F-

Fuck poetry.

FUCK IT.

FUCKIN' THING SUCKS.

I bleed for my lips first; from my lips, first, because there is nothing else to whet them with.

They know the drill.

This isn't poetic justice. This isn't dramatic irony. This isn't justice or karma or coincidence it's just cut-it-the-fuck-out. Pure fuckery.

Isawanopenspotin453today.
I took it.
SONofaBITCH.

Masochistic aspirations.

A Message From the King

"Owch."

"Them my ears, fucker. Them my ears get the fuck off, fucker!"
Thankyou for biting my ears.
I don't think you know that you have. I don't know. Maybe. Dunno what you know. And I don't know if that chomp will do any good, anywho. See him starin' off through the third wall?
But maybe.
Sothanks.
Ya tricky little fucker.

Look how seriously the King of the Cosmos is taking you.

But still I do not have answers--to give, that is. Transmission is the tricky business. Wanting to transmit is the jam up.
What does it mean to want to want to do something? The way it sounds, I feel like the first want should slide into the absence left by the first. But it doesn't. They are not they same. Why aren't they the same? What's the difference between those weird little buggers?

You think it is when you do not write that it is called reality, she whispers, barks, or bites. But it is only that another is writing about you then.

But this was written four or so months ago. The context has since changed. Entirely, I am tempted to say. But is it really so different? But must it be, for it to be of value?

I love patterns not because they are organized or precise, but because they most often lead to shaking. And that is a term I am going to abuse for awhile. Use? Steal. Give a home.

You do not have to learn a lesson to bear the mark of your errors.

Dameda, hanyou. That's not how that works.

I am so tempted to say that the mark of your errors is...is beauty. But we will let Isaac alone a little longer.

Underneath

She moves like a snake in her sleep

Mouthing

Rooting for the taste of her tail

For the end of her

No, it's not the end of her

Strange thing

Stretched skin

Is this eating? Or is her belly filled

with stones and water?

Her tongue is out

Flicking

Faltering

Trying to recall a tastered that's

been eclipsed by a smellwheat

The pen fell half chewed from her lips
Ink trailed between her breasts.

Get wet. Get wet with us and tell us what it's like. We want to hear it, but not from our own mouth. We want to spit and curse and smile through red banded lips and black eyes. Tell us the story of us and ourselves. Tell us where the edge was, for we could not see; tell us there is more to be had; the nights are not yet over. Then tell us no more lest our drunken thoughts turn sober. It will not be empathy; not sympathy; not anything that's you or me; but together, let us be The Beaten. Lie, act, paint if you must, if you desire--but let me come in the blacks and purples of this fresh made flesh.

Hey there, crinklefox.
Save a bottle for me.

Rambling Shit

Ain't gonna pretend it's nothin' else.

Two steps foreword

Fourteen in every other direction

The first ghost I ran from

The second I chased

The third I passed with only small falterings

The first I escaped

The second I lost

The third went to serve the universe

She ran to the edge of the street and pushed her hands into her hair

Mudeyedmartyr

Crunched down on her legs

Coughed the sound right out of her throat

Glossy red spots of spit

Nearly choked on it but

Pushed it through a fountain pen and

called it dinner

called it done

Now don't be hasty, master Meriadoc.

Hasty?

The hearts and lives of men are quick, and those of birds and mice are faster; I am only acting as fast as my blood runs, for if I do not keep up with it, it will run right from me.

Wakame no jirojiromiru

One of every thirty
Slinging back like old shoes on a wire

Backs beached every twenty nine

into the grooves of Very Large Walking Shapes
They lick each others' necks and napes
Sand back to sand where a child's dug deep
Sky back to sky where a star has blown out
Tongues ever dripping Skin wet
To the chin they are always wet
They are always wet
Even when their noses peel in the sun They are always Wet
Their eyes are filled with it

Their ears spill with it

The sweat of the messenger is soaked with their sounds

They close around him like thumb and forefinger

Against the bridge of his nose their six hearts pound

Beat Beat Beat

They are The Beaten

They are the split-lipped sisters

Black-eyed brothers
Gently tapping harl'd up livers

Drop it

Chronological Monster

We have recently dug very deep, without first realizing it. The head is spinning. Our sky is reeling.

