can pretend i haven’t come to the conclusion that i do not move forward till i know all conclusion’s end. one huge advance forwards, a shift of every single portion of my great expanding mass. a plane shift, a flux of chaos-life. a flutter of my edges like the lace beneath an victorian cup of tea, a king’s great hand, the last place a mother remembered f***ing wasn’t what it’s all cracked up to be. that we never said yes. that all we want is to be wanted. fed that black IV. ichor:rich. retro-cell-memory. i am in retrograde. waiting for the full moment of my passing.

[virus] (2001-12-24 14:36)

the wolves are in the walls again. howling slowly till their cell-variations inside of me resonate to their parable potential. ’and it all comes bleeding out of me, just like the waterfall i’m drowning in’ mmm, yes, oh so sick I am. they’ve left their virus-marks and injected their last contagions, hoping the body has given in. crushed. smoldering mold-smoke into the open air of the rainy, snowless day. hollow me out. howl me out. the ridges of my spine are pressing through the skin, microchaotic misanthropy. mindf***ed so the body comes along, sets out its proboscis, its feelers, the thousand jewel jems of my eyes. metamorphosis without a place to hide. baring the ugliness like adam’s second wife. equally thrown out of the garden because the grim truth, the body made of blood, spit, fluid, sex. an ugliness it takes a demon to appreciate. immortal and unafraid. like the remarkable, feats of unnatural nature that brought me here to begin with. impaled upon a memory. cells remembering. listening to the kin beyond the barriers. blur my definition. destroy my distinction. come in, come in, take me home. dissolve me into cell memory where we all began.

[pistonengine] (2001-12-27 11:40)

The day dawns, i wake closer to the morning than i would have anticipated. in fact, it makes me wonder what it was that compelled me to wake. Only a few hours sleep, and though there’s a faint hint of alcohol in my veins I know our story has made me tired. our creation has sapped me and yet thrills me to finish. perhaps it is expectation, that cruel joke of hope that hides under the surface of everything. the card to pass ’go’ in a wizard’s duel with the demon of life. Avirice. I feel remotely over, and yet still aspects have not even begun. will i run out of things as the other start to drip thin. is that what the human experience is? just different measure of chemicals spilling out into oblivion? different rates and measures, and yes you could end up with nothing of sum in the end, and too much of others. the system so sensitive that all variation is possible. adjust my valves. i’ve been doing it since the beginning, as if trying to jump start some secret collection of code. a rythem worthy of living. continuing, finishing. but unfair in that it’s all here to begin with, do i want the solution homogeneous, saving the best for the end? or heterogeneous, someone satisfied throughout life, and yet always waiting for something that never comes? I am tired. I am somehow not running on the same frequency. I have with me a taste that will not go away, i have not found the solution that has stained the whole with a layer of incomprehensibility, non-coherent. the smooth lines of communication are blurred. and i must remain in seclusion until i can work on the same wavelength. for as ultraviolet descends into our spectrum, she becomes a
beautiful, beautiful blue.

Last edited by Millicent Grim on Fri Mar 02, 2018 5:02 pm; edited 2 times in total
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm

Joined: 31 Aug 2016
Posts: 130
See this user's pet
Can Be Found: The Sacrifice Club
5507.16 Silver Crowns


PostPosted: Thu Mar 01, 2018 6:17 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote


[simile] (2002-01-04 17:07)

i have dissipated. stretched out. put spaces between my senses and the chakra at my center. the flower of life has run rampant through my sacred geomatry. pressing spiral codes into the strands of my dna before i ever had a chance. you have years ahead of me, they say it took my life time to explain the genome i have yet to manifest. and yet... and yet... and yet i have been expressing it this entire time. i am so confused. so confused. i am spreading thin and i am aware of my definition. my end points. the mathmatics of my twining, falling, plunging, drowning spiral. but as i realize the perfect circle, the repetition of these equalateral shapes and promises, the pattern comes to me. i can see everything, all event horizans. i can feel from empty sea to empty sea. the silt from the riverbed runs through my fingers, and as i listen it creates a pattern. it has to. and it resonnates. hums a perfect recreation of this double helix. i have spread myself thin, ran like H20 to achieve the balance of osmosis. is this stagnation? is it possible to understand? or will i spend the entirity of this life standing still, learning the secret that chaos is stagnation. that will is the road that has ever end at it’s end. force of nature, act of g-d. Damn, that Elvish boy had a cute ass.

[my gift is my song] (2002-01-25 09:48) Music: moulin rouge soundtrack

it slowly makes a path through the landscapes of my skin. it slowly cleaves animal from the machine of generations. what can be salvaged here? a little shy, quite always terrible, this great impossible she. impossible and grand, crowned with a thousand eyes and pleading omniscence and destiny. there has been a wonderful misconception, the line going from heritage stagnant to a mad absinthe green. glowing toxic and worth a notable fiend. the record skips and she is seen in a million of her guises, and yet there is no limit to her temperal mechinations. yes, fools and kings have walked the road. and fallen supine and docile from the curves, the parts that would be flesh pink no matter how many times the shell response was cast. winding, the smoke making spiral-scopes of the eyes, buried in the foundations of lashes that have lost their thick, their impossibility, their sheer number, their desire to close and remain closed. you are the Humbler. but another slowly stalks, gimlet eyed and as merciful as the murderer. waiting to find the impersonation on the path. ”i am truth” it says as it arms itself with a smile, very far, very far from home. it leaves nothing behind it, perhaps just a partial memory of its passing. perhaps a scratch or sloughed off thought. but it meets her on the road, tells her how cruel she is, how she dissipates all that lies behind. all that can not shine half as bright nor half as wonderful as she. why do we come at odds she wonders. and in the end, as the lost-ichor that spills from her seams, filled up with herself, the answer runs itself clear in mini-rivolets in the snow. ”because you are love, my dear.” a eulogy fit for no other queen of the damned.

[shrouding every sound around me] (2002-02-08 11:59)

The layer of staticheat that had become my skin in dreams tonight– has washed away to i know not where. It still lingers in a singing sensation, or perhaps those are the ends of neural nets i have exhausted of their poison. my body is calloused over, housed in a magnetic layer of it’s own making, keeping all the world of touch and love outside of me for temporal moments I expect but do not hold my breath. there is a numb filter between my returning senses and this place i sit, this floor beneath me, these keys under my fingers. i have not yet fallen back into the habit of knowing them and understanding them as anything more than objects in a picture frame. you could tell me i was two dimensional today, and I would believe you. I would know the tearing and pressing of my planes into this field of vision and nothing more. I have resided here for hours, I am dirty, I taste old cigarettes after I had quit for months. this was not cheating or lack of forethought, merely an allowance. I have vices more valuable, vulnerable and wretched then even that smoke in my mouth. and last night it spoke to me, filling every membrane sack in my lungs, transporting Eden to the center of my body. at peace with myself. my flesh and my anguish. i can’t help but select the sounds that come through this filter of my mind. Someone has lain a fine sheet over me, but not as it was last night (not in that celebration of rug, and wind!) but in a shroud. A buffer. The edges of my world are working back to one. I am stunted, shortening, being disentangled with the world I knew for those hours. Oh, welcome me back. Welcome me back with open arms and show me that I have it all here as well. Because this travel, this time, this may be my good-bye. And how I will miss my senses, and how they dug like the roots of cypress, far, far into the flesh of reality. Staticreal. whitenoise. fade to the shade of grey, for white was truly ’many colours’.

[hover] (2002-02-13 19:05)

The observatory of the civil. Perched in a place of perpetual abandon and dislocation, her dry knees flake a slough of exoskeleton to the parched earth beneath. The sediment of kingdoms to come is washed up there in a layer pushed up to the roots of her stem– cracked like the back of a wicked man’s hand. Collected upon this dusty shore lay husks of mechanical probabilities. Machines of kindly regard. Socket-eyes staring out, empty and prayed upon. Sisters and dubious brothers of the coleoptera in us all. My fifth leg grates its locust croon. The fiberoptic mysteries of my wings cut the horizon into a slash of oil-slick colours. I am gear-thick and flesh-sick. I turn the tides of the ground, burrying the faces of future evolution as the fingers of dust pull back from my stalk. For one instant the surface of the world is a sepia grimace, a chaotic misinterpretation. Yet it knows full well that I must land again sometime. And its ageless waves will soon wash over my steel-reject form. Clutter-happy. Impossibly inevitable. when the silence leaves only static what do you do?

[umbilical residue keeping me from killing you] (2002-02-22 15:55)

The room is cleaned out, cleared from the last trail of your passing. I wonder if it really was all in my head this time. Or if i do see you sitting sitting amongst all that slate, or imagining the way you breathed when we shared a bed together. I have my people mixed up, my fantasy trying to redefine the way things were and all everyone could have been. There is nothing left but the residue of you, that thin slick that caused all to slip and fall after you had left. I feel magnetized, pushing and pulling everyone around me. Coated in your idealism. Come. Leave. Come. Leave. I have no tolerance left for things i can not use, dissect, assimilate and upgrade my ability to not mourn their passing. Ah, except yours. But who were you again? Were you him, sitting there waiting for me to say something. Or was it you, putting your hand on my knee, driving me from a midnight beach. As an idol of ours said so skillfully. ”oh well... i don’t mind”. The closer and the farther i am from you, the more i believe this. But will the next one? I have become unattainable and nearly unapproachable, so once what was a catalyst for evolution has now become a stagnant thing. Far too stuck in a state of absolute zero for anyone to warm themselves against. I can recall someone raising their hand, and saying ’ are far too intense’. I am too serious. I have left all possible consequences become far too analyzed. I find myself on repeat at a frequency that knows little more than disappointment. But why force myself to look down. It’s far more dangerous to fly. My life is here. Now. I know this, but it will become what i make of it. And what i will make of it will be better than what i have made of it. You are no longer my standard for breathing. Empty sea becomes breathing sea. Willfully, and wrapped in a mist of old siren songs. Come to shore, sweetheart. We are waiting.

Here i am expecting just a little too much from the wounded. –APC

[Metaphysical Physical] (2002-03-24 17:45)

The bed of nail beneath the surgical glove forms a neatly open mouth, collecting in it the ashes and scabs of victim and confidant. They are two, twin lines like the space between an hourglass or roads that will never meet. Yet they do: The ridge of nail hanging just over the powdered flesh of fingertip is smooth, gentle. Round which in our vernacular of body means warm and liquid. The slope bends planes ninety degrees in such a beautiful arch. Just like gentle, silk-like words of a friend or the tones of a piano far away in a fog. These are sounds-eternal, the lick of an echo shape and the physicality of affection. A place where there could have easily been a claw or the finger aligned with a scalpel head. Round could have been Sharp. Sharpness is the fork of a tongue, the curt, clipped word of an ending snipped with phonetic-scissors through a sentence-thread. But a glance can be sharp too, gimlet eyes honing in with laser lights, just as hazardous as that middle letter humming through the air. And then there are the valleys, the ups and downs, the sweep of synthetics over the fingers, separated by barely enough soft to stop the sweat from melding the substances together. The grip they form can be harmful or delicate. The touch can waylay anything from vivisection to transplant. Whichever is your reason to splay yourself out all you shall do is map yourself in the reds that will be thrown on the table like cards. A game of Ace-High. And all this was a piece of disjoint ugliness from the poker table of one surgeon to the next.

[chromatics] (2002-03-26 21:52)

I feel removed and separate, idle and empty, but you were so loud, and you sure could yell. Screaming at my inconsistency even as I tried to tear it from the cellophane and apply it to your cheeks and lashes: prettying us up so we could be paired together. Talons or fingertips, I care not. Mutual masturbatory excuses and metaphorical metamorphosis. Neither of us catching up to the other but greeting at some dissected middle. I feel mechanical and yet there is a mystery in our connectivity that I cannot nullify or insist upon forgetting. That would be a tender lie. There is a cold logic locked between the liquid tendons and wire-eyes. But I do not feel as though it is nameless or soulless. For labeling us as lacking definition we label ourselves a thousand fold. Baring our cold, glass veins and the ichor-junk that pushes through them. Cold and wild. You are not the sum of the parts that they have left you. Your soul function is not to map out my mistakes in G-C A-T pairs. Spinal staircase has beginning and end, and if they are one and the same (snake devouring its own tail) then that is the definition of this journey and you must forgive it it’s identity before it strikes you down. You mean more to me then a cartographer or cartouche. And if I must show you this by spilling you slowly down the blue-crevices of my veins then I will do it gladly. We shall destroy eachother with our rules of humanity, and become greater than this empty sea of sleep walkers and chiaroscuro somnambulation.

[i do not write poetry for people any more. but i have broken my own rule. Second half of first line Maynard-inspired. The theivery itself is symbolic/symbiotic]

[How many ways can you suffocate] (2002-03-28 18:22) - vulnerable - funny lip shape -

Hooked up to technology |with wires| synthetic wrapped cable-metal hotwired to cartilage and tissue. An opening to my internal capacity to feel the liquid cool that pours down my throat, almost as tangible as the ripple effect of words in this shell of my ear. One moment of vulnerability lapses into cataracts-eyes and the yawning cavity of my subconscious- snared: never as lost in these prophetic words of law and insanity defense as i am in my own infinity|gap insides. Larceny, that is the way the waves move from this machine into the incalculable web of my cell-life | cell-death. An iconographic paradox that they never meant as much to me as the eight times you sang them directly into my ear and sometimes into my eyes (dark matter gravity-centered on every respiration failure). For the first time I understand them, and open up in the flesh-flower blooming through the chemical eden in my chest. So impossibly full and yet lonely at the same time. Stuck in the spider web of your weaving, even as it had never appeared in mandala form anywhere else but here. I am shaken, shatter-effect scattering me through and to the present, pieces missing in the vain hope they could be collected by just another pair of hands. Just another pair of hands. The technological tongue of physics in my ear pulls out quickly, losing the tragic-harmony of your human-timbre to the somehow perfect sob of strings. I do not know if the undertow of chorus is merciful due to the precision of its kill or the gift of being torn free again. It leaves me pleading for you again, a junkie-clutch for what we shared in that moment of sublimity and wisdom. But when you come back to me I have tasted the loneliness of the current, and need the opiates of you to be found in this shock-hookup and electric thievery. You have made flesh from nothing, carbon from waves of air. And I’m left looking for the soft petals of lips on my lashes, or one sweet-smoky breath to discover the way someone else trades oxygen for CO2.

[half|fractal-hearted] (2002-05-15 05:08)

I feel like the end of a flute note. A faux-tapering and wearing thin that flutters, gutters and dissipates. Somewhat haunting in a way, but the only eaves and empty halls to be occupied are my own. A self-spectral visitation of sorts. A reaching for the beginning that wont happen again for a little while. Maybe fragile’s a better word. Nothing truly lost, just delicate. A resonance that wavers yet remains more or less in the same distinct pattern as that which came before it. It stretches out, and somehow stretches thin while retaining all properties. But it remains the end of what it began just with...the possibility that other things can break in. Or pass through or invade as it may be. It is wholesome in that the downbeats and the empty spaces hold emotion. Felt more in these recent times than any time before– rich, tactile, wonderful and worldly. But responsivity shouldn’t come in so many pitches and patterns so fast. It’s tiring. And I don’t want it to confuse anyone else. Particularly when they’re used to long, low pitched (harder to locate) sounds from me. I feel dangerous. Though I don’t know to whom.

[feral lucidity] (2002-06-02 21:04)

The night has long white teeth, pearlescent and perfect, dripping sticky mouth-things I no longer find so sweet. Though the image poses causes for tension, I find none. The passage of time leaves me with a few moments to breathe, and though my muscles are all taut I am relieved. I move forward-forward-forward, tripping through my own inertia slipstream at a Konstant I haven't quite named yet. There is little time to make up for the discord I've carried with me all along. If only someone could knead their fingers through the corrugated steal shaped into the tendons of my neck. Even my back, its sloping spinal curve should support reptile ridges rather than the rosary beads of these more simplistic vertebrae. My eyelids are heavy and I can swear the split second of added blurriness must be a second sheath more suited for underwater hunting and my own personal fast-paced undertow created by the slashes of gills and fins that are the last glimpse of every second (step) I take. I need to uncoil at his feet– flick and flinch of tail betraying the slow ebbing ease. The white tuft at its end will chime the last moments of tension like a grandfather clock sped up and then set to curl around the bones of his ankles. Slink up the cuffs of his pants. I need a moment to be tamed, and to feel secure –when my sleep is not perceptive in the slightest and all the world is his hand on the small of my back. There would be no other reason besides himand me. All else is default, barely necessary. I need a reason to relax, an out to feel in, a way to feel waylaid. I need to feel like those teeth aren't going to come crashing down on me the moment I lift my chin and bare my throat. At least not the night's. I'll keep my dirty secrets of praying for his perfect betrayal, the perfect clamp of his mouth beneath my jaw and at the scruff of my neck. Drawing blood maybe, but leaving the spinal chord or the jugular in tact. If only for his own amusement, and pushing off that last moment for another time. These moments are games of trust, and I'm not used to playing--I'm used to cheating. And only he will appreciate the swift slash of claws, skillfully aimed and reverent and pleading. Missing its mark out of love. And tenderness.

[Invitation.] (2002-07-24 16:30)
She hadn’t had much to drink that night, but came tumbling down on his soot-grey couch like some defeated jungle cat. Her haunches were shot through with burgundy velvet and something a little darker, but diaphanous. Something deserving of a word like vitae or heart’s blood. Something rich. It was a suiting colour for ending the evening.

Especially for her.

The descent was unceremonious, and in that respect it was perfectly and typically her. There was a dull thump and sigh of the cushions, and then the grim hiss as her skirts tongued each other as she settled in. It was a succession to gravity, and the grace was more in the valley of her waist and the curve of her hips than in anything she did or executed. She looked comfortably mangled, and yet warm and alive. Just another way of doing her last right’s for the night.

She was half in and out of a contented consciousness. Not that the other state was unconsciousness, it was just a stupor-state of willing defeat. Soft and slightly sad, like the way her eyelashes sloped and flopped down on her cheeks when she closed her eyes. Why she chose his couch he didn’t much care. In fact, he begrudged her for making him self-conscious of the spare change and wrappers-- the detritus of his laziness that had been strewn across his furniture before she enveloped it. Made it her own. He was embarrassed for a moment, then realized it was just her.

Who the f*** cared?

He got himself a drink. He jack-knifed a beercap. He flipped it into the trash from at least ten feet away and then cocked his bony hip as he leaned against the counter. He hadn’t slept in his bed for days, and found himself not so much at home in his apartment– cuckolded by one of Her disposition.

