all drums and echo
smoker’s lung with a silver lining.
as followers may have noticed, I temporarily abandoned this tumblr whilst I concentrated on my day job and also - most importantly - the wonderful task of creating another little human, who arrived safely barely a week ago (03 Feb).
I have hoarded and scrawled and torn pages in absentia, which will all find their way into this place soon. It makes an interesting chart of the incubation period.
see you soon
Burned you out, didn’t it?
All the masochism that both hands are capable of couldn’t entice you under this skin again.
So much to gather, so few hiding places for it. We are supposedly fathomless, yet I never found a niche for you. That adoration, the quietly-grotesque shyness, forever coat tailing me. It was inexhaustible.
As best as was allowed, the boot box full of blurred yesterdays is still in our shared inventory - the stack of candid frames I keep by me at all times, snapping the band to bullet-points of memories as they fall. Just a tidy series of pocket nightmares, and chronologically-ordered institutional marks.
Just a traveller’s companion of vendettas.
they informed me
that you’d moved on,
with an overreaching suggestion
unearthing the tape,
that accidental monologue i trapped,
your laughter echoing
in another’s chamber,
arguments picking holes
in someone else’s leather.
they were terribly keen to abandon you,
vultures on the flock-watch, mad for purpose.
that to be left wanting was to burrow,
to covet, and to waste.
they are immune to it.
they don’t hear you howl
as i do.
“your head is as good as wasteland, if you fail to tend to it correctly.”
That’s alright; Nature reclaiming what belongs to her, you can hardly blame.
One turn of phrase from you is already equal to a mouthful of thorns. Spit them in a circle, wait for them to puncture you as you tread.
“Almost fiction”, he drawls. That sounds like another name for an elaborate lie.
Watch for the powdered glass with those grains of salt.
are you there?
I’m on some dust-clotted aged worm
burrowing into the gut of the city,
I’m thinking, damn those covetous grey ghost-lights,
with every dry tap.
I’m thinking, the bother and the bloom
of heartlessness -
oh, god, is it worth it?
I’m thinking we drag each other up
onto that battered pedestal,
who knows what gathers in those recesses.
I’m thinking, you’re so damn intemperate,
that bottled composure of yours,
it has it’s own garish platform.
I’m thinking, “kiss you once kick me back”
the transient capture of it between my teeth
I’m thinking, I wonder how those welts have aged
as well as you
When you reopen them with every detail of your tongue
The current lack of content on here is really a positive thing- it means I’m writing. Which ought to be a relief, since that deadline is staggering swiftly towards me with a determined grimace. Here comes the whip.
[everywhere it’s six-sex-six by luck]