I am grinning and smiling and laughing at the knees

Old man Bottle would be proud

Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all

Old man Bottle would be proud

Three teeth stuck in the shoulder of a twit star

Bits of gum and string and wandering

Get out of my head, Kafka

A deep sea creature opened the valve behind its sheep's eye and spat a bubble that reached the surface, reached the large, slick skinned creature that skirts the beaches. And back again, this is what the leather skin was heard to have said:

February 19 2008

But what if...something more?

Would it be [] worth it, to fight against the clockwork runnings of the world, to escape the day? To prolong the night?

Can what is not...act as one that is? Can what is not real be realer than what is? If so, what is truly real in the world? When something spikes to the extreme, the two become close, and a path between the two is almost visible. Just barely reachable. Maybe.

But how is one to know, [before trying,] if such a path is walkable? If it will not simply disappear beneath our feet, whereupon we will be left with nothing, as nothing, with not even our [] memories left?

August 18th 2008

I've been meaning to ask you. Where do you go when the clock rounds midnight? And who are you when I see you again past one? It's an improper mirror. Or is it the only proper one?

December 1st 2008

The hunted man

hangs his gait

on the highest spire in the land.

December 27th 2008

Ev: (sighs heavily, dropping her head back onto the couch) What's it like, to choose your own name?

Le: Well...(pauses) It's like falling. That moment before you hit the ground. You know it's gonna hurt, but gawd, it feels good before you get there. Maybe even better, because it's gonna hurt later. Right before you hit, everything's already there, jammed together in your brain: pavement, bones, blood; red, wet, heavy. In that second before impact, your brain condenses all these anticipatory sensations down to one word. The actual impact is just to cauterize the word to your brain.

Ev: You've got a morbid streak of your own, you know.

Le: Thanks. I try.

I wrote like an arrogant dipshit. Still do.

I love it. I hate it. I love it. I'll never.

I am always wanting to stay up--later, later, longer. Sleep comes; it always does. The longer I am away from it, the more eagerly I meet it. Sleep is nothing after a few hours of few movements; but after three nights of slipping, drifting, dizzying movements, quick and wild living, it is everything. I am caught between a love of this form and the next; but the next will come, and the longer I deny it, the hungrier it comes

Sense of elation

I am always fighting it; dodge, punch, clothslineTAKETHATBETCH

The jaw shakes dark metal held with a pin. It rattles. It shakes. God, how it shakes, how it makes me shake as it nears--my entire world gets redder and wilder and the bruises crawl up my legs like the stains of wet beetles or the patches of a plague--trembling fingers reach touch-pull--

But no, not yet, run, stretch it out, push your head back and offer the bands in your neck to whatever demons or gods you will meet in these longer nights. Be a god; touch yourself. Cry out at the edge of your own fingernails. Offer yourself to yourself; take from yourself your self. You will not remember by morning; you will not exist by morning. So make as many stains as possible. Leave trails. Leave blood. Invite yourself back for more. The endings are endless; but that does not mean they cannot be played with.

I was up at 4am one night. I saw an episode of FLCL. I didn't know what it was. I was really fucking confused. I thought, somehow, what was in my brain was being projected into the tv. My nose was about five inches from the screen. I think I was smiling for most of it. I was clutching my sketchbook. But I didn't draw until it was over.

I am not a very good player, still. I have known better; I have known much better. I am too much in love with my erroneous ways to become very good very quickly (or perhaps ever at all).

But I am in this godforsaken game until the end. Or it, at least, is in me.

In a green forest verdana there is a clear pool of water. Narcissus stares and stares and stares. The water does not try to reflect him; it shows him only that it is a clear pool of water. And so it reflects him perfectly. Or rather, so imperfectly that it is exactly as it should be--those things that must make no sense in context because they are already whole without. He stares and is mesmerized. The forest verdana burns around him. He is oblivious. He is absorbed in his task--that is, trying to pull his essence from the water, or else, trying to push what essence of it is in him back into the pool. He absorbs; he is absorbed. Is this my name?, he asks, over and over in his head. What is my name? Is this my name? Is this my name? He cannot help seeing himself in clear pools of water, even as entire green forests burn all around him.

We are whispering now--

Isaac?

S

uneater suneater suneater suneater

If I eat the sun will the rains come?