The beer tasted like ***, but at least it was cold. It mixed with the taste of his cigarettes, and reminded him of a mouth full of dirt. He cleared his throat and grabbed a bag of some over-processed carbohydrates someone had left here the last time he had people over. He sat down on the floor with his shoulderblades carving the edge of the couch, his knees up, supporting a lazy arm that absently clicked the remote.

”What are you going to watch?”

”Huh. Mmm. Nothing. News.”

She reached out and casually lifted the beer bottle from his hand. She left lipstick taste on the glass. His senses complained, but only because he didn’t much mind.



She shrugged and twisted at the waist before she twisted at the shoulders. She put some weight on a crooked elbow, burying the side of her face in auburn hair as she looked at him. It lasted a moment, then he looked back at her.

”Do you want one?”


”So, what Do you want?”

”Anything. Something. Nothing.”

”Sounds like an easy order.”

”Did you think I came up here for more?”

He rose a brow at her. She didn’t give in with an apology, but her turning away was enough. She rolled onto her back and slowly let her head and shoulder’s come off the couchseat.

The reversed pairing of lips was an odd sensation. It didn’t matter who chose to do what first, it was a timeold game. Some of her warm breath tickled beneath his chin. It took him a moment to get over the idea that she really didn’t want any of it. But he thought she’d be better at saying no. Her fault.

These visitations confused him. He was certain she didn’t like washing him off in the morning, or the acute feeling of being invaded in so many ways. The sharp spikes of an almost visceral disgust were easily lost in the natural graces of all those slopes, and curves, and all that warm red.

You must be doing it a favor if it’s so f***ing self-destructive.

[webs] (2002-07-26 16:22)

Sometimes he was the only place she could go before she fell asleep. The scissors of her shoulder blades cut back into the meat of him. She rarely faced him when she intended to fall asleep. A tragedy he’d learned to bare.

The nestle of her body against him made her bones bare her concave– her silent way of asking for him to hold her. And he did. Closing around her, warm and life-coloured, sealing her up like the broad-leaf shell of a mollusk. And certainly she was a pearl. White– of all colours.

Tonight she was a purple-grey. The colour of a black hound’s tongue. Extraordinarily fleshy, vulnerable, very close to ’bruised’ and far too at home in the warm, wet recesses of the body. He could slide his fingers over her, waxing and waning in the flats and the smoothes till it was all an amorphous, slick, silken membrane.

This was the place she loved him most. When he knew her texture, when he wanted no reciprocation other than the presence of her and the white of her underbelly. When he watched over her shoulder and waited.

It would begin like a religion. Inconspicuous and partly betrayal. The curl of his tongue pulled her edges and magnetized the sibylline curve of her spine– tugging out the meat of her nerves through the pores of her skin. Tacky strands of her getting caught like cotton on the roof of his mouth. He coated her delicately with the waste of it– a grey-white map of organic circuitry laidout with the wet of his mouth. A braille that ran and divided in vectors and derivatives of Them. As spindly and fine as a spider’s web and just as an impossible of an algorithm.

He nestled the arch of his cheekbone into her. Getting caught in her code which he had extracted. And sighed for the limitlessness of their communication.

[bad attempt. boreing. gotta go.] (2002-07-29 12:09)
Music: renaissance affair - hooverphonic.

She was adrift on a rolling sea. The sun had cut out some time ago. Or rather, she had cut it out of the sky with a pair of jade shears. >snip snip< and all that was left was that translucent grey of an ominously cloudy morning. She wasn’t quite sure where that light came from but it suited her fine. She reasoned that though it was deceptive and would usually sear her skin, without a sun there was positively no excuse for such a thing. So she lay back. She relaxed. And rode the somnambulent waves of the photon sea. She was contentedly riding those spaces between. Those places where you come to rest that are neither inside nor outside of you. And they had the most wonderful ability to rock you slowly to sleep, or leave you much more awake than you’d started with. Both were liked and invited. The sea spray, (wave spray? light spray?) was cool and viscous on her skin. It clung and beaded, almost appearing sentient, but we’d have nothing to do with that.

[assimilation.5] (2002-08-02 15:12)

[.5 of [1]0]
It was a test of will and resiliency.

And only one of those traits was keenly hers. [Mmm, though ultimately, many would beg to differ.] However, all would have to admit that the latter was distinctly her... And as she divided into the fractal images of counter-virus revisions, they paired their spindly finger/legs with the massacres that were his cells. ’Massacres’ they are here called– for they were a state of being, a force, a power, an edge, a verb. She broke down into microscopic warriors to fight him, but as they were trapped in time they were trapped in Him. Saturated and unable to remove themselves from his five dimensional nature. And the story discontinues here, in any verbal form, and takes place next across states of being:

There is the slow rotation of an expanded image of her eye. Just her eye. Falling through the web-tendrils of neurons and wire. It didn’t float like paper, it rotated to the chorus of his electromagnetics. Random and perfectly predictable. It fell but it turned. And its center, though flat, contained all the nature of something to go into. It was almost soft with depth, the last bastion of her will. It watched.

”I have finally taken from you. Is that not what you wanted?”

The words were sharp as needles, and clamped like leaches on the inside of his skin.

Her timbre was dim and hollow, resonating through the anti-chambers that were both inside and out.

Sound belied resistance. And at the same moment the flats of her teeth caught the hook of his chin, and the wet of her tongue disappeared as it was slowly eclipsed by the threatening pet of warm-ivory.

Creature at bay. Her weight was atop him. Her breath a heavy thing, exhaled and bloated on excess it settled to the bottom in that centrifugal way of things. Everything smothered, except him.

She cocked her head, mantis-like– and her eye greened, and it faceted like a diamond.

[the way they kiss] (2002-08-12 14:25) Music: schism

She was slick as candle drippings, and left the same waxy residue on the pads of the fingers that touched her. The best way to wash her off was something that ate large lipid molecules, like hard alcohol and turpentine. Needless to say, the former was more often preferred. A couple shots of everclear and she went down like filet mignon. The only meat that isn’t half bad rare and bloody.

She didn’t answer his question that night, she dotted the exclamation point he garnered with a flick of her cigarette at his cheek. The brief hiss was snubbed by his palm slapping his face, and the cool, habitual ’you *** bitch!’ that used to make her ears perk up or her body brace didn’t quite work this time. She’d broken herself of her reflexes. Her synchronicity was shot and her nerves didn’t idle anymore. She’d proclaim it was a heightened state. Not really missing out on anything, but processing them so fast she was beyond reaction. She was the reaction of the reaction. – pity that led her to inaction.

He grabbed her shoulder hard, tearing the transparent black of her shirt, stretching diaphanous over her skin. An eyelet of white blinked through the designer fabric, and the welts he left were war paint for a different age.

[a story i’ve never told] (2002-08-12 20:41)

She looked down at his hand on her knee. The waffle pattern of her fishnets made a chess board for his fingers to play on. Just the contact was an advancement that was unacceptable, it was a stick shift car and he had to make it worth while. The five fingers of his personal army stole up under the black velvet lip of her dress. Five new tongues for the mouth of her innocence. She watched the fingers, transfixed, confused. She didn’t know what to do with them, or if she should follow the bones of his wrist to his arm, and his shoulder and his eyes which would inevitably look at her
and tell her it was her turn.

Her turn to what?

”We should get something to drink, I think.”

”...there’s a King Cullen near the hotel.”

”That’ll work.”

He parked. She walked the alcohol aisle of the food store for the first time ever. Guilty if not in deed just yet, then in thought. Her heart pounded. And his dark eyes knew her through and through. They looked into her, not assessing if she would run, but how she could never and would never do such a thing.

He opened the hotel door for her. She walked in. She sat on the bed because she hadn’t really thought about what position that could lead her into.

He held the card up between two fingers. She remembered....

He had given her an envelope of cards. The Endless. Something he’d gotten her into, something she loved now. Every one was in there, all of them, from Delirium to Delight. Except...there was no Dream. On the outside of the envelope it had said ’if you want him, you have to ask me for him....’.

”Ask.” He said.

”Please.” It sounded more like a question.

He handed her the card, she flipped it over in her palm. It was Destiny. How could she have .... Her lips paused, she was silent. And out of mercy or expectance he turned away and lit his cigarette.

She still remembered the way he unbuckled the straps of her boots, unhooked the laces, pulled the edges of stockings and... ...down, down down. She should have told him.

He whispered in her ear as he lay his weight on her. Her new fingers fumbling with buckles she’d never opened from this angle before. He traded one velvet for another and told her her state like he was recounting her temperature to a hundred other people. Like they were watching through the windows while she was bissected.

Nervous. Scared. ”Relax.” He had said. And she did. And it didn’t hurt as sharply after that.

Not till months later. And every time someone else touched her.

She watched him light a cigarette, curled up in the chair near the bed. She was quiet and he smoked near all of it before either said a word. he twirled a penny in his long fingers, fingers that had.... He flipped it to her, and she caught it. She looked up at him and she heard him ’penny for your thoughts?’ he would always say. And for once, the one time, and the one time it meant anything, she tossed it back to him without an answer. He looked at it, nodded. And placed it on the night stand. And she knew he would never ask again. Because it was ’intruding’... it wasn’t ’right’...he didn’t want to take anything she wouldn’t give. He breathed an idealism in this, and she knew that it had changed. She needed him to ask her again, just one more time. Get over yourself. She had no idea what he was thinking. Just ***ing ask. After all of this you’re Allowed to. To make her feel like he cared. F*** idealism. F*** you.

Years later he said he was the reason she was obsessed with wings. Cause he took her first pair.

He actualy said that.

[neutron] (2002-08-15 00:26)

::saturates this space on the internet with her current mood and evening through osmosis..well, not really osmosis since that’s just with water, but diffusion at the least. Well, keeps most of it to herself, cause it’s hers. So that doesn’t work either. But anyway. Is relatively content with the world. A little sleepy. And just rather peaceful. Feeling like the things she’s done lately are worth while, and she’s had a good time, and some people who matter are happy with her and she’s happy with herself. would give this feeling to everyone, thought it’s a little mellow. not that mellow is bad, but... is even inspired to create some. but is rather daunted by the last thing she made and isn’t really ready to try and tackle other subjects at the moment. a touch of a healing process, furthered by the last night. but, all is good. all is quiet. and really, she’s looking forward to curling up with the phone in the early morning hours. and can’t think of anything between now and then that would prevent her from enjoying that fully.::

[unfinished] (2002-08-17 02:06)
She was falling asleep slowly. The warm, calm breathing he had when he slept caused her body to softly rise and fall in time with him. She was impossibly comfortable, the personal vendettas of their body heat neutralized and bound themselves in the warm embrace of their chests and loose fall of their arms. They were waves meeting separate and eradicating themselves in perfect, unified harmony.

[iconogeography] (2002-08-22 23:32)

i am spoiled.
left alone in my skin i can feel
the curve of my side
carved with the hill and valleys left by the
widowing traipse of your dactyl tips.
separated from you and yours.
the center of my cells fear loneliness, even
lost in the sea-scape of their mass of neighbors.
not a living number of them could replicate it.
with only the lost-love mimicry of my lips
on the soft under-belly of my upper arm.
the kiss is empty and knows not how to
embed its prowling touch like the liquid-foreign
reminder of your single, unique resonance.
my image is seared in shambles to the place
where it lays. arms akimbo. then one raised.
earth to sky like pictures something in me remembers.
iconography connecting the catty-corner absences that
twist and turn me in my sleep with the silly notion
that i will come to rest against the shelf of your
body and return lulled in the warm exhale of my
dream-name from your missing mouth.

[beyond|between helixical] (2002-09-09 23:44)

so calm and at peace my cells can only transcribe the resonance as a harmony to cry to. it does not begin, it does not end, but it occurs and will remain forever in this place and moment. a signified capability|probability. i could have. i am. i do not fully comprehend this, and there is not even the smallest desire to try. it explains itself. it is part of the true nature of all that we hope to comprehend. and this still, serene sublimity is more than i could ever ask for. and may be the one thing i truly know how to receive. my heart beats. it does not beat loudly, it does not beat faster, the world outside it slows in its orbit, and recognizes that my heart is there, and functions perfectly. and it fills my ears. i remember trying to explain how it never comes to words or comes close to the way it was when i recall it. how the state that you lend me is a function of two things, and not just one. i am no longer concerned with edges or purpose. this makes sense to me. you are meaning. so here i dissipate, diffuse in light and structure. and entangled in your atoms, who’s wave functions i use like keys, and unlock the infinite space we still fill with the vastness and proximity of our smallest particles.

[of dove-grey mornings] (2002-09-30 09:15)

The under-belly white of her toes flouretted the sand beneath her. The ocean was white noise in the background, matching her pattern of joy and sorrow in equi-distant fluctuations. She’d fallen into those node-al points. Those silent and serene moments with him when she thought the term ’tidal wave’ was more appropriate. She’d never imagined that the nature of being overwhelmed and consumed could feel so completely peaceful.

She had open eyes beneath the watermark. And she did not wish to learn to swim.

He hadn’t touched her the entire time they were standing there. But the sweeping tangents of his eyes kept her more closely framed than any hand or arm could.

”It will be cold.” her grey-blue mouth said to the sable rays of dawn.

”Only for that which does not[is] matter.”

”I liked our time here.” She shrugged her soot coloured shawl farther up her shoulders- distorted white angles smothered in the soft downy mass. ”I don’t think it would be wrong to stay. I understand, but the time shouldn’t matter.”

”No, it never did.”

”Then let’s stay. Please?” Her heart beat sluggishly and sloppily, like it was saturated with a less viscous liquid than blood. Wet sounds in wet lands. She always tried to convince herself she wasn’t looking for gratification, just happiness. Needles became teeth, teeth –> fingers, fingers–>eyes, eyes to –> insides, insides –>matter, matter to –>the spaces within. She just wanted to hear him surrender one more time. Just for her.

He didn’t do things just for her anymore. The structure had become too deep.

He didn’t disturb the sand when he walked on it.

”...I know... but maybe if I bring this up i’m not ready. That must be true. I want to be, and yet I don’t want to be. It hurts.” This made more sense than she.

He came near, breath mingling with the nip of the chill, salty air. And she felt like they had never communicated closer, that evolution had sprung up again. Streaking in its ever onward, saltatory steps. Flashing like electrical storms and signals. Violent up close, but liquid in the grand scheme of things. A uniform glow that had a lock and key radiance. It was time to pass on the information.

And all he did was smooth the pad of his thumb over the sweep of her brow. Laying the individual hairs on their paths along the unnatural curve. A detail that was a part of the soul of her features.

It ached to understand. It was a perfect violence (that she knew well) to so completely comprehend and to want what was already there. Old wounds hummed to be filled, she never understood why they couldn’t drink their

One step behind.

”It may be for e v e r y t h i n g.” She said, tilting her center of gravity back towards the sea. ”but it will always be....for you.”

The coat of arms of his lips (gauntlet and defractional) parted from the inside. But the water licked her heal.

And she was sea-salt again.

[ageless.] (2002-10-08 21:41)

The slashes of her mother-earth brown colouring fell low and angular over her eyes. There was a perch there, flesh and feature made between the once sloping curves. A place where malice and anger lay as smooth as honey, seeped like chrism into her pores and her mind. She stared stonily– arms outstretched, pinioned out at her sides– wrapped and warped in grey-sister willow. Her crown and her throne. Switchsticks snaked like tattoos about her shoulders, ribs, breasts and hips. They tangled and confused themselves with the tendrils of her hair and stood out stark and naked against her skin. She fell easily into the role of mistress and archetype– amber eyed (like champagne or the amaranth the angels suckled straight from heaven’s meadows).

She posed, twisted and scowling– peering down her aquiline nose and dripping derision over the perfect petals of her lips. When he dreamed her he always imagined her fingers open and empty. Their flesh tapered into the needles of her filed nails. Somehow they shifted from the faint peach of her skin to dove-grey, from matte flesh to glossy stone. The most beautiful adornments for the sloping wing-angles her soft elbows displayed them upon.

He always imagined another angle hid in the repose of her mouth. Always a smile and never a smirk. Something inviting, siren calling him to reach out and curve his palms t – siren calling him to reach out and touch her b – siren calling him to kneel down and l —

Lick the black that collected at the apex of her chin. Binding his peripheral to that marvelous chocolate hair. Always oblivious to the smooth, loving slip of the knife through his third and fourth ribs. Parables. Pinning him to her with a metal rivet that penetrated him– that left one ruby drop of his blood just off center in the perfectly pale pink lure he had wished only to place his mouth against– and return.

Over, and over, and over again.

[ illegitimate distraction] (2002-10-19 15:45)

She slid the zipper of the soft pants down off her hip bone. The white skin was matte and insignificant in every way other than the games it had seen played on its surface over time. She winced, knicking the scratch again. She twisted in the full length mirror and thumbed the good three inch long gash she’d acquired in some way or another. Razor blade, rusty nail, ring, snapped finger nail. What did it matter.

She grimaced, her face distorted in the mirror. She loved the mark. She loved it even more because she couldn’t remember where it had come from, just a vague recollection that it hadn’t been there when she was in the shower, but it had appeared sometime during the day. It hurt. It hurt a lot. But she’d started to realize why she was infatuated with restrictions buried in the body and not the mind. It was less simple than her lonely self-destruction, and it was as dusty as the Camus, Hesse and Neitzche she kept on her shelves for fun.

Her enlightenment of the night before had left her a touch more lonely in the day light. As the house filled with the scents of dinner and camaraderie, she tried to find the best place to lock them out of. And she realized the best place for that was right here. Right along this thin red line. As accidental as the conception of she herself. And surely every consequence she wrought was tantamount and personal responsibility of one insignificant cell’s head-long crash into its other half. Warmer and more symbolic than anything she would ever render by her own hands or will.

She wanted to pick it up –this scratch, this cut– pluck it like string (play it like the instrument it was) off of her side and place it on her lips. The noble burn would ease the sensitive petals of her mouth– all the better to feel you with, my dear. Feel life with, my dear. The day swam like lyrics in her head, and she realized as time passed she fell farther and farther beneath the waves. Everything else pulling away and becoming a distant blur on the mercury surface. She wondered if somewhere she was forgetting things on purpose. She swore that last night she’d figured something out. Something had made divine sense to her and if only she hadn’t fallen asleep. Tortured by the whimsical nature of pointless dreams.

Part of her promised that with this badge of courage and conviction to flash to the world, she would hold everyone at bay. And she would never do a single thing for them again. That was it, it was the last flaying whip-crack this place lashed against her flesh. She wondered why she didn’t have all those other scars. And then she did remember.

she remembered that her saliva was thick, and smelled of california fields after rain. Healing and hallucinogenic. She doubled herself over and licked the wound closed with the muscle of her tongue.

