| (no subject) |
[Sep. 15th, 2008|06:29 pm] |
| [ | sounds like |
| | dirty three - sad sexy | ] |
I hated my family on the Christmases they couldn't be bothered to cut up the canned cranberries
and there they laid on a dish, obvious during my Grandmother's epically hypocritical graces. A fat, shiny burgundy tube wrung with rings from pressing tin - -
plebeian, simple and reeking of classlessness, despite our upper-Bourgeois imaginings. There is a better way honestly. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 15th, 2008|05:59 pm] |
| [ | sounds like |
| | carpet musics - sleeping (on trains) | ] |
The time came when shopping didn't help and all that my Mother had taught me was like a meal of sand. The curve of a heel and a perfection of leather only scraped me out. Then I became resigned to a life of emotions the equivalent of being tied bare to the nose of a speeding subway train.
My body goes through these motions. My breasts inflate with dying pride, my guts roll, but it's myths.
My body bleeds like a murder scene and nothing comes of anything.
My Mother pushed me into the wake. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 25th, 2008|01:50 pm] |
My Mother told me about myself when she was telling the neighbor.
I didn't want any more children. I got rid of the space between she and her brother. I thought it was what I was supposed to do.
Later she went crazy from memories she said she had and spent ten years on a floor and three without leaving the house.
She is pretty but the Doctor says has an unending desire to cut her face a checkerboard pattern.
The neighbor's arm was in the Formica. It lifted and I could see how the skin clung longer to the surface
than the muscles had moved the arm up. I imagined her skin went 'boing' a little when it peeled off finally.
I thought: I wouldn't want to be her. |
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 12th, 2008|12:47 am] |
| [ | sounds like |
| | tom waits - hoist that rag | ] |
Learn.
The twins
one's lost everything and still an architectured city's intricacies more than the other:
spattered primaries of obviousness stunted somewhere after thumbsucking and before stockings. She's mine.
The other in those two days of her perpetual heart detonation did not stop looking at me only me, my greatest privilege to watch: How to walk through apocalypse like a kitten, lion.
Sister said she heard them behind a closed door in Summer once, brother verified. I shook and my idealistic child's imaginings of immaculate, or the milkman, fell off a high forgotten place.
My thoughts are elegant enough to have thought long out of why or unfair, but hit a skip at simplicity: she will never be in rooms.
I will never feel you in a room.
My signature grief. And past movies.
Her hair.
The girl's smile.
Her hair.
If I could choose my life: Bearing witness.
I never feel more useful.
We lost our girl.
"Your feet,
in your boots,
on the mud,
of the grave.
The way we refuse
to be saved." - castanets |
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