Bring it all down

Bringyourbootsbringyourbootsbringyourbootsbringyourbootsbringyourbootsbringyourboots
I will be wetting my lips throwing sheets to the wind and walking down the creek the next time it rains
I will eat cake in the woods in the sky because Tegavania has had none for almost nineteen trillion years now
I will write my thoughts brown on my arms and legs and watch them wash clay red through my dress

These weatherfucked days, the closest I come to being wet is waking in a sweat.



I'm sorry--was that overly sexual? Oops. I didn't mean it to be.

Probably.

Piper

"And if I don't mean what I say don't take me for a liar."

There are things I believe in but do not say, because the moment I should say them, I would not believe in them. I have thought to have killed many good things this way; but more often than not, the root of them is not reached, and some night later, in the silent spaces from whence they pushed up, they come crawling back again, their bodies scarred from the errors of my lips, but alive and healed. More often than not. But it is such a hassle to wait for their return, should they return at all. And sometimes, I feel as if they lose sweetness upon each death and return. So more often than not, I prefer to keep tasting them unspoken, and speak them only when I must, or, as is more often the case, when I am being too foolish not to.

There are these thoughts that run around in my head sometimes. Run in circles up there. Sometimes it's just a single word. Come. Sometimes it's a face that starts talking and then another one talks back and a dialogue starts up. Sometimes they flesh out into characters. Sometimes they graft to my legs. And some stay inky and dark and mush about up there, separating and reforming; they do not form because they are unfinished; they are not spoken because they are still unstable. I do not know how much I mean them. They are freelancers without job assignments

I keep Luneth freelance. Because he's Luneth.

I have very poor dividing lines between my emotions. Emotions? Feelings. Feelings? Affections. No, let's go back to feelings. It is very fun. When you keep quiet about it. It is very difficult. But very fun. And...and I guess I am using the term "fun" very loosely here. Fun comes with blood and scrapes. Fun comes with fear. Fun comes with...a lot of internal landslides. But we are never so high as when we are falling.
There are these phrases lately
not good enough not good enough not good enough not good enough asking for too much too much too much too much too much too much too much
so often when I am working
I guess I get bored a lot
They do not cut to the quick; they stretch and stir from it. They are the nails themselves.
I've become incredibly vain and..and then he opposite, at the same time, somehow; I feel ugly and beautiful. Beauty through horror.
And itai; I will not say it doesn't hurt. It does. Like a bitch. To have these kinds of nails is to have them ingrown as well. Pleasure is not taken through it; it is taken around it. If through it, then only in that it exists before and after it.

Dunno. I'm bored of this for now. And God this couch is comfortable.

On Waiting

"Are you waiting for the 105 as well, good sir?"
"No."

"Oh? I must ask, then--what are you doing at this bus station, sitting next to me on this bench, map in hand, fare in pocket, if you are not waiting for the 105?"

"I am existing."

"Oh. Of course. But are you sure you are not waiting?"

"No."

"And what of when the bus comes?"

"Perhaps I will take it. Perhaps not."

"What is your destination?"
"I do not know. But wherever it is, I shall exist there, as well, and, perhaps, take a bus then to another place in which I might also exist."

"I have taken this route many times, sir, and I feel I must inform you that the next stop does not have a covered bench. The weather is treacherous and the roads unpaved; you will surely have to wait in the mud. Will you not go home and wait in the comfort of your own home until tomorrow, when the weather is fairer?"

"No; I am no more spent here than there."

"But hold on then, good sir--where are you off to now? The bus will be here soon. If you will not wait at home and do not mind the conditions ahead, then wait here, just a little longer."

"I told you, I am not waiting; I am existing. And neither for this bus alone."

"If you miss this bus, the next bus will not be along for another twelve hours."

"So much waiting."

"That is my point exactly."

"But I am existing, kind friend. It is something I am very good at. I have been doing it all my life, you see, and so twelve hours is but a blink to me. Look, your bus is come. I will call on an old friend of mine. Have dinner and sleep a bit, and by the time I next open my eyes, the bus will be before me as swiftly as if it had chased on the wheels of yours."

"You hardly have time for that, unless you mean to take the twenty-fourth bus that will come from now."

"Each bus is the bus; all time is time. I am nowhere I should not be, or, rather, I am no where I cannot be. Step quickly now, friend, or you will miss your bus and have to wait for the next."