If only it were that easy, her reflection thought. And zipped up the fashionable side zipper of Gap pants; ready to trundle off in the rain and spark another dull conversation with someone who never knew what the word ’procrastination’ meant and didnt even put lemon rind in their espresso.

[hollow-calm] (2002-10-24 22:22)
Do you ever feel like this, baby? When you’re answering something or making a difinitive statement (usually about yourself) that there’s quite no point in even trying. Like no matter what your mental faculties are only on half-function because nothing has challenged them lately and they’re running on energy-save. And ..hell if you could remember when last they weren’t, but you swear you know they did at some point, because you have brilliant ideas in there. Just not right now. Not even the ones that answer what your favorite colour is, or what your favorite drink is. Or even harder, your favorite author. quote? I don’t know what it is or why it happens. But it seems like it never lets up. Like i’m always one step away from myself. And personally, when i catch up i don’t often like it very much. But i digress. I always feel like everyone around me can answer these questions and capture time so much better. And you have an even more fluid skill at it. It seems paltry and insignificant, I guess. Or it at least sounds that way. But you impress me with every syllable. And every word is platinum and chosen with such pain. It makes perfect sense in that instant, and if you changed the code to something else, with equal (no) conviction— it still feels the same way. Pointing this out now seems like it would take away from the effect. But it’s not so. I’m continuously swept up and put into a place you create when you speak. The colour you choose is the first and only colour you could ever have chosen. The phrase and feel of each line is as beautiful as symmetry.

And though you must know this is more a part of you than it is me, it makes me sad to think you don’t see it there all the time. Like I do. Like most everyone does. Maybe you just make too much sense to me. Maybe i don’t know anything. At least about anyone else. It’s ok that you would change your answer tomorrow, tonight, hell, five minutes from now. It will have the same sheen. And I didn’t put it there. It was honesty. And all we are is a collection of seconds. You capture them so well, I’d swear you were multi-faceted.

[Of Urbanspace] (2002-10-26 17:02)

The edges of her skirts were tattered to something shear as mist. They followed behind her like fateful snail-trails –marking her ephemeral passage in graceful whorls as she ran hither-thither– trying to get away as fast as she could. She stumbled several times, each one marked with a ghostly betrayal– pieces of her left in gauze and spider webs on brick walls or greedy brambles.

She was running away from the city, because she was starting to hear it breathe again. Starting to hear the grumbles in its belly as subways thundered by, and starting to see its exhales in the fine steams that came up from the manhole covers. Its eyes winked nefarious morse-code patterns at her as office buildings turned off their lights. She started to see its metal-grin as cars growled past her, narrowly missing her as she sprang out of relief and into 3D around blocks and bridges and corners.

But what she disliked most was the invitations it gave her. The long empty streets, the veins and causeways that volunteered their usage to her but never allowed her to stray from their paths. Everything was predetermined in the cities, she couldn’t cross blocks through cement walls and she could not make the tar-roads leach into the cement sidewalks. The city told her it was full of opportunity and she could do with it as she liked. But she knew that wasn’t so, she knew it lied to her with every molecule and demanding street light. With every office building and dirty fruit stand.

Walk my roads. Peruse my gridding blocks. Build an algorithm of your own and break the monotony of the routes you follow in life. ”I change”, they said. ”Faster than you do.” I am harbor in your tempest, I am cover over the heads of the weary and still curious. I am Opportunity and I am Absu.


The obsidian night puddles winked and shattered under her steps, but the chaos and randomness she imposed was only an illusion. Where every drop flung itself and where every groove captured her arbitrary rain-tears it had known and it had planned. It laughed a sultry laugh at her, that was the only time she knew that this city was another woman, and her lies were impossibly clear. Clear and calculated and so much less obtrusive than her own. And so very many more in number.

She should have thought that that made everything safer here.

Her inertia propelled her into the body of a tree, and she panted as she held herself to it. It was the first one she’d come to that didn’t smell like Urban space. Her hands trembled but she pushed her soft nails into the bark and made an offering of broken nail pieces and scars.

Life-like. Life-like. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d fled from another waking concrete island. But they always did. They always woke up when she walked on them. And her tears always turned to this white opacity when she left. Crying milk, she thought. It stuck to her hands like seed. And the only way it came off was by pushing her sticky palms over her thighs, and stomach and forearms. Glittering and gummy, ripped and shaken, she walked away from the iron vertebrae of the city behind her. She could only hope that if she walked straight– if she went this way, away from the moon, she wouldn’t find another one for miles. And maybe this one would be asleep.

And stay that way.

[solid state] (2002-11-03 23:38)

Time freezes and i have so much to do. It’s been so long i almost want to keep the inertia going till the world is perfect, still and defeated. Deformed under my will and my inclination and my concept of future perfect. I would call it destiny if it weren’t granting a peculiar hell to that which i love unquestionably– uncontrolably–fallibly. Just some fear still lingers, bubbling like the silt of carbon dioxide through the honey-suckle colour of champagne I haven’t yet drunk. I want to hold the horns of this enormous will for just a little longer, till it has nothing left to do but break, and i can succumb fully and freely and dissolve under the grande mass. I’m afraid I’ll never come back from the place we want to go, and forcing disruptive intermissions will kill me slowly. (Though I suppose it wont be shortening a life short-lived– or well lived, might i add.) I want to hold out. I don’t want to realize that you’re an arm’s length away. I don’t want to hear the silence crackle and for there to be nothing left to say. It’s all madness, i know, but it’s inherent. And I’ll always know i’m not good enough for you. I just wish i didn’t have to be the one to show you. You’re so close I’m confused. I think it’s because I’m holding my breath, and the dizzy settles in sometimes. It goes away. Sometimes things are just so clear, and I have wings gifted by your humble purity. And other times I fear my shortcomings will wake the sleeping beast I first lulled to rest.

[you have one minute remaining]

The silence of the snowed over streets had nothing on her. Not a single muted note had any idea what it was like to finally be quiet on the inside.

The machinations of her duel nature had been waiting a life time to fall in rhythm and discontinue their eternal battle for dominance. Hell, it wasn’t even about dominance anymore, it was about synchronicity. The simple coexistence and awful dyschordia of her two fearsome sides had hounded her endlessly forward for as long as she could remember. The gnashing teeth of violence, cold and competition were completely impervious to the opiate-friendly artist’s timbre. They always won in their own way, and
somehow obliterated caring and conscience in the mean time. She cared for noone yet was conscious and reverent of human nature in and of itself.

This conundrum was her best weapon for proving that it was all ***. All of it. Not worth a pebble she walked on. Not worth a second glance or the green of her disillusioned gaze. Move forward was the creed– awful and falsely inspired until the violent nature in her finally got a clue and tore all their jugulars out with her mandible-teeth.

Waiting. That’s all she ever did. She waited for herself to be pulled in two, and watch her inertia guide the separate and healthy entities onward– finally purified and worth the meat they resided in. She was sure that they could sustain themselves much better in half than they could in whole.

Until they were quiet.

Disallowing all laws of wave mechanics– strangely, when the oscillations matched their amplitudes did not double or triple, but instead dampened themselves. At least that was how she perceived it. Though perhaps it was debatable. Perhaps she was just running at an inhumanly large frequency that matched her natural resonance. That surely, must be silence. Serene white noise that swept up the rest of her into a harmonic lullaby. It may take a while for her to unlock the nature of it, but serenity it was.

And walking on the snow made the sound stifling. The night was impossibly cold, and the streets were careless. The flat-ground was caked over and flecked scales of chalky ice out from under her thick soles.

It just wasn’t the same. She hadn’t noticed when the silence had kicked in. It was all the white and the lack-life that finally forced her to listen to it and it alone. Ah, and that was the other portion of it. She hadn’t been alone to listen. Not till tonight.

She couldn’t remember how it sounded before, but it grew obtrusive now. It was an impossibly huge and awesome gift. A byproduct more than anything. An afterbirth. But she wasn’t sure what to do with it. She wanted to pass it along through a graze of thumb pad over the joint in his wrist. Or feel it slither out of her as he twisted her rings back to right-side.

She had nothing to ground all this soft electricity to. The snow buffered her from the ground, but even when that was gone she knew she would find herself separated from surfaces she once knew mundane and mandatory.

So now what? Was she capable of maintaining it, or just surviving for its duration? She must be, she always was. And though that seemed all too much to bare she was frightened, even more, by the thought she would fall back into dissonance again. That her sides would separate, ghosting themselves and playing astigmatism to her single self. She’d forgotten the point of that existence. She’d forgotten how efficient and deadly it could be, and she’d lost the respect she once had for that virile, ferocious nature.

But who was to say what was Truth and what was ignorance? Be things as they may, she’d never been here before. And like the true epicurean, she wanted to live here for a little while. She just wished she didn’t hear those massive paws in the snow behind her, and didn’t catch the gleam of teeth in the dark of her shadow. For once she wasn’t curious about how those edge-makers felt. About how those line-definers cut.

Her obsession was his mouth. And his voice....

[and he just called her to say he’s gotten home back alive and well, and she’s lost the desire to finish this]

[inspired by the fact that someone reads it ...reward: bug juice sorry...]
(2002-12-11 19:19)

The gagging noise was making her sick. Which was truly an irony because it was she herself who was gagging, and she would just gag more if she was sick. Humor aside, salty saliva was welling in her cheeks, under her tongue, in the pitfalls of her molars and in those crevices and nodules in the mouth that were so fun to tongue (be it in your own mouth or someone else’s).

She felt them forming like virulent wisdom teeth. They hurt like a bitch and she was pretty sure that chitin wasn’t the most pleasant substance to pass through her sensitive tissues. What was worse, was that they tasted green too. They tasted like carbohydrates and poly saccharides and sometimes she even thought they tasted like broccoli... or worse, like fire flies.

She concluded that it really sucked growing mandibles from the inside of the mouth out. And she hoped that they didn’t knock out any of her teeth... if she needed teeth where she was going. Well, in theory. She wasn’t sure if she was going anywhere, but she was pretty sure that she shouldn’t go to school tomorrow if she looked like something from a bad sci-fi movie.

She hoped beyond hope she was going to end up looking like a praying mantis. Any other bug just wasn’t stellar enough. And sure, that’s making light of things. But if she was going to do the whole metamorphosis thing she would be peeved if she ended up like some cockroach like poor..Edgar was it? She mouthed the word and drooled a little. The name got stuck in your face whether you were growing bug-pieces or not.

Well. At least she had her answer. She didn’t have the blood of rrrrreptile. She wondered if she would click or scuff herself if pieces of her self brushed against her self. How weird. Well, in any case. It sure as hell beat being human. Huzzah for cold bloodedness. Wait...did they have blood? Weren’t they just gobbeldy-guts? In any case, at least it didn’t hurt as much. Well, that Other kind of hurt. She had something else to think about ...other than being far away and .... well.... inconsequential. She knew that was absurd, but something hurt, and whenever she hurt she felt inconsequential. Was it wrong to wonder why noone ...


She started to grow feelers. And as her eyes fractaled, and her lips split, she thought it was good to take a break. Homework sucks, and maybe this way, she can eat a few people that gave her problems. And maybe even a few she loved. Cause they sucked even more than homework.

Ribbons (2002-12-11 19:48)

clean, cold, rigid atheist
lost a branch to cinder’s best.
one set of spindly fingers out fanned,
a pity fire took the other leafy hand.
couldn’t quite save the day
all wrapped up in fateful decay
every time she closed her eyes
she lost a limb to better lies.
so, as each branch became due plunder
something inside was rent asunder.
and like the nightingale in her tree
a note like a silken chord did flee.
one end fluttered down and on a stream did float
and in a circle-jest the other wrapped her barky throat.
”Little bird, I ask, shall the current have its way?”
Feathery shoulders shrugged, the beast didn’t say.
”Well, on the mothers’ wheel i lay my petal sweet breath,
and if they ask, I’ll suggest any good story ends in death.”
So, the stream took her vulnerability in stride,
and off she went, turning blue with the tide.
”Pretty thing,” says the winter wind remembering thus,
”What a pity the poet made such a fuss.”

Red Hems (2002-12-29 18:55)

She presented herself to the Tower. Knelt-down and head-bowed as any respected fire-flame should be. [Irony danced like her destruction behind her smile.] The quixotic nature of her light leapt -juvenile- from the beds of her eyes and licked the crenolations of the embankments and the men of the entryway.

Sweat beaded on their brows and arched prisms of salty sweat through the dirt and grime of battle stuck to their features for a fortnight.

And so it comes, they had said. The rush of fire-wind and seeping tremble of the earth had sounded for days as she devastated land and home and gate and wall– making her black ashy wake-trail like some legless insect– happenstance and random in its haulking, destructive advance. Her grace was only recognizable by the satirist or even the bard.

Bring down your women and children, I shall let them pass. Her words a grumble, as dull as a western wind. They perceived but a pause, and second thought the true fortitude of their city. She swayed, this way and that, like the hems of a mad maiden’s skirts. Making light of her floor-sweeping obligations as the reminiscence of the master tearing her skirts stained her mind. An innocent, vengeful madness grew in her. Bright, hot and somber as destiny. She was a charitable notation in the history books of men, and she was a noble violence that set others adrift in the coldness of personal irresponsibility.

Wait, wait said she, murmuring to herself, the sky thickening with her smoke and her languor. Her dusty coils of restraint and pause curled through their noses and stung their eyes. But they thanked her for it, realizing the power she stayed behind her gossamer hands.

There was a moment of good silence. Floral and giving, rejuvenating and determining. It was full bodied on the tongue and offered respite from ill thoughts and ominous foretellings. The city and the flame drank together, a dulcet, amber wine. A draught like a sigh.

And then she took them, as sonorous as a midsummer dream– as graceful as glory.

Last edited by Millicent Grim on Sat Mar 03, 2018 2:07 pm; edited 7 times in total
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm

Joined: 31 Aug 2016
Posts: 130
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Can Be Found: The Sacrifice Club
5507.16 Silver Crowns


PostPosted: Thu Mar 01, 2018 7:29 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote


[ true stream of consciousness] (2003-01-01 12:50)

i want to be mass produced. i want to come in groups of ten. i want to be doled out in boxes to masses that never
read the instruction booklet and never understood why the design was so specific. i want to be returnable with a valid
receipt. i want to be replaceable upon breakage. i want to be bought for unsuspecting people by those who think i’m
useful and may understand half of what the point is. i want to be a new york trend. i want to come in different colours.
i want to have standardized pieces that aren’t worth a cent more than the other. i want to have specialists out there
who are trained to fix my incongruences. i want to not be worth more than another copy. i want to be a drone. i
want to hide in the masses of mirror fun-house copies. i want to be passed around and borrowed by your every friend,
student, teacher, psychotic uncle. i want to be left out in the grass. chewed on by the dog. accidentally dropped out
the car window while little susie is playing those games you told her not to outside the moving vehicle. i do want to
be synthetic even if that’s not what i meant and even put up a word for word definition as to other wise. {see, you
never listen.) i want to be a part of a Made in China collective unconscious. so every pin prick and flagrant word and
misunderstanding is spread over the third-eye web encompassing the living bio mass of my selves. i want to diffuse
your misuse of me. and i want it not to hurt those times i realize you never think about who i am. it wont matter now.
because we’re too big to even hope you’d try. i will never be disappointed. and everyone gets to have a copy. and you
can misuse, and forget about us. it wont matter. because we’re too many. i’ll never have to realize you never have me
on your heart. that you never think about the way i think. i want a hive mind. because you’ll never get through us to
the winter:queen.

[killer’s hymn] (2003-01-05 18:22)

i have failed. i have no respite from human nature. it has caught up with me and inserts its needle-claws into the meat
of my muscle. dragging me down into the currents where i swear i have the frantic eyes of those who drown. the whorls
of my hair curling like smoke over my brow. twist and roll over like the alligator free a piece and leave me be. i’ll pay
the price, but not this eternal awakening. i thanked you. to learn. the experience must be enlightenment but loose
me. don’t i deserve the pity of the caged bird? don’t i get to tell my story and have the jury release me of this cruel
and unusual punishment. she is vicious to me. this must be vengeance i find myself with empathy, touched by lame
scenarios scrawling across my tv screen, as if the lines of static were as grey as the heart strings i’ve left dangling. the
world is tripping through them, and i trail behind like a man fallen from his horse, his grieves caught on the stirrup,
the horse a tire-less nightmare. let me go. i’ve paid my price, i promise. all the pain i’ve inflicted and never felt must
have caught up with me. my dark solace is my light-less room, the floor more comfortable than the bed. comfort in the
improper fit of my hip bones to the floor and my tears in the blue of the carpet. murderous, cruel nature. you bitch.
at least show me the sinew lines of my ankle so i may chew through it and leave the offering upon your absent mercy.
i can’t even hurt for myself but you toy with me in showing me the new processes of such bottomless empathy. i don’t
want to find my story in the hearts and minds of old victorian whores and the love-sick damsels or the wounded knight
or the forgotten heart attack. humanity be damned, i wont play the bottom of this domino effect. i will not cash in
the debt i owe. i will cheat you, bitch. my strength falters but i have such hate and loathing for your lame emotions.
soon i will harbor a disgust so hot you will have to pull back from my flames. let me go. because i’m tired of running
and starving myself (in every way). i’ll silence you with a shot. sleepingpills work sweetly even when you wont hear
my plead for slumber. if i must draw blood just tell me. or panic will settle in and i will have my own revenge. and
there’s too many people on the path near by to allow me to return, full force, to my former self. i threaten you with
storm. and she knows your limitations.

