Misanthrope

Spot a stain: a trap,
oh those parts torn open
at the nape. Impart ire: aim
the sin at home. Spit
the ear. Hear harm, stare
then stir – his ripe heart
a nest of heat atop a train. Spite
the saint risen in resin. Spin then pine,
parse poems, host those horns
sent on a spine. Set hope
to emit another time:
Oh, Era of Haste:
snare this star, this prism- pith
its sore, sore arms so spent-


It’s impossible to be completely honest, completely happy; therefore slink and sink back into the warm familiarity of being without

Advertisements

miss interpretation

I’m tired I tried trying still tilting and lilting to choice and voice and vice rise for the prize the price that ties I turn my eyes you find it easy to presume assume consume whatever words I offer misconstrue miss is it true what about you the question being what do you want what would you want would you want me now that you know what you think you know nothing short of knowing the story the sequence of events when I only meant to vent not pleading on the subject leading to lack of choice abundance of noise and possibly absent poise what lesson do you wish to press on for this session the slight sight of a misplaced intention delivering splinters and snowflakes driving stakes in entire stabbing setting this heavy heart on fire

I tire

Why I think I’m a better person when I’m not thinking of you

Because once upon a time, the world was flat. Or it stood on the backs of elephants stacked on turtles. Some giant, here or there. Excuse me while I recall my mythology library from my youngest sister. For all we know, everything we believe in resides in a sleeping beast’s toenail.

I’m still struggling with my faith in God (or gods for that matter) but I’d like to say I believe in the good. By that I mean any random day when a random person imparts a present or a pretty secret story is pretty nice.

It rains way too much these days, soaking my shoes to the soul of their soles. I bought  rainboots and rainbows after a strange flood but all they do is lounge around in the car. I believe catastrophe tells people a lot about who they really are. For example: a friend who chose to frolic and swim in the high rise pool while floods ravaged streets below. Or, others who moved in X’s home despite how they spun around rumors about X. X never asked why.

What I mean is, I would have called you when you were stranded but I wasn’t sure you’d answer. The world didn’t change so much. We’re both still alive and still not happening. Maybe somewhere else, as someone else. I saw a starfish along the street back then. What would that mean for us?

 

 

 

Word association*

 Atlas: directions and drawings of sea-monsters. Looking at it she wonders if the boats left by some dead cartographer’s hand ever urged those paper waves on, sails singing Move, move, please move.

Blouse: Don’t bring too many clothes, said the voice of her aunt hailing from across the pacific. We have enough waiting for you here.

Cat: all 5 kilograms condemned to remain in the house for the weeks comprising the trip. Left to the mercy of the much-isolated middle sister.

Duck: dead for the past 18 years or so. Deep grave dug in front of the house. Makeshift casket made from medicine box. The first pet owned. See: “Child’s first experience of death and/or loss”.

Elephants: They never forget, do they? Halfway across the world, its bones shiver. The continent creases a part of its face to acknowledge this. The sea ruffles the waves on its hair in agreement. Something told her it would be safer to travel via aeroplane.

Continue reading

The muse who put the “used” in amused-

Useless List* of “Muses”. Sort of.

  • 01: Name resembles a shade of the water. Was a childhood friend from church. Twice my age, then (so what?) Owned a store selling soup. Grew apart (what these things are for).
  • 03: Skeletal. One of the smartest people I knew. Thin fingers and a piano. Umbrellas, books, and framed glasses.
  • 02 & 04: Forgettable – save for the fact how both were destructive (one more so than the other). One returned as a friend, following a long period of misfired revenge plots and attempts to engage vultures, etc. The other, out of sight, has his bones breaking from too much effort, or some other reason (last I heard from a friend of a friend).
  • 05: Uninteresting, eventually. A failure (the person, and perhaps the relationship as well) by choice. Quite civil, no longer chummy.
  • 05.5: Whom I know not to go to when the world turns bleak.
  • 06: The Quietest Boy.
  • 06.5: Weak. Also: What a waste those weeks were.
  • 07: The Boy Most Likely (to: a.) burn a building, b.) kill himself, c.) kill someone else, d.) set everything on fire, e.) disappear)
  • 08: Smiles bright as the sun, feels sad only if out of food. Assessment so far: Strange.

Currently: Keeping a safe distance for my own good.

*Save for 05.5, all have names made of two syllables. Hmm.

Life-related: I haven’t really been ~writing~ since a.) I’ve been working on some illustration deadlines (yay, art!) and, b.) I’ve mostly been busy attending to this little fiend named Scaramouche (I call her Mumu for short):

 

I love this Fattybutt monster to bits.

Also: the most interesting thing I’ve read all day. Be warned though, it’s got some heavy stuff. One secret grossed me out real bad (well, my fault for reading it while eating dinner). And I’m the type of girl who can eat a sandwich beside a cadaver. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.