[in disrepair/respect] (2003-01-06 09:23)

the world is a cruel, horrible place the way you make it and dash it about. all of us hulk around it, tossing its beautiful
filigree and intricacies aside with the fat graceless widths of our undetailed forms. all you see are surfaces and there are
such beautiful niches and webbings in the fleur-de-lis of its checks and balances, symbolisms and meanings. faiths find
them sometimes, grabbing onto a single thread but pulling too tightly so all the weave around them sheers and becomes
shabby, dead. everyone’s eyes are half open, their ears half closed. never listening to what everything and everyone
around them is truly saying. i used to call this the curse of women, the waste of time in seeing all these motives and
meanings. Heartless, all of you. but sometimes i realize it’s poetry, and they’re reading the language of the magic that
holds us all together and is as decretive and beautiful as it can be maltreated and manipulative. i like to think i’ve
learned to dance the finer lines and causeways, spinning down the natural grain of the cypress work that makes the
world run by. explains how the laminar and sometimes (unfortunately) the eddie flow is all that we are, just crashing
through the icing mother nature has so lovingly spun on the surface of her body. synapses and greymatter sparkle like
snow crystals, dendrites waving in whorlwinds of our passing like the endangered-speices anemone in an oil-tanker’s
wake. whole clues to worlds wash up as flotsam and jetsam because someone didn’t say what they meant or ignored all
signs of the living as they trundled through their 7-11 days and Nintendo nights. i like to think that maybe it was seeing
the patterns that kept me locked upstairs, reading words and creating my delicate figures and personalities, so what if
i walled them in, it was to keep them away from you and you and you and you and ...the crux, the thing i realize now,
it was to keep them from being changed, and ungraceful and from stepping on and crushing all those beautiful spirals
and growths. those trees of personality and shame and love and even the sticky, brittle webs of hate you all weave like
tree-roots at your feet. over your eyes. no right to ruin your patterns. no right! i think my flightiness has come from
learning the intricate pirouettes needed to not make a single mark on your soul, but understand the markings on it with
some terrible detail and resolution. you resolve from the pixels of your gut-language. as clear as binary information
wired into a mechanical hub. i’ve learned to talk to them sometimes, they answer without you even turning a head
or an eye. i watch the physics of my breath wave the edges of your queen’s anne and cowslip and lily hide. but it’s
not enough. it’s not a conversation. i don’t want to speak the language anymore. i want to fall, without grace, and
walk the paths like all these enormous, dumb-*** vessels that may ruin everything around them but have nothing to
mourn if their patterns, so blatantly on their sleeve, are ignored and not read. i’ve taken so much time in washing
and weaving the cotton algorithms made for webs, and comfort, and hardness and steady and loyal and realistic and
logical...spun them up like a natural spinner-speaker i found myself to be and made such a beautiful, mobile cocoon.
the bitch was that all i ever wanted was someone to run their hands over the braille underneath and find out it was
diamonds. smooth their –woodgrain or earthpattern– Hero-voice-etched palms over the cold, sleek curves of my flanks
and hip, the diamond-violin sweep of lower back, the liquified platinum under the eyelids tasted by the heat of your
code-warrior tongue. it is all the perfect fruit from the belly of the hard-hard ground. and i’d love every moment of
it, and apologize when it was found that they were priceless, all-cutting, and made the hand tender and tongue tear
and left crimson streaks of your insides dripping from their glittering heads. it would be worth it to read the language
wouldn’t it? not even for me, just to convert and learn the new cryptography? See your inside colour. Realize the
world spiraled into cells and plasma and each listed your name [in-its-first-form] in the golden lotus at their heart. The
code i see everywhere and on everything. So horribly ignored. (your every ’night’ having meaning, all small, broken
promises, your every evasive forgetfullness of my kind words that take so, so much out of me. pushed through the
cocoon like a seive as it is.) I used to think i was only disfigured about myself. but i feel aweful for Nature too. so much
more older than i. and so blatantly out there to read. the natural patterns of her leaves, and mountains, snowflakes,
stalactites, goldenfields, Parises, Beiruts, archipelagos and Hanoi Hiltons. Where you can hear the glass-dust fall in
sheets to the floor. Never read. Unknown species and answers killed off by one flagrant whiplash of your worthless
’i understand’s and hollow ’i love you’s. I don’t want to know the language anymore. The gauzy cloak that traipses
at my heals is all i’ve never needed to know. Matte-spindle-smoke and sucking up the colours of the outside. Shape
shifter. Lone-speaker. Doppleganger– with a core of priceless, tragically offered and often rejected light. The easiest
place to hide. And you make it so much easier because you never, ever come to find me.

[a poem for moments] (2003-01-06 11:5Cool

this morning i waited for an excuse to wake up. i found none. though mistakenly i thought one inevitable. bound
only by the temporality of a rising sun or the indecency of the hours i wanted to rise. social confines. felt like i had
something to do or something to say. the dreams keep waking me in funny states. like i must meet the emotions i
never knew as hors d’oeuvres of the day. a tiny taste here. a sample there. whet the palette of my mortal lips. all this
long i was looking for wine. of a specific year i was never a part of, but was made for me. on some other plane they’d
called it by my true name, and reminisced about the times i would find it and come into it like a young girl filling out
her funeral pire. sarcophagus? pretty phonetics, worthy of pharaohs. like the reeds that wash my hair as i float down
river (photons) towards my year. towards the ancient people who knew my name before i was born in the female sin
of blood and hurt. i will always owe that debt to my mother, and ever since then i have strived to live on a fully paid
tab. i think when i reach my year i shall have company. someone to go to the coat-check for me. the trick is i can’t
tell if he’s walking next to me or is there waiting. i was certain it was both. i still am. he just forgets to name the
days of my year for me, sometimes. but that’s a silly notion, i should be able to do everything for myself.

[converging country roads] (2003-01-13 14:14)

I find myself to be more myself in the mornings after. When i can’t find my glasses and sleep with my contacts in for
fear of the things that come in the windows at night and crawl up from under the bed. It’s easier to find me in the few
strands of sunlight that come in through my blinds. The glow bleaches my skin to hair colour and i sometimes look
sick with the smudged-smoky eyeshadow around my eyes. These are some of the few times i can look at myself and
think i’m pretty. But it’s just for me because noone cares to see it. When the harsh black and blues and crash and
mildew’s were absently gotten rid of but the sickness of vanity stayed. It extends a sort of life to cornsilk hair, catches
it in sweeps and whorling places for the sunlight to play. Sleep like the dead and you finally wake up with femininity.
Molded just right to hug the curve of jaw and compliment the chords still tied around my throat. I could stare at
myself for hours, wondering where i’ve been till i can finally wonder if it shows. For a brief moment i can comprehend
how someone could love me, and then i remember i should take a shower, make that appointment, do my homework,
stoke the fire, tend to the... I don’t think we’ll ever really have a chance to sit down and just enjoy the moments i feel
raw to the world. Raw and yet baffled by some elegant veneer that stops by here on occasion. Texas says I never fail
her a photo. I rather just find one under his pillow. Because i don’t know how to do casual anymore. And maybe
i do have something to say, but then i don’t know how to say it anymore. I need to wake up somewhere and have
everything i want. Just for a few hours. I think it could do me some wonders, and keep away the crow’s feet. And
shut me up before i put them all in my mouth.

[the knights in my life] (2003-01-24 18:37)

Through the straggly black blues and whites of her rained on hair she looked at her half-smoked cigarette and curled
her lip. She’d lost all taste for it, as she had lost all taste for most everything. She tossed it in a puddle, because that
last burlesque hiss was her favorite sound.
Not like the hollow clips of his mount’s hooves. The horse rolled up to her like a GTO. Same effect. But this
was symbolic. The black stained metal of his armored calf glittered like the wet street. He cleared his throat.
”Look, i don’t want to talk to you.”
She felt the smirk slither down from his mouth like rain down the street gutters. ”Who said i wanted to
”Fair enough. I’m not in the mood to *** you, either.”
”You offend me.”
”Nothing offends you, get over yourself.”
”I thought you appreciated my gesture back there in the club.”
”What? Smacking the dealer around? Sure, whatever.”
”He was going to hurt you.”
”Him and everyone else’s brother.” She liked the way her heavy foot-steps sounded out of tune with the horse’s.
”Well, if you must play the damsel in the distress, then I’m happy to stick around.”
”Look, I don’t get what you get out of this.”
”Contentment. In truth, that’s really my only motivation. Soul searching, too.”
”So what’s the knight-act for?”
”It’s not an act, I’m an anti-hero. I guess that’s the hero part showing through.” She heard the grieves creak
as he sat up. Self-assured. ”And of course, you adore it.”
”Don’t do it because I like it.”
”Oh hardly. I’m not the type.”
She murmured softly. ”I know.” A quick, somewhat annoyed sigh. ”So... why?”
”Why?” Neither of them thought they played coy very well, so he answered the question he knew she had
asked. ”Because I guess i kind of like being the only soul in that grey heart of yours. dear. I’m the only one I trust
enough to protect that side of you. So...”
”Gah. Don’t say it. I hate saying it.”
”You weren’t going to say it, I was.”
”It doesn’t suit you all that well.”
”Nor does your enjoying hearing it.”
”Well... I guess I’ll be off. I don’t show up again till the next chapter when you toy with vodka and ...”
He shrugged and tugged the reigns of his horse, pulling its head away to lead it to his house...up on that hill.
”Sorry I didn’t... you know.”
He turned a thin-lipped grin back at her. ”Hey...whatever. I was just going to ask you for a cigarette.”
She really did love him, dearly.

[maudlin creed from a sober soul] (2003-01-26 11:13)

I am a pillar of emotional stability. I have the answer to all my problems. I am not lonely. I am selfish
and secure. I take what I want when i want it. Nothing stands in my way. Everything means nothing to
me. I don’t care what you think. I don’t need to be anyone’s priority. I am my own. I know everything i
need to and search out that which i can learn from. I am an emotional black hole. I show noone when the
center hurts because i absorb light and sound waves. I am every colour. I sharpen the spectrum into lasers.
I will intigrate and dissipate at T minus when i ***’ say. I can do anything. I don’t care what you think.
I don’t need your emotional support. I don’t care about you. My questions are research, nothing more.
Don’t write me back, i don’t *** care. I tell you what I do on a need to know basis. I don’t expect
anything from you so you never let me down. I am perfectly efficient. I create and destroy. I am my own
Voice. I am the Word. I respect your space simply so you do not waste my time trying to get back what i
deem is rightfully yours. I don’t want to hear your emotional ***. I give advice at a fixed price. All of
my help will be repaid in favors. Everyone I know owes me. I am a beast. I have teeth and claws sharper
than your hide is strong. My moral code is my own. I spiral into self discovery and you are not invited.
Don’t touch me. I’ll touch you when *I* *** want to. You bore me. Do not try to appease me with
your sentimentality, it isn’t even on my plane of existence. Listen to what I’m saying. I want all of your
time. I don’t want any of your time. Don’t talk to me in your faulty language. Make an appointment with
my secretary.

[unedited at 40Hz] (2003-03-24 01:12)

She licked the cream from her ice-monochrome nail-tips. He’d lured her their with honey hidden under
the warm-milk-skin. It spoke to her violently in a strange sort of comfortable keening, she was his willing
creature-hypnosis for the while. Ever dangerous and luminescent. She glowed blue-white like the offering
she’d ladled down her throat with the elegant curls of her tongue. Docile liquids sat heavy in her stomach
as carbon based life-forms all their own spiraled through her interstitial fluid. She was connected to him
inside and out, he’d dipped his fingers down her throat and felt the smooth-muscle of her pink lumens.
She’d filed down her gag reflex just for him. If only because it brought his more vital organs closer to her
incisors. They stared at each-other, playing colour-name games between their eyes. Blue, blue, electric
blue... her insideyellow-and-greens snapped and snarled at him with their irreverent ferocity that kept him
coming back to her. His one true fascination was that she never gave it up, never gave in. And though
she taught him to love to win he just couldn’t find the center of her gravity. Every time he thought he
found it she’d surprise him, pushing him away by the hips the way he’d taught her to do when she wanted
everything farther away. Unbalancing him. Exhaling him. She licked the last bit of white from her mouth–
those insides of her lips and veins of her tongue were the most calming violent-violet. He tilted his head, a
silent request that curled around her like so many smoke-fingers. Her cells resonated, purring at his heavy,
comforting hands. Her nostrils quivered as he curled his fingers, that foretelling yoke of her heart beat as
he made her ’come-hittthhher’. His electricity slithered down her arms, sparking perfectly measured and
perfectly chaotic scales down the exterior-epithelial. It was always their tragedy that he had to wake up her
body before he could free her mind. But there was always that one, petal-delicate moment where it looked
like, just one day, he could win. For her sake and his. But this cream-quieted girl wasn’t really feline at all.
Just another game. Just another fish-fin-flash of snowlight on silver. Straight from mermaid to the blood
of reptile. He had to admit, at least all her sharp things came fast, and at least sometimes all the red made
her happy. Electric. Universal. Compatible 40Hz.

[quark love-poetry] (2003-03-29 21:12)
[thebeginning of this was accidentaly cut off, and therefore lost. i will not rewrite]
can believe what
your heart says and not what logic does? I mean really. 100 %. Is it that intuitive? Does it hold that
much more authority than the possibility of probability making a decision– another statistic in a ***
up world where nobody is happy all the time? I can answer both yes and no. But i’m the symmetrical
organ trapped in the needle teeth of an assimilation/manipulation machine. I feel so much in control, yet
just once i want someone else to tell me that everything’s all right. To make me feel safe. I do. i do. But
there are times when logic is not a reason to doubt, and yet those are the times when logic is exactly what
you Do need. What is this separation of organic church and state? Am i the only person who thinks this
way? And how could you ever think that anything related to the heart could be a sturdy foundation? I
don’t doubt. I just want someone else to tell me they believe. That it’s not just my fight. Or hope. And
maybe i need to hear it twice. I can’t really explain. And maybe it Is us against the world. I can deal with
that, i’ve dealt with that ever since i first started to think, to breathe. I just realize that for once i can’t
be the only one on this side of the tracks. And that’s *** scary. ...but it’s not. Because i Believe. And
every single cell that i’ve created to point out the problems in that word: believe. ...I just want someone
to shake my shoulders and scream in my ears. Care enough to be violent. Care enough to be adamant. I
find myself fighting to be human, and yet also falling into rank too quickly. People are changing around
me, and some of my favorite people are saying i am too. And part of me doesn’t want to. And part of me
loves it. I wish i could hold those chains and razors like i used to. Wish i had more of that edge again. But
at least i have the skill living in reflex muscles, tap on them right and they’ll by-pass the central nervous
system just like they used to. I just understand more roles now. And i’m ok with that. The universe opens
up. And maybe it opens up it’ flaws, masked in its most precious of illusions. ....But I’ll learn, even if i
burn hard, I’ll burn bright. It’s hard to figure out where we are when some people say belief is a loss of
strength, and other’s say that when they see you that way, they love you even more. ...maybe the whole
key is trust. And maybe it’s following the pattern, that i’ve never let myself down before, so maybe all of
this Was for something, to tweak all the points of view to a well hewn edge, slicing away so much, i should
be happy that there’s anything left there at all. ....but there had to be, right? I should just be glad i’ve
made the blades diamond thick, coaxial radiations from my diamond core, cleaving away all imperfections
to the single molecule that’s left over. I’ve decided to keep it. Let it in. I trust it. And i lift it off its pile
of broken bonds, and put it in the shadow box at my core. It has a place of honour.... and though i worry
about faith, i think logic needs to also remind me that it’s so beautiful...afterwards, i can imagine no other
match. And though the limits of my imagination are far from the limits of reality, what i found is better
than a thing. It’s every changing. It’s dynamic. And in a way that resonates with me perfectly. Really.
And how can you get better than that? Is there anything the heart more desires? Is there anything that
numbered lists or gifts of logic can outdue? And can anything make up for the utter peace, and calm and
contentment? It’s true you can’t prove the non-existance of something Else. ...but i trust myself. This
tool of detail and sharpness of instinct and intelligence. I believe. I do. I just understand that nothing is
one hundred percent...and this is the first time i felt like i owed that much and not been able to give it.
Because it’s not just me this time. And that’s scary. And i need to stop feeling like i owe other people
doubt. All i owe is me. And i’m happy. I think sometimes, it’s just hard for me to believe that, even when
it’s happening. It’s my delicate state. It’s my myth. Its my infinity. I’ve always been its knight, i just seem
grey-hearted sometimes. I’d only loved efficiency like this.

[pink scars, white landscape] (2003-03-30 19:2Cool

She bathed in milk and honey because virgin’s blood went at a hae-penny a share. Or at least a night
of entertainment and enough drinks to get the ugly-beast bombed. She had to smile at herself as the wingbones
of her fingers drew the bath up over her arms, shoulder, collar bones. The white fluid mapped out
vein-extensions of her form as it slid down her contours and back into the warm-drawn bath. The liquid did
better for her, as her own moth-powder skin held webs of blueing veins she could only hide in night-light.
What was the point of—

((::hangs up the phone:Smile)

Drawing the blade down over the tendons in her legs she marveled at the lines she made. Sometimes
she felt pretty in the tracings of her extremities. Sometimes she felt somewhat well put together, or that
there may have been a master plan. Maybe there were reasons someone else liked the white soft of her skin.
–Other than the fact that she puzzle pieced with his hands and sometimes his mouth. Maybe the cruel
words some said were only because they really weren’t looking.

...And then she’d get to old knicks. The pale pink scars of past mistakes. One at her left ankle, two
behind and to the right of her right knee. Had he seen those yet? Would he touch them with the same
love-viscous fingers he touched the rest of her with. Sometimes she couldn’t remember the parts he hadn’t
touched yet, nor could she remember who’s fault that was. But in her head he kissed the back of her
imperfect knee like he sometimes kissed the inside of her elbow or the butterfly of her wrist. Though she
felt delicate thinking these things, the more appropriate form was feeling there. Unrepulsed by the meat
and pores of it. She liked when his hand ticked off the contours he found at night and strayed over, waging
petting-battles at the parapets of her shoulder blades, the fortresses of her thigh-tendons, the continental
drifts of her hips. She was conscious of the things he dwelled on and thought, at the least, she could find
others. Offering them up behind seven veils, like Johns on silver plates.

But these marks. These accidents and circuitry she’d wrought of herself. As though something inside
her wanted to transform the outside into futuristic confirmations of her own fears. She wanted him to kiss
them with the soft peach-petals of his inside-lips. Wanted him beneath the water, soft, comforting, wanted
his eyelashes to trace them away. She wanted it enough to hide them. So he could never say no. So it
wasn’t even a possibility that he wouldn’t touch her in these places. Wouldn’t sanctify her transition from
identity-defying to... whatever this was. ...however he could feel like milk-murky water. Instead she would
tense at his touches, cells pretending like they weren’t trying to push him away. She wondered what he
thought when she couldn’t look at him, and she was afraid. It was easier to seem distant than it was to be
afraid. If he’d just guide his mouth there....if he’d only exhale. On her skin. On her past mistakes. On her.

She stretched out her leg, drowning her borders under the water. Trying to remember all the places
he’d touched her. All the invisible landscapes she wanted him to hide in. And find her in.

[50s meat beat manifesto kill-switch...klick] (2003-04-01 19:10)

stifling dying. dead. collateral damage. laurel-less. empty. can’t breathe. can’t see. asphyxiation.
rising amalgamation. black. blue. grey. bluing. receding. under. pressing. tangential poly-force. partial
pressure rationale. international. limbless. no foot hold. spiral. slip. sink. pitch. tar. black. writer’s block.
unfulfilled. gap-toothed. drunk. placated. unhappy. lonely. hiding fetal in the corner, turning paper white
and paper thin. big black eyes, the best place to reflect in. inverted virtual reflections. sandpaper skin.
dry hook tongues. too cold and thirsty to lap. swollen knuckles, knobby knees. pulling the dirt up over
so all the rest can sink well under. dragging the grass duvet, tucking in the rich mother-earth bed skirts.
decomposing into light, even in this tight knit plight. creature of the silt and stone. over exposed. high
cheek bone. pain pain pain pain. gnaw. mastication. mandible. constant FAKE masturbation. self-evident.
self-illusioned. self-evisceration. black-ash goo entrails. people keep knocking on the door. one more bar.
one foot step sunk too far. cripple. sink. sweat. silt. dissociate. free-verbs. free birds. *** the world.
dead cat-scat. knife blade sunk. over done. outstrung. kill the lyrical, just too *** miserable.

[nihilistic art-sonnet. also known as sardonics] (2003-04-01 19:33)

sometimes, at night, the only thing i have is to carve the pretty things out. [red slash suntan, five-river
flag] to have and to hold, till death do us part, y’know? for that one instant of proud motherhood. the
one moment to point and hop and yell and draw attention ”i told you so!”. and then when they’re not a
part of me i want to put them to sleep like we all should. snuff the soft petal-textured things with heavy
fingers. knock the ash off that’s been collecting in a coil/curl you thought just might be art in a whimsical
world. like smoke from his mouth. *** suffocate the little bastards against our chest or they’ll give
our location away to the reich. you son of a bitch. you third world itch. my only moments of placation in
knowing they were real is chewing them off and tossing them on the floor. i got big shoes, mamma. these
things don’t regenerate, all they do is die. what the *** is the point of that? only slightly more logistical
than a chick’s erectile tissue. who designed this ***? no, better yet, who’s willing to fix it?

[relatively massless] (2003-04-16 23:06)

you thank you deserve a reward once and a while. maybe just for being a human being. pushing through this viscous
condensate called life. you’d think that showing malleability and resiliency is worth a moment to enjoy. to take pace
down to its mythic trot that everyone must have once bartered with. but instead you marvel at the limits of concavity.
fetal position fall out, never knew knees could get that close and still not be any comfort. i’ve burned through
inspiration at a star scream and am left with not quite else. nuclear fall out during organic chemistry. wasting away
ion rivers and trying to damn up the flood gates so quick you leave blood-pressure rosettes down the upper lip. i have
a cold, i have a cold. straight to the heart. my neighbors think the walls have been sick ever since i got here. strange
sounds at night. from blood shot till mourning.
i exist isolated. i can’t think of anything without distance.

[frenetic kinetic] (2003-04-17 08:09)

took enough sleeping pills to feel consciousness leave like a thing. exorcising demons. like liquid slipping
out from fingertips and the way my lips were part-parted. tangible awareness, it’s medium must be espresso,
a capital T truth in the world of hazelnut-light-with-half-n-half. i wondered if you could capture it while
it collected, pooled in lost light, like a halo for a body that felt it was thrown there. consciousness took
meaning away with it. my personalized metamorphosis. i felt like i had landed lizard-skizard and chin first
from a virgin flight that wasn’t all that virgin if you realize i have an old soul. one that isn’t going to
take a part of this again. looking for the kill switch. there was a warm phase of contentment, i knew the
morse code of the frenetic flutters eyelids have when they can no longer stay open. found another lover.
crash-and-burn slow. self-inflicted knife wound in the sun-charred pooling of memories, hope, despair, fear
circuits that sear their way of electricity through the grey matter. never thought drowning and evisceration
were really the medals of a burn victim on a microscopic scale.

[Dammed if you do, Dammed if you don’t] (2003-04-25 12:43)

She woke up on the plane. Even though it was business class she had a crick in the neck comparable to a lunch-time
power talk with her mother and an AOL representative chat (after a 45 minute hold period that reacquainted her with
Kenny G) on the side. It was her own fault for propping herself against the window that way, but that just made her
slightly more irritable.
That and the fact that he was still up, and had apparently been productive the entire time. His laptop open in his
spacious seat, she d woke to his typing. But before she d physically stirred he seemed to have sensed the reemergence
of her consciousness and greeted her with a glass of water.
Thanks. said somewhat tersely. She wasn t ready to operate at the maximum efficiency he demanded. Or she
demanded of herself while with him.
Sure. And he knew it, too. Polite. Inevasive. She could scream.
What time is it?
We re almost there.
She found the blanket over her too late, and resided with just being stable and neutrally thankful.
I a beginning coming from two mouths at once. It ended mutually as well.
Go ahead, she said.
And for once, he did. I don t think we ll have to be here very long. I figured you d have &.things to do, so we have a
somewhat busy schedule. But on the last night I took a liberty.
Great. Of all the times to finally do that.
If you didn t want to come, all you had to do was say so, Mia.
Am I giving you that impression?
You think?
She licked her lips and realized how thirsty she was. She finally drank the water. I m just trying to get comfortable.
It s been a while. To be honest, I m fighting the urge to be a total bitch to you.
Did I do something? You used to tell me if I did.
No. Never. You never did.
He inhaled and assessed the rather shear wall erected there. Though it was unbreachable and very cold he could easily
sense the amicability in her. She was honestly trying, and he wasn t quite sure what to do with it. Wasn t quite sure
if he wanted to do anything with it. But he knew, like liquid instinct, that she d turn to spines if he mentioned it. To
be honest, these were her softest places. Even softer than&
She reached over and folded his screen down. The device purred into powersave.
Talk to me.
He rose a brow, rolled his shoulder. I got you something last time I was here.
The notion was so foreign it was comforting. She realized she was mammalian, blood flush, pores, hair. He pulled a
folded piece of cloth from his breast-pocket. He was still wearing his jacket.
She unfolded the suede-like terry-cloth and produced the old, silver filigree.
L Ouvrages, yes?
Yes. She refolded the cloth and tucked it away. One motion, several muscles. Silent. Thanks.
It was like traveling with a memory. And she didn’t know how to engage it.
Engage it.

[internal dialogues prior to the story [pt3]] (2003-05-04 16:5Cool

They stopped in Heathrow. She’d fallen asleep again. She’d predicted as much since the conversation had died after
the reception of the gift. It had been quite perfect, and that had been quite perfectly unnerving. A few months ago,
perusing a thrift store in SoHo, she’d seen a trinket he’d looked long and hard for. Even through most of his travels he
would come back and tell her of the fantastic places, sharing a white or red wine in bed, and the stories would always
end with ’but i didn’t find it, not in any place i looked’. It was so uncharacteristically pessimistic of him it always
made her smile, and he would garner a corner-lip kiss before she’d take his glass from him and place it on the side
She’d found it, sitting rather irregularly and uncared for on a piece of burgandy cloth in a display case. She couldn’t
help the impression that it looked so unappreciated, so sad, –if it were just somewhere else it would be loved more than
anything else. If only it found its way there... If only we all did.
She’d gone to ask how much it cost. Not that it really mattered, it was there, it was perfect. It deserved him. A
woman in a fur hat was heckling over an ugly Klimpt-inspired silk tie. (The tragic, futile things that made thrift stores
so garishly unappealing to her.) She’d waited a minute. Waited two. Promised she would leave in exactly another. A
good excuse. At 67 seconds she’d heard a voice directed to her back– ’miss, ma’am did you–?’. She strode purposefully,
and winced as the springless door thump-thudded and tipped the chimes hung on the inside.
She’d wondered if that meant something. And wondered if he’d wonder if it would. Like that mattered.
Now she was more concerned if they had to take the silly country shuttle to Gatwick that always made her feel like a
How they stamped your passport at Heathrow and nudged you along these might-as-well-be-air-tight walks that took
you to the bus that left every 15 or so minutes. (Gods forbid you spread your non-English contagion.) Transporting
these international refugees across their pristine, green and boxy countrysides to another airport, another departure.
She wondered if ever really technically she Was in England. Airports were such impossibly neutral territories, though
they all had their own personalities (with no affiliations save to an architect somewhere, usually long dead and long
betrayed by constant construction). What if they woke up. The airports. She shook a short story out of her head.
Silly thing.
But really, when not in an airport she was a rubber-tire away from England. Not even lightening could pass rubber
tires. Maybe location depended upon gravity. If gravity were regimentaly enforced, she’d be in England. But here in
England they took such care of the airport patrons, not losing one transient soul, stamping the passports in case the
end of the world came and you were forced to step on English soil. English soil. Not concrete. Whenever she took the
Gatwick shuttle she wanted to leap out at the stoplights, go AWOL and see the panic of breaking rules that felt like
physical restrictions. It was all a mental game, because afterall, they stamped your passport. You were allowed to be
here. But surely the large groups of asian passengers, and the snobby brits would have a fit. She’d canter off with a
trail of twangy asiatic dialect gibberish and haughty ’can she do that?’s. Story of her life.
She always wanted to scream on the Gatwick bus. Caged Patient Zero. And always felt like she was just teasing
London. ’Really you should stay, Mia. We can find you a nice boy named Tom.’. She snorted. English boys named
Tom were never nice. But neither were Neils. Not once you peeled them apart. Not once you opened them up and
exposed their psyche to the air.
He’d love you till death. Till death do you part. But you’d always just be comfortable. A staple. Part of his (im)perfect
foundation. Treated no more special than his own scattered desires. She always wondered if he just played the part
when it was novel, and then realized passion really wasn’t the game to be played. A matter of taste, but nothing
endulging. Ever.
Unless love was passion. But she didn’t think so. Not unless it was enacted as such. Most women would kill to be
loved. Wholly, ideally. Considered an equal partner and part of the same organism.
But that’s not what she needed. That was a demand, something she wouldn’t compromise. That wasn’t her comfort.
It couldn’t stop her from crying when he slept.
He made no exceptions. She used to feel like one. And in some ways he always surprised her, because she believed
that somewhere he always considered her one. But he treated her only as special as he treated himself.
And Neil’s greatest critic and detractor was himself.
No matter what anyone else said.
And she couldn’t survive that shuttle to Gatwick with him.
”You all right?”When she came out of the bathroom. 20 minutes after she had gone in.
”Why wouldn’t I be?” and quickly. ”Are we going to Gatwick?”
He tilted his head at her, perfectly expressionful. ”No.” His casual, pretty laugh. So very rare. Like a casual pat or
muse of hair, an affectionate ’you silly thing’. Because they both knew they weren’t silly. ”Why do you ask?”
”Nothing. Can you buy me one of those boxes of shortbreads, please? I don’t want to change to pounds.”
”Of course.”
No. Not of course! Say No! Just say No for once. She touched her brow.
”Are you sure you’re all right?”
”I just have a headache.”
He didn’t believe her. He never did when he shouldn’t. But he’d bring back a pack of Tylenol along with the ribbon-tied
plaid box.

[antithesis of tension [pt4] (2003-05-04 17:37)

”Are you *** Nuts?”
”Why can’t you just let sleeping dogs lie? ..or how about just not being ridiculous.”
”It made sense. We’re adults.” Catching himself. ”I don’t have to explain myself.”
”It’s just going to start all over again. What’s the best possible scenario for this situation? You get laid and then
she takes the wrong plane and goes down in flames. Anything other than that and you are just going to put yourself
through *** again.”
He had frowned. And then frowned that he frowned. ”Whatever happens, happens. I’m not pulling something.”
”That’s the problem. At least if you pulled something you’d have a goal, accomplish it, and reason out why you didn’t
go for or didn’t get anything else. This neutral *** and pretending like you don’t (and she doesn’t) have issues is
the crux in your little perfect utopian life.”
”Did you come up with that speech all by yourself?”
”It took a while, but i got it down pat after the Last time.”
”Look. I–” just want to be around her. I like being around her. Leave me alone.
”Where Is she anyway, I thought you two were in the airport.”
”This whole time?”
”Great. Hey man, Good luck. Personally, I’d leave the bitch and find some blonde to bang for a while. Ok ok, not
your cup of tea, but how about just getting something that wont make you suicidal once a year and you can knock her
up, have a few kids and get on with your travelling-life-career in peace.”
”Look, this is ludicrous. I’m hanging up now.”
”You know what’s ludicrous? It’s-” He hung up the phone. Knowing it wouldn’t be a bad impression or hurt feelings.
He had no desire to burn bridges.
Maybe that was the problem. She was his biggest bridge. His Varrenzanno or Golden gate in a world of Brooklyn’s
or London’s. From Feeling and back again. Hell, she was more like those single span triangular suspension bridges.
Futuristic and absurd. Sleek and suspicious. If only he would consider himself a masochist, it would make sense.
The trip had been spontaneous, but his decision to ask her had been natural. Smooth. The logical end of an equation.
And that’s pretty much how she always felt. Even though at the end of things, he was pretty sure he’d been the one
to leave her.
Which, he suspected, was part of why she was so hostile to him. But if that was her way of dealing with it, who was he
to intervene? And it didn’t bother him, like water off his back. No negatives, only the positives of seeing her coevolve
with him. It meant more when she gave in, her secret confessions and doting things. He didn’t see the sadistic effect
of making her be mean to him (by his being there), he never figured it felt that way (he’d be giving himself too much
credit). He pretty much always figured she liked it, meant it, needed to do it. He just liked reading her puzzle pieces,
and knowing that really, she still loved him. Because she did.
He’d just never make her say it.
And it was only a side treat.
What was wrong with just being able to get the job done? Doing it right. Being the best. He liked that really, he
could put his back to her and he wouldn’t get a knife in it. And that was very important here.
And the sex was different now. Never his primary motivation. He wasn’t sure if he liked it more or less. But it felt
like time and distance were being made up for. She trembled more. He figured it was a lot like making love.
He never figured that before.
He just wished she’d at least be there in the morning.

[pt 5, eternally] (2003-05-11 18:52)
I don’t understand why you did this.
I know it’s been only a few weeks, but I was pretty sure we had it all. You were the most fantastic
person I’d ever met. When you’re around I don’t want to waste time sleeping. I thought we clicked.
I can tell you flat out that I love you. I think I always have. And i thought you did too. That’s why
I don’t understand. Tell me. I can deal with people telling me to kiss off, but not if it’s you. And not
when I think everything is fine. To me, you’re perfect. Inspiration. Evolution. Every–

Mia closed the email when she realized he was reading over her shoulder.
”What the ***, Neil.”
He shrugged, catlike but in his casual mode that pissed her off less then it turned her on. ”Sorry, old habit.”
”We have a lot of old habits. I don’t think any should be made ’current.”
He placed the drink-for-her down on the desktop. ”Do you mean it? Just say yes and I’ll get dinner by myself, we can
start in the morning.”
”Yes, I mean it.”
”All right.” He was mostly out the door before he added. ”I know him. I just don’t know ’why’.”
”Because you never sent me anything like that.”
”I didn’t?”
”Not for long.”
He licked his teeth. Diamond dog in the information age. ”Night, Mia.”
She kicked the door closed.
Then she grabbed her coat and decided to do something that would make her happy.

[i can’t explain the Key] (2003-05-17 21:51)
occasionally there is a restitution of distribution. not quite the upending of a dividend but much the same bullocks
once in a while there is a genuine execution of prostitution. the lip-split drivel that obliterates all of the opposition.
i’m quite the maker of my own game. fabricating a nice silver lining for the instruction of my destruction. pretty little
implosion with its own laminar liquid leviathan. spiraling down the vermilion spittle to the temple pavilion. civilian,
perhaps. but veteran of the antiquarian aquarium. body fluid fish. following luke warm right into your slip stream
I-beam. i’ve lost my cacophony catastrophe. but he called me blindly. and i bled. filling the space under his tongue
and drawn up into the bottom of his lungs. drown or swallow. just another chaser, the best path to take is to follow.

[homeless sometimes] (2003-05-19 12:5Cool

he listens to the soft echo between my clavicle blades. sometimes between earnest obligation and limerick
rules he stops to realize he likes the way my breath quakes. my form shakes. sometimes i forget why his
tongue tries to find the places the words came from, and realize that the open invitation is part of the code.
the symmetry. the forbideness. the nature of it. realizing that there’s a breach of secret places that begins,
for us, with mind then body. and tries to sculpt a new religion of skin and flesh and bone. anything but
alone. there are secrets here too. that do not demand the wielding of wills in such a way that vulnerability
scries the multitudes of ways one can be controlled. not a slave to want but the essence of being wanted. i
don’t understand it as weakness, for all i hope for is to be the common need. a resonant form of passion
obliterated by the sink of jealous teeth. pay attention to me. need to need. touch the insides. fill me up.
worship me in libation, threading needles of hope up like inside-out roots. deposited out of love and the
desire to climb up in. lick through the empty places and unfurl like cat-tongues and arched-backs. let-lay
your fingers on the sculpt of my form, places meant for your hands as you comfort me with contagion. just
watch my colours turn. i miss being formed under your seclusion. you used to be obsessed with making me
a part of you. that was my point of view.

[we spell change different ways] (2003-05-21 15:0Cool

i feel the blood of woman crawling up over me
pushing down honesty and the lack of infiltration
degradation, really. massing spider webs.
like lashes with too much mascara clouding my vision.
i never was one to act, but as i learn the dance,
older, and that with man and woman, we realize
no, we should have, that all they ever wanted was an actress
plasticine smile. no life veins or heart’s blood. just calm.
come home to everything’s all right. kill thyself, while he
loves your neighbor. the mother tells me i don’t know him.
one should not complain. don’t scare them away. i watch
women grow quiet, simmer themselves to death and
monotony. i dance a fleur-de-lis dance. trying to stay out of the undertow.
i scare myself, hands holding too hard already. while
they tell me to hold even looser. and hold it a different way.
grow silently strong. well i wont. love is my weakness.
it makes me sick. draws colour from my mouth. sets me
running with rivers. downstream. *** your tradition.
your incenserity . i’ll bare my ugly colours until they drown.
they always say he killed me. but it was really just myself.

4.5.41 [paranoia] (2003-05-22 13:40)

winter wrap spinal-tap
counting the rosary of this disjoint column
bile and menengie fibers running like women-rivers
running away from synonymous fingertips
the beauty and the madness
hiding under feathery hairs like bird gowns
part of the lattice web, clinging like a spider
noone else playing hide and seek
infinitely lost, impenetrably unfound
desperate phone calls threaten suicide in the tenuous
meek-speak of voices that once lapped my insides
not you! not you not you not you again
i find kinship in shadowlings. see fragments of me in fantasy.
i think the puppet strings are loosening. swept under foot.
been wrong a long time. i wish i had insomnia.
at least then the greygoose wouldn’t go to waste.
pink pills and goosedown. sometimes it’s harder to look broken when you are.
tried to make a personality collage today.
then i realized i didn’t know anybody.
’one day’ i said. and realized that should have been yesterday.

[today it took too long to get to starbucks] (2003-05-23 15:42)

The embers of her litany receded into the quiet flames of shallow water. Eddy fools that bit the tender, cut-too-close
toenails or the scab at the back of the heel from new-boots. She lulled her passion with pain, and crystallized it into
obsidian. A merchant’s hand was better than the crafter’s, breaking off the round, razor-edged shards and forming
arrow heads shaped like black hearts. She would never miss her mark again. She was tempered steel, the call of the
wild on the arctic wind. She had beaten the monster that had turned her blade to her own throat, and now she was
going to send these into his heart. She distilled her avid thoughts of belladonna. She touched the flouted lips of the
pitcher plant. Covered herself with the musk that called the beetles and the bees. Resorting to that wild strength she
knew had nothing to do with woman. The world was a liar, it opened it’s mouth and pulled you in. Coquette’s tongue
and crone’s womb. *** ***. She led his hand right to the lips that mattered. Right to the undertow. ”Miss
this, dear?” She lined herself in teeth and helped file them down to precision tools. Their binary gaps and needles
would leave the braille-print of her transmogrified affection. Tattoo’s of a year of grief and twenty seven names for
tears. Heart nectar. Willow’s woe. Embolism. Cancer! Nothing could touch her soul. Not even during sex. She melted
for nothing, and that was why she would not submit to this slow, intoxicating death. It gave her nothing. And she
was going to take it back. Fire starter. Acid burn. Warrior witch. *** whore.

[i may be] (2003-06-01 10:01)

I have fingers like tv static.
a tongue like a lapping-cat
quintessence like string-theory
the heart of a jaguar
the presence of a binary star
the mind like a worm-hole
the voice of a virus
the blood of mercury
the gimlet eyes of the phoenix
the stamina of belief
the bite of liquid helium
the crown of the raven
the wrists of saphire crystals
the limbs of a mustang colt
the mouth of lotus petals
the ears of sea-cave shells
the skin of milk
the motion of Salome
the nails of basalt obalisks
the sound of hummingbird wings
the resonance of tectonic plates
the shoulders of Atlas
the veils of Isis
the key of Rosetta stones
the tongue of The Garden snake
the breasts of Morgause
the will of Sekhmet
the hips of old river’s winding
the feet of mangrove trees
the wit of Odin
and the love of omega

[angel apartheid: AKA AA] (2003-06-10 16:55)

When she hails she hisses. A napalm flash of tongue like a cigarette flick right in the face. ”Take me down,
pussycat,” down where? Post-synaptic. Portal-half-spastic. Her eyes were enzymes– catalytic perusal of my
being: (my suv, my wallet, my Armani, my alma matter, my fridaynight bar, my girlfriend’s cup and waist
size, my six inches, my inseam, my batting average, my SATs, my dog’s obedience, my father’s courage,
my mother’s ass) breaking me down into who I’ve always been and who I’ll never be.
She averaged me to a 3-omega index. Filed me right beside her boyfriends. The only people allowed
to touch her, after all, they were the only ones who really change anything. I’d show her I could take
charge, statistically ionic. ironic.

So what does it take to kill someone.
Someone who’s hurt you. Turned you inside out with their preoccupation, licked your coating off with the
’friend not foe’ morse code of their approach and their enter. Like a male spider I could have hamstrung.
Into. Submerged. Inch-deep and stuck in the murky spittle trail you’ve rolled yourself in (like a good french
cigarette) and hoped to be biodigested by. He used to make me tremble with his eyes, you know. Could
raise my sunlight with the pronunciation of my name. God.
How do you kill someone that’s paralyzed you? When you let them do it and they left you outside because
you weren’t so fun supine anymore.

I want to feel like gun-metal.

Angel was brilliant at brushing herself off and continuing on her way. There weren’t many people to
offer her a hand, Millicent, Grant, the Watcher...Grant... Neil. Neil was good at brushing her off. Sometimes
he did it with his hands, sometimes his tongue, and sometimes his teeth.
”You don’t have to knock, Jonny-cakes.”
”That’s why I like to,” he said, peeking chocolate eyes into the blue-neon lit room.
”I love you, Jon.”
”Stoppit. You know, Angie, you don’t have to go tonight. Maybe you changed your mind.”
Angel wrinkled her nose at him and pulled his hair when he was close enough. Jonathan started and nearly
leapt back.
”Sorry,” she said quietly.
”Eh,” he sounded uncomfortable. Again. ”Don’t apologize. I just... I just don’t want to hurt you.”
”Why not?”
”Why not.” surprised, but used to her mannerisms. As well as anyone could be. ”I just... don’t think it’s
”But you never have.”
”Right. I’d like to keep it that way.”
”I’d understand, though.”
”That’s not the point. Is Neil coming?”
”Neil’s in town?” She straightened and looked so very hopeful.
”Sure, for a month now.” Realization. ”Sorry...”
”I... it’s ok. I don’t feel alright anyway. He’s probably...” she shrank to a shrug.
”Hey, let’s go.”
”Does he still love me, Jon?”
Jonathan got down on his knees in front of Angel, putting them nearly tete-a-tete as she sat on the edge of
her little bed. ”In his... Angie, I think he’ll always love you.”
She smiled at him, an unfettered smile. More free than she had ever been. ”Is love always good, Jon?”
He bit his lips from the inside. ”I think... love is something you have to do. And I think anything you just
have to do isn’t bad.”
”Did you love that girl, Jon?”
”...what girl? The one they...”
”Nono, Millicent.”
He sat back on his legs. ”Sure. I guess I loved Millicent. I loved Gabriel too, though.”
Angel giggled. ”Like, love-loved?”
”Even more than that.”
The white haired girl blinkity-blinked at him. Mouthing the word ’more?’ as though it tasted like nothing
she’d tasted before.
”You’re cuter than both of them though,” he tickled her stomach and she squealed and rolled out of his
reach. Just in time for him to excommunicate her effect through a bone-pulling shiver. Sometimes he
wondered if it was pheromones that the Muse emitted. Or if it was just the way she smiled.
”Ok, we can go now.” She pulled herself up to her five foot two inches. Jon rolled up onto his feet, sonorous
and fluid.
”All right, shorty.”
”Look who’s talking,” he flicked the tip of her ear. She snapped her teeth at him and swat his hand. She
missed. He was grateful. ”Are you sure you want to go?”
”I want to see them! I haven’t this whole time!”
”But they’re just–”
”Be nice! They’re people. People in cages.”
Jon was over-usedto artsy talk. ”Exactly. Dirty people.”
”...I’m kinda dirty...”
”But Mi–Angel, that’s not your fault.” He pursed his lips. And forced a smile. ”You need a...better sugar
”I need lot’s of things, but Neil’s good to me.” She sensed his disapproval.
”Angie,... you need someone better. And I’m the only moron who would dare say that in here...but
he’s...well...I don’t know who or where they are, but you need to find him. Her. Whatever you want.
Someone who’ll treat you perfect. ’Cause you are.”
”I’m not perfect.” For the first time she sounded confrontationally serious. ”That’s a silly idea.”
”Angie, no... I’m serious. But I also mean, just, someone who’s as special as you. And...”
”...I don’t affect them, you mean?”
”Angie...I... yeah, kinda. But someone who won’t need it to feel the same way. And not feel that way about
you so much that they hurt you to feel it more.”
”They don’t...” she knew he wouldn’t accept that, ”...I knew someone like that.”
Jon lifted a brow.
”...C’mon, Jon. Even the red light district gets boring when it’s too late. And I wanna Do stuff.”
And so Jonathan and Angel toured the red side of Amsterdam.

[statistical issuance] (2003-07-07 14:47)

over synthesized. outplayed. outnumbered. over rated. statistically improbable. underscored. underfed.
tired beyond recognition. ETA 17:37 and still aiming to please. there’s a place on the edge of the bed that
has always had my name on it. ready to be pushed over the side by a selfish foot and blameless gravity.
i’m always swimming upstream. the world’s a laminar stream till some mother *** takes a left turn.
outplaying my part and oversensitive to a stroke of finger down my spine. I want to listen to the way you
make me hallow. a more peculiar type of resonance that drags me from a state of grace at my toes to the
tip of my tongue on the rough edge of your chin. i’d shed scar tissue for you. i listen so closely, on such a
high frequency, that i’m just listening to myself on constant loop. waiting for you to push. so i can hear.
so i can stop setting the scene up again. dig my nails in. sometimes i want to hold so hard i don’t want
you between i want you mainlined. hollow point. reverse injection. connection.

[adaptation] (2003-07-16 18:29)

In my most inspired, calming moments the feeling of loss for what I created thunders through my chest
cavety and shakes it to resonance– then echo. It’s so full it’s empty. I get a rush of heat, a thunder-beatheart
and only a soul-groan can wash the longing away like midnight ocean waves. Whenever I feel ready to
make something again I choke and am forced to sigh until it escapes like a shudder. It’s actually physical.
It’s funny, or should I say innate (same thing at the moment) in that I can swear the whole process feels so
much like love, and ends in the crush of a back-to-me-in-bed. Like a voice hundreds of miles away, laden in
affection and slowly drifting to apathy. My skin is no longer moon-light, my soul has put up walls around
its gardens. What once kept out, now keeps in. I have a key under my tongue and like Ezra it’s oxidating
into an ankh.

Bring the basalt casket quickly,

[essense] (2003-08-09 21:17)

tip toe, whirling thing. the center of this chiffon storm. white as whispers and hurricane hips, she’s silk
as snow and spiraling similarly. fragile, flitting, without parallel, from smoke to moon beams go. she lies
like condensation, over every thing as gentle d–

[ended due to lack of vocabulary and distaste in verbal frippery
this was an experiment in the lyric of sounds to invoke imagery.]

[interpretation inebriation- my greek mythos] (2003-09-17 21:37)

victim of the automated what-not, soundlessly sterile and stupified. just another thing to toss aside.
once there was a woman and she was terrified of all the things that put the forests together. light as a
feather. slight of hand and quick of mouth, read the lips that whisper ’south’, the Hellispont was healed
one day, by a boy holding the sun, clear as tears and light as fire, lifted by the catacombs that held the
one-day-promise. recompense. penny for your thoughts. think of days that felt like slumber. splintered
trees that woke the world of her wounded fingertips. burned by many moons and tides of relentless things.
atom stress. true duress. lost in a tongue that matches none. i wonder why the smoke curls grey, and
fumbles shades of blue i rather stay. i wish i could lock the tricky moments in a place where they would
smile. i can’t deal with cliches. i wonder why the world tastes soft when the white-milk touches my tongue.
i’m a figure of enzymes and nothing more than peripheral whispers. monsters beg for friends and i’m an
open maw. a bird in the serpent’s mouth. a tenuous lie that sneaks behind the doors. pawing at what i
consider reticent. resistant. i am all that i need and find it hard to be anything more. i need the occasional
glance. i need the occasional ***. i can’t see how rarity means anything in a world that forgets to ask.
there are those who see the truth clear as day, but day is a diamond-liar, a lattice piece of prose. words
lock together and speak their own mind. sometimes i feel like more of a tongue than any other instrument.
my fingers search for answers and spell out the truth of sound. i wonder what it was like to sit there naked.
strung up for the world of liars and then i understand. i do it every day and he didn’t mean a thing. i die
for what once was past, and present holds a candle. one day you’ll tie me a bow and i’ll come out silver as
the sky.

[something to say, so much to disappear] (2003-09-17 21:56)

I’m in love with his shadow, lost in tides of black decoeur. something the languages hide in the midst of
a down pour. there are times i say it’s gone too far, and i can’t stand the way he looks my way. there are
few stories to tell that don’t end in my duress. there are ways to think to much and snap in the shingles of
my dress. i once thought the world begged for me. spread her legs and said to hell with you. take advantage
of every day and try to say what’s on your mind. you can have a piece of mine. i can give only what i will,
there are things i’m waiting for. there are places of comfort i have imagined, and he has to invite me there.
i wish i didn’t say no to the first ticket. i don’t think i was ready for that trip. but he may have learned his
lesson. the way i turned a shade of pink and said ’no more’ with a look. i wish i hadn’t taught any lesson’s
well. i wish i bled and didn’t coagulate so fast. i wish my ions ceased to flow. i wished to god there weren’t
places he was loathe to go. there is a rhyme i’m yet to speak. i tremble when he finds my neck. bared for
whomever bites. there are still games to play and places to hide. once there was a guarded creature, quite
a castle and hard to teach her. i wish i was a place to linger, instead of a mote of carsinogenic ichor.

[a little less sidewinder] (2003-11-21 19:0Cool

She often prattled on about nothing. Though she told him her best things. She wondered if he really
didn’t mind that sometimes she ran out. Completely bleach-bone dry when it came down to it. Rough as
sandpaper. Hot as glass. In fact, it sometimes reminded her of the meeting of the two. The way spidering
cracks sound when a good wind howls on your windshield. Everything has its breaking point, and she was
sure he had his - tucked away in there somewhere under the video-drone.

Times like this she told him she forgot how to write. She forgot how to Right, too. But that was a
whole other story all together, with a completely different solution. One she thought would be more suited
to inks and watercolour, and lately she felt like oils. Slow to colour, even slower to dry. She felt vaguely
nauseous lately. Perhaps it was the fumes.

Last edited by Millicent Grim on Fri Mar 02, 2018 3:51 pm; edited 1 time in total
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm

Joined: 31 Aug 2016
Posts: 130
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Can Be Found: The Sacrifice Club
5507.16 Silver Crowns


PostPosted: Thu Mar 01, 2018 8:13 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote


(2004-07-12 12:21)
Gold and smoke dust motes, sliding like languid inks in waters, amorphous and resonant, stepping tiptoe through
the particle-light. Little ballerina atoms, spinning away their watch-glass curves, leaving snail trails of anorexia and
perfection, burning in a crucible of grace. The world looks good from up here, or down there, purring, pinned and
petted appropriately and as she wants it. No means yes, and violators will be prosecuted. There are comfortable ways
to wrench the sea-secrets from the saline cells. Saltatory landscapes that trip like ribbons through fish-bone braids.
Tales seem broken but nearly form the spine of existence, and love, and purgery. A weapon that steals considerately
from the rumble-timbre and cadence of comfortable voices. Sounds that grip the light inside the body cavities and
glisten outwards in the sounds of growly-voices and fade like sighs. I spin like those warm, golden, candle feathers.
Breathing in the warm, smokey, CO2 figures that slithered out from between your lips and lay themselves like blood
and body on my tongue. Touched and savored like a savior to the roof of my mouth. Stuck there while the ballerinas
pirouette inside my lungs, soul, and scratchless-diamond heart. Your mouth walks like fingertips over me. And I'm
waiting for the next one to alight and touch down.


[tender wounds] (2005-05-20 12:3Cool

Black hole center body sucking on teeth to cover them with gums, swallowed whole and contained in you. Protected
from the world and left to devour myself, your self, your insides inside my palm in the belly of the beast. My beast.
Kept inside and safe and warm and loved and devoured and eviscerated and wanting nothing more than to give and
take and love and feed. This is a new place and I said if you *** this up there's no turning back. You'll be the end of
the era and I don't want to be in any time frame except this one you wrote up for me. Tell me everything you want to,
and need to tell me more. On the sinside. Steppeside. Counterintelligence says I need to tell you I sometimes think of
leaving you just because I want to hear you tell me not to. That it bends you. That it switches sides and for all your
lack of control and all your missing influence you still want to keep me down and tethered by the leash I've lent you.
Holding tighter and leaving the bruises as best you can so you can trace out the fingerprints that make your signature
on my white side. I love when you sign me, tag me, tie me down with whispered words that take my will and judgment
and tug it out in wisps of smoke and perfection. Helping me define myself in the most perfect anti-manipulation. How
can something new flesh out the old so perfectly. Two halves lost. Two holes found. Can I stay in here?

[laminar writer’s block] (2005-06-14 12:5Cool

Catastrophic pornography. Liquid sense of decency. Rapid fire, arabesque decay. From heretofore without delay.
Recommending stringent dissection agents. Stainless steel accoutrements. I very well cheated meaning, matter and
form. I wont turn this into something warm. There once was a strange little mute, knee-high city. Wrapped up in
diamonds and sentences rather witty. Sparkling towers of verbs and nouns. Glamorous harlot-ladies in sapphire gowns.
I look for solace in their flowing poetry. Pushing through taffeta and tulle finery. Searching for the folds where I was
made. Stitching together lies where men have laid. Why so many precious women in my domain -- all looking for my
husband and their fame. Your syllables like fingers, caress. Past participles and shallow finesse. Complexities I rather
swallow than spill. All the pretty ladies wanting their fill. Taunting me with their vowels and syllables. Asop's fables
and cheap parables. Falling like water down satin sleeves, licked from fingers like ivory leaves. I have no patience for
this endless dance. Language a rapist and a priceless trance. Come to me clean and easy. At least *** with some
decency. This is my city and my cell. Indeed a muse's inferior hell. My cities of women that leave in the night, making
me want&.want&want&. and desire a fight. I'll visit whenever I need a fix. Desire and her taste whetting my lips. I
wish I was merely a stranger, and could walk her streets without such danger.

[diamond homeless] (2005-06-14 14:14) Music: bad habit - dresden dolls

Dis-attach from the sensitivity. Over stimulated under the crosshairs of your attention. Sometimes too much in love to
open up the floodgates and wound you with my monstrosity. Keeping it back there till it's a good time. Till you don't
care enough to be hurt. Till I'm sure you know what it's like to be painted white and forced into a clean slate. Panic
state. No no, that's not it at all. I want you to be hurt, to feel something. Feel me. Even if I'm as sharp as a knife and
all with teeth. You knew it from the beginning, watch my self-destruction and the blue moons of high maintenance.
We're both snail-creatures with home-walls of bushido-steel for the rest of the world, & while we wrap up and kiss in
the viscous slime of our Humanity Wound. Hiding in a vulnerable center a thousand blades couldn't dissect. ***
like a bad, perfect habit. Leave your names in black and blue and liquid Happy. Drugged and beautiful. Why do I want
it to hurt? Why is pain more true than anything else I understand. What was the language I forgot to learn? When
did I miss the lesson that was supposed to make me bilingual? Thank you for understanding I'm not very good with
learning new languages. Thank you for speaking mine. I've raised my voice, to push you off, push you out. Afraid that
all this love-sickness will drown out the muffled cries of my insides, because I have to go back inside alone sometimes.
I want to learn how not to. I want to use a soul-insecticide, melt in the aerosol love-poison that performs a chitonous
hari-kari... leaving me homeless with only you to crawl into. Sorry I invade your space but you spoke such beautiful
invites... bread trails to your razor-candy Ritz. I'll taste the outside and though it cuts my tongue I'll have enough
left of that muscle to push past your lips and lay my taste down straight to your heart. Inside your silver city. To
your diamond heart. I can reach inside, find the molecules that made that obsolete self-destruction machine, and pull
it out& like lock and key. Past the gag-reflex. Two lovers meeting. I'll hand you my sickly-locket and I swear to g-d
it will show up as a perfect match. The discovery worth going homeless. Wrap it up and keep it in here& but I still
need you to map out the lattice of the carbon fibers. The electronics and all that space...what happens to the atom
over here because of the mere existence of the first& and the last. Make a map for me. Please. I'm so afraid Love
will kill us. That this last and perfect euphoria drugs the soul from the petty things that are all I know. Know me.
Know what you love not just how. I'm sorry I'm not as perfect as you thought me to be. I'm obsessed with the puzzle
and need to know the different colours before I see that white light only comes from the walls falling apart, all of them
are in there. Melting. Smear. I need the vectors of the laser lights, all infinity of them. Before I believe in the single,
happy glow. I am several layers of thought, the will-o'-the-whisp lures me into all of this but I need the definition of
this preternatural thing before I can appreciate it again. I disassemble when I define. It's ok, I'll be fine. But only
because you ask and ask and ask past my "neverminds" and "I don't knows." No only means yes. I can only give you
the pass key so many times, thank you for not forgetting it. Thank you for kissing my witch-eyes closed. Thank you
for provoking the scientific proof that you are.. too kind. I can find another art form. Here, inside. Happy. You've
convinced me. It's a long road. I will tell you the mechanics of it as long as you keep fixing me. I'm an addict. You're
smarter. Speak my silence. Thank you for knowing that sometimes when I cry, the only thing that forces the evolution
forward is pushing yourself inside.

[ ex nihilo nihil t ] (2005-08-10 10:27)

I need to nd another way of explaining everything. My vocabulary is a bit obsolete, there are words I
thought were comfortable and aged, and things I had put pressure on till they came out carbon sheets{ but
they're imperfect. No, actually, they were perfected and shone like starlets in a Hollywood night, biding
their time and reflecting their burst of ice-cold starlight. White toothed show girls, grinning stainless steel
needle teeth, pink cheeks and chanel eyelids, out there baring their cage-shaped hearts and the wounded,
winged things inside them. Beautify grey-
flesh girls, their meat hanging off the hinges of their door-bodies,
the perfect cocoons for cobwebs and their self-annihiliation algorithms, as complex and organic as the nano-
spider women that spin a saliva sheath over every single thing I dragged my body over. [Build my streets
as I enter.] I left snail-trails those ruthless girls danced their ruby-gucci catwalk calls down. Down. Down
towards the smoggy city of smoke and mirrors, cinders and brimstone. Smooth and silky-soft, basalt [hot
and cool against the cheek] coffins for the 18th century lace that dropped off the spinning-girls, littering the
ground like o erings for an iron demi-god. False idol. 4am parties and nobody was leaving, it wasn't over
till everyone contracted consumption and coughed up the most beautiful red light into the alter-gutters, the
street had blood on either side, black and red laces that striped the city... beautiful mourning lace, Xing
the constricting corset of her conviction. The city streets connected like the laces I would stutter my ngers
over at night, tugging like a man would, the city gathered the girls, down the streets, in counterclockwise
spirals, through the incomplete cobbles and sewer structures, feeding that last broken angel-bird in the heart
of that effigy of annihilation. All ways are down. She was my grinning, drunk and heady mistress. She was
the lady of my night-city. We met on evenings I opened up my veins to her misfortunes, and tangoed with
needles and smoke-dragons, dancing her dance and forgetting to breathe, watching my oxygen count dip to
prime numbers where she could speak directly too me, her velvet-tongue words lapping at my ear. "You like
it here, my pet." "No one can take me from you, as much as you love the way they hold and *** you, and
make you forget and want to be wanted, no one can touch you like I do. No one can tame something that
doesn't want to exist. No one can own something that's already destroyed itself before anyone tries to get
in. You're a lost city. You're ancient texts that never existed but in the giddy minds of the last believers."
Mmmm, such things you said, convincing me to surrender something that didn't even exist. Becoming my
meaning in the last ice-age days. Give it all away and there is nothing to take, but god I love when they
look. Come dissect me, peal away the grey
flesh-games and tap upon the onyx-ivory cages in my heart. Some
turned the wings black in the formative years, some taught that none look as ferociously as those sapphire
eyed beauty-queens. Dazzling and dizzying their spindly dances, turning to dust on the basalt-city streets.
Dancing in ways I never knew how, and making me envy them. I could have been them, I could have been a
synthetic beauty-thing, tangible but always on the tip of your tongue or kissing the edges of grasping fi ngers
with the fraying edges of my skirts and gowns. I forgot to learn to dance, but I did what she said. Keep me
here, lady-nothing, I'm your most devout follower. I gave it all away, these are my girls, a thousand ways to
become smoke and ribbons around the corner. Chase. They'll never fi nd us, no one followed me here. Let my
diversions dance for you... they are highly skilled in the arts of this war. Listen to the way they laugh, the
way men want, look at how they dance, how they brush their smoky ngers over curves and angles, making
all of those who would seek, weep. Seduction that never ends. Let me weave in and out of consciousness, I
have bought us time. Love me, Lady. There's nothing to fi nd here, and that's the key. Press your lips to
my mouth, let me inhale the memories of myself. Push your tongue inside. Let your hands run over me, no
one will find you. Let them run in circles, Xs, crosses, whatever the *** the streets look like now. Your
bell-curve laughter makes me tremble, deceive me. I love you. Destroy me. My oldest game. I gave you
everything long ago, and I have built this place for you. Keep me, kept you. Black masses have nothing on

Until now.

[ Part 2 - Parting "Like a liar at a witch-trial, you look good for your age"]
(2005-08-10 10:45)

"Lady, lady please..." I've woken and I've broke something. I've fallen asleep here, and I wake up and I taste
ashes. She was standing over me, peering at me with those jewel-eyes and cotton mouth... she frightened
me. I couldn't help myself. She turned to ashes under my hands, she tastes like pale morning air and cinders
up-swept in the night. I almost thought she was a dream, I desired her most certainly but she would not lay
with me. Broken laws she said, so I pushed my last dagger through her body. I nicked something onyx and
the wings left her chest,
uttering out and up into the sky. I think it left the black city, freed itself from the
trappings of your gown and left the Heart. I didn't mean to kill the girl but... I don't think she changed. I
don't think this dust upon the ground is anything different than what she was. How is that... so?

And the Lady looked like snakes and some how shifted closer without moving in any way I could
see. "Don't speak of things..." I not. I'm here. I've never woken from this night before. Your tepid
fingers still taste like amaranth and absinthe against my mouth. I lick the lauche from her fi nger and feel
her well up inside of me{ sticky sweet, milk and honey, opium and myrrh. My Lady's warmth blooms like
flower petals inside of me, she could take up the spaces where I needed something most direly... where
something was missing. As long as I had.... have.....

"He made me choose last night" The city shivered. You can't hurt me, Lady Snake, Lady Nothing.

Lie with me a while, but I will leave before we're done.

"You've merely found a new master, girl. You'll come back home."

I do not leave any city I have seen, still pieces of me walk the streets. I roll the taste of cinnamon
over my tongue, and it tastes warm and sweet and something I'll put in my coffee tomorrow morning.

She writhed and hissed, keened and screamed as she saw our letters entwined on the adamantine
collar I put around her neck.

"I will take you out when I please."

"Or he pleases."


Silly girl. Wouldn't get a violet more violent.

"There's more to this than you. Narcissitic bitch. And you've always known. The wanted is nothing without the Want. I'll come back and visit, sweet heart. But, you just don't do it for me like you used to."

[ what you want - this time around ] (2005-09-09 09:57)

Steel-structure static-electric sundays. Lounging leonine with lazy lexicon. Ephermeral emotional evolution,
ever anti-egotistical. Always amorphic and ageless aphrodesiac. Perfect parlance perferated- particularly
past participle. Potentially poetic a priori. Sundry solipsism, something strangely serious but sustained in
stigmatic soliloquy. Terrorizing timeless terrestrial tomcats, totally tant mieux. No factitious faction, no
faceless fopistry forming facile faction.

[ staying alive ] (2005-10-28 14:12)

Digging up obscenity. Lost and lonely as can be. Forget me when the lights go out. Rocky horror Mondays
tasting like the way I used to say your name. I forget what automatic writing may be, something like this
and a bit more shady. I hate when the windows open out, and all thats left in has been strewn about. I'll
change a word here and there, but I'm afraid to stop and stop breathing air. *** the rhythms in my head,
I would type till my fingers bleed every last pint of meaning out of me. I'll leave this world in a state of
grace, hopefully for a much better place. These are just ways to try on myself, like a loose fi tting dress and a
mix-and-match existence. If I stop typing sometime now, I'll collapse into the corner and never fi nd out how
to wake myself up and just let it go. Let it go. Words... I'm all right, I really am. I just need to step into the
currents of the moment and let this fi gure itself out. I've got something to do in five minutes and Im afraid
I won't be able to come back here. If I keep typing I have a purpose, and maybe I'll come to an answer like
a decision in a labyrinth. I just want to be wrapped up in arms, have my hands wrenched off the keyboard.
I need a few months off, to sit in a corner and bleed it all out. There has to be an anecdote to the moment.
Something that can reverse the adverse affects, unfortunately I'm awfully intense. I just want to be ***
till I disappear, sung to sleep and devoid of fear. Fear of every little thing I think, oh here comes a thought
I'm not going to say, little secrets happy & sigh. Every day. What the *** is my problem. Ah. Time to
go. I'm not sure if this was a poem, but I do know it was an exercise, not sure in what but I can surmise.
***, I keep rhyming. Why. Maybe it's all the thoughts of lyrics, loon-throats and meanings bigger that
myself. James asks me to sing him to sleep sometimes, I need to get over fears and not worry what I think,
because all that matters is the audience, and I think he finds me pleasant enough.

[ palatable picture frame ] (2005-12-03 20:15)

I sit in windows, with sullen neck ties. Wishing the sky was a bit more fondue today. Dunkable, drizzleable,
dripable, tasteable, lickable. Succulent. Waves of rain. Hyper disdain. I can feel the wind come up
underneath me, brush my hair and kiss my mouth, sending little hurricanes of light and warm, juicy love
through my veins, shot out like dust-motes of antique-light from my fi ngertips. An addict's hour. In the
attic's honour. I hug my knees more closely to my chest, cuddling up tight. Body. Woman. Breasts, in
between which you ran your tongue, (oh god, so slowly as I watched) a worship I can barely understand
but speaks to me of loves and moments I never believed to be worthy of being true. Me. Myself. And
you, on a night long in the making, one of the only gifts of being so far apart, for so long. Feels like I'm
cheating, like I get an extra kick, like caffeine, because I miss you so much. Distance helps you love. Makes
it feel tingly, helps you f***. But I'll not discredit any of this. Perpetual Pessimist. I'll take what I know is
sweet, and real, and enjoy all this time to reminisce, and memorize the way you looked. A hundred times, a
thousand angles, perpetually rolling myself up, licking the baggie of my memories and letting them devour me.
Trapped on this window sill. Watching the walkers on the street. Hearing the places where Now and Then
meet. I have to cuddle old shirts to solidify the act (the distinct smell of being underneath you), but they
make my fingers gifted, piano-players. Circle, circle, con dent. Imbibing. I don't mind the extra sweetness
sometimes, I deserve it. Like molasses. Syrup. Pancakes. Mango juices slither snail-lines from the corner of
my pretty, petal-shaped mouth. Neck. Body. Naked in the window. Woman cat beast. Perched, idle. Suck
the memories of you off my fi nger tips, while you watch.

Last edited by Millicent Grim on Fri Mar 02, 2018 3:50 pm; edited 1 time in total
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm

Joined: 31 Aug 2016
Posts: 130
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Can Be Found: The Sacrifice Club
5507.16 Silver Crowns


PostPosted: Thu Mar 01, 2018 9:24 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

coquette ] (2006-01-26 22:05)

Elegy. Monotony. Too much for me. Soliloquy.
The diamond center has lique ed. Cold fusion rather quanti ed.
Persistent, deconstruction recti ed. The facets are leaking out each inch of hide.
Left a warning at the door. Unexpected caveat. I disrupt my personal space by introducing new dimensions.
Reminds me of most of my social reservations. I may understand the de nitions of all this space, but of my
own I make /my/ place. I reflect the light in such specifi c ways. I leave a spectrum signature that most
likely goes to waste. Occasionally I'll catch an eye. In those ways that perceptive people first pretend to pass
you by. And with a drag of glance, or lick of lip--my time is up and you've used all of it. Signature changes
to something new. Like a virus I've found a new protein coat... made for you. Little diamond girl slipping
down the street. Impenetrable by most men she meets. Where there's a key there's usually a lock.
Oh, ironic simplicity.
The opposite definition has slipped away from me.

[ Conscious Nocturne { Muse ] (2006-03-03 09:46)

Jack flight. Sea of glass. Putting whispering winds at my back, carving my place amidst our sky. Set off
on mercury's wings{ leaving messages along the withered lips of the sleeping as they form a path I have
made. Commit tails. Glittering things. Traveling the collective unconscious like a water-spider on a pool.
Viscosity velocity. Polar treasure-hunter, repelled to the ends of the earth. Looking for one sleeping face
among a million with the right quality of refraction to catch me in the act. I slip off into the black night,
saltatory, along the axons of human memory, lighting the stars in your eyes. Wick to lamp, lamp to light.
Wakeful and waking, leaving awareness strewn behind me. My exemplar of existence is the mourning of my
passage. I am my foot-print thoughts left in the sand-corner eyes of my path. Washed away by wakefulness.
Midnight seas. Primordial. My calling is my absence{ the past tense of my actions. I am smoky ribbon
tails- you're reaching out to clutch them as they slip around a corner. Out of sight, into the night. Into the
places without light, waiting to be set aflame and you just miss her again. No-one glimpses this lack-luster
lamp-lighter. She is nothing but before, and becomes nothing after.

[ suicidal thoughts ] (2006-04-28 10:16)

Snow princess, dressed in cobwebs, breath-frost and dew hair, edges as sharp as diamonds but dissipating
like fog. Fanning out and spread over everything, light to light, linked in light. A sharp, white, sliver entity
that's as much one thing, the Only thing, and at the same time part of this wintery collective unconscious.
Spinning, on ballet slipper toes, fanning out, arms outstretched, resonating, turning faster. Sending slivers,
splinters and fractures out into the air. Her fi ngers become rifts in the landscape, her nails divide the sky.
Her lithe form expands, on mists, on inhalation, like the plain has exhaled and she's turning inside out and
becoming all this... negative space. Expanding. At once consuming and receding. Devouring and dissolving.
There's a pulsar light exposed in her center, as her body is torn apart... falling into the fi ssures her fi ngers
have become, pulled across the liquid of reality, like oily organics across the glass surface of a lake. Falling
into herself, and the holes she has made. There is some fear, but mostly relief. There is some pain but it
drowns out the sorrow. Pain has defi nition, it is a vector { directional. In all this miasma-dissolve she fi nally
sees the approach of her salvation. The throbbing warmth that had drowned out her senses, all those tears,
over years, fi nally being made crystalline again by the edges being torn. For the second time understanding
what it's like to run the edge of a razor over her skin. Sharp, perfect pain... Relieved, beautiful and real,
she is able to know what direction things are coming at her from, instead of fi nding them all inside. She
actually shivers and she knows desire again. Desire as that ball of white light is exposed at her solar-plexus
and her insides threaten the defi nition of the world. There were two infi nite worlds, and her de finition was
simply the separation of one from the other. She was a segregation machine, and it was too much to bare.
From nothing to nothing. Ex nihilo... The gleam spreads like a murky fog, sucked out to the corners of the
rifts she has made. Falling through them, coming out them, over-expanding past the boundaries of them.
Wrapping inside themselves, like snakes weaving into one of the fissures as the same existance-tendril winds
out another somewhere else entirely... Take them over, finish what they have begun. And the light... the
light so blinding. Please, just burn brighter, ruin all the defi nition between what is this and what is that.
Make all one. Unify. Destroy. This is God. Make all one. All colours are in white. Leave nothing left but
Hope that something else will come. Dissolve all this dissection and destroy everything into nothing. Let
beginning meet the end. The gleam is the fi rst thing to break her sense of self. At fi rst she had been the
dividing factor, the origin of this divinity, and now it is beyond her. Uniting everything. Alpha and Omega.
Please. All become one so I am nothing again. Nothing but serenity. Conformity. Drown the light in her
yes. Super-nova. I submit. I am sorry. I release you. Hope.

[ Uriel Fire Dancer ] (2006-05-08 12:49)

Steel teeth. Fire eyes. Violent violet given no compromise. Diamond claws scratching every single surface.
Shadows so sharp even the past of her presence cuts fi ngertips. Knife storm hair, revenge syringe tongue.
Injecting conscience for everything you've done. Hope, despair as merciless as the Sun. Hydrogen formulating
fusion retribution. "I am the Glory you have invited into your Home." For every action an equal and opposite
sentence--varied duration for some. Put a thousand hours of Superego into the
flash bulb moment. Instant
karma. If I were a Force I would choose Retribution. Slaughtering the guilty and knowing I was perfectly
Right(eous). Hand me my blade, invite me to dine. Valkyrie Balance, truly divine. Fingers pleading mercy,
brushing my cheek, seeking anything but sentence in my eyes. Long lost lover created by your own design.
We fi t perfectly, like puzzle pieces, your neck, my knife. Milk and honey lover who's skin drinks your poison.
Splashed red and awful. What True momentum. A thousand heads on silver plates. Dance, Lady, dance.
Flash of curved blade and woman's body. Dervish girl, guiltless, washing it all away. Shaving the days work
from her conscience with the heat of her blade. Swirling like smoke, *** her blades. Knives and gossamer
white. Steel and whetting stone. Exact reaction. Your last bastion. Of your own faction. The last thought
not of death, but hope for redemption. But that's not hers to give. And she'll smile. For you feared her for
fear of leaving, of the unknown. Mortality fi ghting death, so simple. But she is so much more terrible than
that. Feared by everything, before man. That shining blade cleaves consciousness from matter, that's true.
But her final reformation for you, is robbing any Hope of reprise. Dagger eyes. Good night. Terrible lies.

[ Stagnation: mine ] (2006-06-20 11:2Cool Music: Banana skit - M.I.A.

Slipping down an already measured path,
clutching protrusions to cease momentum
cutting my hands on all the variables
all the intrusions
something to stop my fall.
anything at all
Anything I can wrap my fingers around.
Anything I can suck on for a few hours.
Something that lasts.
Replaceable, but with duration.
Novelty is a brief gift.
But gift nonetheless,
as the rest of the algorithms try to categorize
theorize, metabolize.
Assimilate. Sure.
Perpetual uniformity.
Smash the silence.
leave the liquid-shards on the floor
Leave it chaotic for just a little while more.
I categorize as a professional skill-set.
If genius is novel then reality is lacking.
I see fractal patterns before they even write themselves,
pushing them behind the doors of familiarity
predicting the future
behavior before it understands itself.
give me something that doesn't cut my hands,
and slip through them.
give me something I can wrap myself around,
and stop falling.
Something that will grow between my fi ngers,
catch my wrists,
pull me up
and close.
Tell me secrets I didn't know.
put me back on the path,
with something to carry on my way,
and a promise I will be able to stop myself from falling
if i slipped again.
an unfamiliar smile.
something that would catch my eyes.
a bright yellow caution sign.
falling rocks.
someone that would wake me,
and not leave me sleeping.
sleep walking on the edges of reality.
of substance.
dormant things.
walking off cliffs.
drama queens like the climb back up.
at least there's a genuine threat.
a new skill-set.
emergency addict.
threat drinker.
guilty as charged.

[ Ode to Summer ] (2006-06-22 09:59)

Sticky sweat, soft skin
sweet new scents,
coconut and honey,
frazzled blonde and ocean tones
sunpainted shoulders
skin-showing clothes
falling off limbs,
longer skin legs
sticking to surfaces
wish it was gone
wet water-winds,
even in the cities,
humid curling hair,
peeling away clothes
summer makes angry-candy
out of people
at least you get to see titties.

[ static in my head ] (2006-07-07 12:19)

Electro static transmission. Reception situated in a black box screen. Could call it blinders, could call it
point of view. Data moving, static, binary, across the view screen. A permanent triangulation of coordinates
that defi ne the within. Like a fi nder across a metamorphosing micro fiche.
This is my box. I am happy here, inside my box. I am this box. This box defi nes me. This box pro-
cesses that which comes across it. To perceive the outside, the data must
flash across this screen. The great
Shape a lens. A lens that fi lters the information through the interior, and spreads it uniformly, homogeneous,
across every surface. Diffusing and assimilating, afflicting and abating.
This is my box, across which the transmission spreads.
I feel your input data enter through the edges, and scroll across the screen, my eld of view. I marvel
at the time it takes to scroll through. Contemplate what it has done to the information before, and after.
You're a slash of yellow across a field of blue. You send the other pixels scattering. Dashing off, cognitive
dissonance, tiny pin pricks that ricochet of the defi nitions of this view-screen. The blinders shiver and hurt.
Stabbed and scratched by ad in finitum photon-assaults. My point of view aches. An existence migraine.
They haven't made a pill for information disease yet.
I yearn for seclusion.
If all information is altered by the information it is beside- Your touch misses nothing. Your drop of paint
has tainted my shade. Where has my colour gone. Do I try to get it back? Does it add shadows to my
screen? Did the shape change? Are the boarders different? Ink drop in barrel of water. The corners look
murky. My metaphysics is out of whack. Is the container altered by the contents? If it appears smaller, isn't
it? Information addiction.

[ Back of neck kiss for later ] (2006-07-07 14:57)

Sleeping cities. Wondering what they want right now. The welcome part of it is that it is effervescent. It
is moving, motion, quick and bubbly like champagne bits, including the heady tickle of dizziness after. It's
a clean and lacey type of rapture. It is a peculiar movement in my stagnation. I am constant motion, but
sometimes I move like monoliths. Wading, crossing, reality orbiting city. Whole and heavy structure with
so much momentum it not only crushes everything in front of it, underneath it, but it leaves deep, dark
fo ssures in its wake--that, ultimately, can house hidden cities of their own. And though cities spring life and
communion, ultimately they are isolated in the groves of my city-tracks. Your motion is the bustle of the
inhabitants. The sky-people that walk on these monoliths. Their trajectory is their own, not just an additive
acceleration with the overall jihad of the civilization-structure. It's a carnivale that goes on, unbothered by
the over all orbit, living of itself and happily ignorant of the forces of nature under foot. Not a distraction,
but a view point. A shedding of monolithic skins for the moment and the enjoyment of Being. Lightened
shoulders. Witty repartee. Movement and celebration. A long, contented kiss on the back of the neck of a
reader. Inhale. Soft mouth. One point of focus in all this fated momentum. A desire? A
utter of stone
heart? The reader doesn't read the sentence. Caught up in goose-
flesh and soft, terribly soft skin. A playful
flurry of movement and muscle. [Axons and electricity.] I remember I inhabit the city when I am here. It
doesn't matter that I am the city itself. Even inhalation changes, like oxygen winds transparent tendrils
through ancient alveoli... that haven't been used. Streets that are saved for emergency snow routes. Stored
and dormant for a day that has not come before. May never come. What are we saving for? Working
at minimum capacity so maximum capacity can be met at any instant. A civilization like a coiled serpent.
Springs twisted and making that painful, too-wound sound, metal sheering, tick-tick-shink. Tick-tick-shink...
You throw away cobwebs in my biology. Wind me the other way. And though confused, I am not forgetful
nor old enough to forget what rapture is. Over-wound, this takes no forces or drive from the movement
forward, it merely releases pressure. Tension. The city moves on, but so does the revelation.

[ Destroyer of Worlds ] (2006-09-13 15:5Cool

Dripping honey predilection,
Woe be he who deserves my affection,
He can sleep to dream till Resurrection.
I'm quite sure this story's old,
Through the generations of man it's told.
From one mother to loving son,
Even all the men I've won.
Find their hearts still beating fast,
Enjoying an innocence like your local pederast.
There's a way they tilt their head,
Throat and belly, jaw-slack, dead.
Exposing vital pathways
Supine, in that male-daze.
"Take it, please" they seem to say
But once I'm done, they want me to stay.
Such a way they twist and squirm,
Verbal discourse, muscles fi rm.
Completely unprepared for this charm.
Pretty mouth could do no harm.
Pouting, perfect huntress
Pigtails or leather seductress,
Just enough diamond claws,
To shed a glimpse of coy flaws,
But still a predator in love with pray,
That pleads for her, and begs to stay.
Oh how *** boring could you be?
Once I've won, there's just nothing left for me.
For you see, it's about the game.
Countless souls wasted in its name.
Will someone please prolong this hunt
And infi nitely satiate this willful ***.

[ two faced ] (2006-12-06 03:4Cool
I never pictured your face like that, so serious and concerned. How could someone be so good at scowling
when they have such a laugh interred? I dare say it's hard to imagine, was that indeed a giggle? Unthinkable.
How can the same muscles be so devout to both a scowl and such a laugh, how can lips be shaped to purse
so perfectly, and part so effervescent? I suppose you're part a china doll, and part a hapless adolescent. A
woman you may make one day, captivating and unfaithful{ bewitched by childish, unworldly things and ever
so ungrateful. Once denied all the magical things you've had hidden behind that smile, there will be a time
when the world finally intervenes and has a tendency to beguile. All the fanciful things you have imagined,
all the unbridled joy you've created by the simple timbre of that laugh, will fall like snowflakes brought to
melt upon a long and thorny hell-path. And like those ephemeral crystal things, I suppose you're want to
say, "why take me here unto this place just to change me back again?" And so I suppose this mystery is not
here for me to unravel, and I shall relish the few moments that I may set upon and marvel.

[and i used some words more than once. i'm tired. goodnight]
NOTE: Best read aloud.
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm

Joined: 31 Aug 2016
Posts: 130
See this user's pet
Can Be Found: The Sacrifice Club
5507.16 Silver Crowns


PostPosted: Tue Mar 13, 2018 5:13 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

“Fire” 5/19/97

Uncurling fingers sense the heat.
Warmth, as light devours the tangible.
Pure in form, there but not
So far from reach yet we plead for pain.
And where is pain, without caring?
Where is pain without wanting?
I will not purge the me from self.
I all you light, I feel you near.
I need your burn, I need you here;
To make full what was always empty.
To answer yes, to take it in.

I breathe the flames and sigh once more
Yet I’m alive and feel again.
To shed the skin and bring it to my breast
To hold it near and call it mine
To brush aside the gleaming locks,
As sunlight entwines with hair and skin.
Combining want and need and have.
To brush softness over whispering lips
Just to hold, to smell, to feel and taste.
To have something I never dared to want
An essence of warmth and the untouchable.

I see and feel better when I lie awake.
An image of truth behind closed yes.
Darkness balances radiance without shame.
Radiance balances darkness without lies.
The tools are there to draw them close.
But trembling hands pass through repose.
Accepting the loss for words and words,
And she devours all that sleeps.

Moth to flame, still pleading,
To die within; both with and without.
Just once.
And sometimes,
Two drowning things are,
Can be, perhaps,
Together and
If you ask,

Tiny pearls wraught silver shadows amid the depthless green of the wind blown leaves. Tear drops glistened upon massless sheaths as the sun slowly rose upon the grove. As gravity summoned them lower they collected an grew in size. Assimilating likness and like. Tears become streaming rivers over green, waxen cheeks. They collected at the tips of the leaves and aused them to bow to a greater force of nature. Launched into the air by the spiraling force that pulls us ever downwards, the dew drop was collected within rough edged sepals. And with this tiny kiss of natures lifebreath, the tough appendages twisted and smiled at the sun. Opening slowly, delicately to unfurl bloody fingers. Plucking and probing at velvet perfection as slowly , withered, wet and limp petals twisted into vibrant beauty. Pushing at the cool air of morning to bloom, to live, to fight the bonds that once protected and now only drew them downward. Downward to that fate that will find and draw everything that lives to it. Downward to the seductive call of night and end. Sleep and res.

And the petals stretched and rejoiced in their free will and untameable, unbound glory. Five days, a week? It would live its span of time in its beauty and those who will cast a strange glance in its direction will always remember. Remember it for what it was. Perfection. A strange anomaly in nautre’s savage garden. Beauty. Perfect in every one of its flaws.

And that single drop clung and quivered upon a plush, vibrant petal. Joining it, another drop proved too much for the softness to bare, and together, the two tears – now one—plummeted to the earth below. Sliding over the slender stem and coating the jagged, keen edged throws with silver laced light before it shattered into nothing.



Pieces of real
Pieces of me
Pieces of feel
Pieces of free
Cowering winds take a hold of her skirts
Locks of ice tend to her lips
Sometimes you wish there were more
Sometimes you pray for less
Things just aren’t meant for you, you know.
Take it as it comes and maybe you’ll drown.
If only that’s all it were.
I can only answer if you ask.
True of course, I have no questions.
And feeling is as alien to me as the elements.
But you know that.
You know that, so don’t ask.
I want you to.
But you know that.
Why can’t I just be?
Why can’t I get away?
I want it.
I want it all.
You know that.
Don’t give it to me,
Because I can’t.
I need it.
I need it to be real.
Pieces of me.

Ease breath past the year
Binding of one finds nothing
Peace in the silence.
Silence of Dreams.
Voices of none as quietly it turns
The plunge of a tongue into a naked chest.
The simple taste of it.
Want it, and it’s there.
Slipping from skin on skin.
Mingling of heat on heat.
Giving over.
Giving up.
Drowning to share.


‘Caged’ called the bird.
Unkempt and neglected.
Shades fall across the unmarred page.
Feathers individual strewn about the thought.
Convoluted in its simplicity
Twisted in the web.
Yet silken strands are its air.
Home of spiders as they hunt in need.
Listen, as the sultry bird flounders.
Leave the nothing that keeps you ed.
It’s here, faithfully.
Belie[ve that dreams are shared.
‘Caged’ called the bird.
‘But I am still here’ answered the silence.
‘I will never leave’ entwined the need.
‘yes’ slithered the answer.
And clouds spilled across your tongue.


Half of what you are.
Sleeping in some higher frequency.
Darkness that I can see through.
Answers that I can read.
Whispers that I need to hear.
Comments that you don’t need.
Quietly you watch,
As truth I bare like skin.
Simply you aren’t there
And quickly you’re within.
Something there is answered.
I support this arrent suffering,
For something more than shadows.
Blackness of violet need.
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm

Joined: 31 Aug 2016
Posts: 130
See this user's pet
Can Be Found: The Sacrifice Club
5507.16 Silver Crowns


PostPosted: Tue Mar 20, 2018 5:33 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Idol Thieves.
Thu, Feb 16, 2017 at 3:43 PM

sometimes you taste like amber: liquid, golden, frozen stone. in my mind you are caramel and honey. your shadows are deep chocolate velvet. all your honey-light facets trapping rays of sunshine in your depths. your words, your thoughts are warm emanations of your inner spaces. of the secret places i can only travel when you take my hand and lead me down your inner halls. even your smile sounds like warmth, your heart holds child-like delight- ageless and wandering, curious and candid. it shimmers like heatwaves around your words. a beautiful, charming distraction I'm happy to peel from your lips (with a glance or with my tongue). you taste like ghostly star-light. my heart leaps and thrums happily like sipping stolen brandy. our mingling discourse etches radiant windows into the center of you, shared like breadcrumbs as we walk. as we talk. you know how to shimmer and shine. pulling my attention towards you as you press your fingertips into my wrist. an intense glance. tiger's eye and candle light on a dark night. i catch my breath. committing your willful press of flesh to symphonic memory. we walk your halls at the center of this golden stone. past a dark hall I do not notice. because you time a bright laugh like starlight rippling on night-waves of our conversation. it rings like ghostly bells along the infinite black of space and sea. hypnotic. no, harmonic. caught. enjoying the poetry. the experience of you. you know how carefully i watch, how thirstily i drink. so you shine. i inhale the smoke trails- ghosts and essence. high and warmed from the inside out. from heart to fingertips, drunk and glowing. and this is your prestidigitation. distracting me with you. you carve our path through the depths of us like a will-o-the-wisp. one i can touch and taste and inhale... but always truly on the horizon. pulsing secret spectral sighs. your attentions are like snowflakes melting on the tongue. sky-sent and ephemeral. hallowed. i follow the path through the dark, but only along the path of you. following the labyrinth you light as we walk. truly, genuinely to my delight. i enjoy this map of you. as genuine as shadowed halls we decide not to travel. not the other side of a coin or any game of denial. just the way we decide to go today. where to tomorrow? as we walk, as you glow. you steal a kiss from the candy-pink plush of my lips. bury your features in the golden plaits of my hair. forget to glitter and distract and step close. my back against a corner stone. foundational. exactly where I'd hope to pause. my fingers wrap your hip. a forearm. my taste in your mouth as I step backward into your secret places, letting the dark fall half across our twining figures. the golden light guttering, deepening to whispers. the taste of you shifts to smoke wafts of phantom, dark, boozy vanilla and i let my tongue chase the taste of you while you don't notice the change in light. where you fit like a key down this shaft of hall and antiquity. i'm a guilty treasure hunter in this place of secret routes and crumbling walks, taking more than was offered in the dark. till the light shines through your skin. through your smile. caught, transfixed. caught in amber again. your wily smile all knowing. friendly. affectionate. omniscient. and always just a little sad. unphased- you always knew my nature. a thief of you. and i've always known you were the map and the guide. a golden ferryman on black waves. these dark shores a trove of stories of you, exhumed under our feet. as we walk. as I stray down halls you've locked away. oh to run wild off the lit paths! we walk again. waiting for the glow of you to hum. resonate. look for me as we wind through these courses, our route inhering us. until the golden light infuses us with the need to touch again. hunt again. seduce again. steal again. scold again. know again. stealing pieces of you you hold so tightly in your hungry, lonely hands.
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Millicent Grim
Young Wyrm
Young Wyrm

Joined: 31 Aug 2016
Posts: 130
See this user's pet
Can Be Found: The Sacrifice Club
5507.16 Silver Crowns


PostPosted: Wed May 16, 2018 7:29 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

[Draft 2]

Fire dancer

You have this heavy gaze.
Half lidded. Gravity.
I see you, seeing me.
Naked in your stare,
I'm always there without armor
You eye-f**k me when we talk
When you brush by.
Even when we're actually f**king.
You pull out this exuberant,
flame dancer. She runs hot.
This feminine-sleek side of me.
Because I like the way you like it.
And you like it fiendishly. You do.
That way you look through.
And have no potential limit for it.
No temperature event horizon.
You drink it all.
You can swallow it whole.
That's probably why it's so hungry...
.. it knows I can pour myself forever.
f o r e v e r.
Such light, the way the fire moves
shiny, like liquid metal
chatoyant stars that run through your fingers
Run myself past your lips.
I see my glow on your skin
And you're so smart about it.
A master of me
You don't even let it just go,
Let me run.
Run out of time.
...because I would stop.
It is not a perpetual engine.
I have my own physics and friction
It does not just want to watch itself dance
like a flame-woman warming your hovering hands.
You don't dote on it all the time,
you give it ***. And you shove
I like to fight back.
All this kindling.
All the ins.
So sometimes,
it takes a little more control of me
...more than I would normally let it.
I let it.
And I am aware it adores being adored.
Feeds on that s***.
Letting the warm halcyon opiate run through the blood
You feel so f**king good.
And that's the only place I don't have control.
How much I love this.
How the fervor of your hungry-gaze carries me away
And I like that too.
Which I know I do.
I can't help it.
I guess it's a little bit of an exhibitionist.
It's probably the one way I really am.
And it's private.
Usually just for me
So it's not lack of control,
cause it doesn't happen when I will it not to.
I'm not afraid of this
But when you take the shackles off it...
It becomes
And it becomes me,
it's fine.
But I mean, I side-eye that s***.
But I side-eye myself.
And you...
You whisper "c'mere.. c'mere......
gonna pull off this ribbon
from your slender wrist....
watch it slide off...
flutter to the ground....
hands are free now, yes girl?
whatcha gonna do with them?"
"I know"
"I know you know."
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