"That is alright--look, it is already gone by as we have been chatting. As you say, another will be along sure enough, and I suppose I will be there to meet it, should I need to. And besides, I've just now remembered I've a dinner to prepare tonight for a very good friend of mine, and though the recipe is in my pocket, my cupboards are empty."

"Shall we go together, then, to fill them?"

"Yes, yes."

"The nearest market is two miles South. Shall we wait for the bus?"

"No, let us walk."

"Much time will pass."

"And as many words will pass between us."

"Ikuzo."

Here we are; there we go.

Dip and sway

toe to toe.

On Learning

I have never felt such a mixture of things before--I could not call it any one thing. Like a wave, it was memory. It was fear. It was irritation and bits of anger smoldering at the edges. It was pain and sympathy and fear at sympathy and anger at empathy and the death of five other emotions caught in the crossfire.

My heart was dead silent, but every sensation was still there, pushed up into my cramped skull, connected by the barest blood thread to my heart and my feet, where I was aware of five pulses beating calmly. I did not know what to do to be rid of it. If the sensation had been in my heart, I would have beat something; if it had burned in my paws, I would have run. But these places, as I have said, were calm. I did not know what to do. I did not know what to do. So I whirled about and bit the leg of my little girl, right above the knee.

There was judgment in this action, one which I did not regret. For days, I licked at my teeth and tried to pull the feeling of her soft flesh from it, tried to pull out whatever was stuck in my gums, stopping up my ability to regret. The first faded in time, but the second would not. I felt cruelty, but no remorse. What right had I, a cur, a bitch, to judge her? But I had. And what is worse, I thought my judgement a fair one.

If her hand had been resting on her knee, I would have snapped two of those pretty little fingers right off. I..I am in horror of myself, still. But the judgment stands unforgiving upon my neck.

Snuffling and sniffling

An understanding was reached

And then unreached

Onesan

Silly Luigi--yallready got a 'stache.

I think I heard it at least six times, each followed by a small and a good natured, well meaning laugh; "you're next, eh?"

I smile. It is polite to smile. I make a noncommittal sound. it is polite to give noncommittal sounds, right? Maybe. It is polite to respond in the way in which you are expected for small chatter like that.

It would not be polite to, quite flatly, say I will not be next.

Not soon. Not ever. No. No. No.

I turn petty and combative in those kinds of atmospheres; childish, really. For every yes I say no. But even still, even now, when I am removed from it, I am a no. I am on the other side. Side? No, this is not a dichotomy. I am in another place; that is all.

I do not dream of straight, slow walking lines or measured steps and music. I have not dreamed of cathedrals or the colors of linens and the arrangement of glass and lights. I have never dreamed of large boxed gifts, except for Christmas. I have never dreamed of dresses that look like fondant or marzipan. I have never dreamed of promising or swearing or repeating after an old bird. I have not dreamed of a sea of smiling faces.

Is this wrong of me? I think it is, a bit.

I dream of running. If I have dreamt any of it, it has been that last ten seconds of running [out of it]. You didn't run--that's the difference between you and I, I think. We're so different. I love you for it. But I would have run. And then I dream of running some more--up into the trees, around them, around town, in the rain, through the mud. I dream about utterly ruining a skirt. K'O. I dream about water and oil squeezing between my fingers in moments of breathlessness. I dream about wet bottles and wet lips. I have dreamed about wheaten inclinations too many times to count--is that far enough removed? I don't know. It doesn't matter. At the end of it I dream of-of-Blue. It is a thing I cannot say, not because it is cliche (though I think it has become), but because at its heart, it is utterly wretched. I do not even know how to properly remove it in words. It is the one thing I might hate--or strongly dislike, at least. Sukijanai. It is the worst way in which to end anything in words.

I am happy for you.

I am happy for you.

But I will never find happiness in what you are doing.

Do not ask it of me.

Good luck, Luigi-lady.

P.S. You still owe me a cat.

Hold My Hands

Down

People as Places

I do not always want to talk.

Do you want to talk? I'm sorry. I could, then, but I'd talk crap. You could talk. I like listening. I like hearing you talk.

I want to be around certain people sometimes, because I'm comfortable around them. Moreso than myself, sometimes, if that makes any sense. Comfort? This...it's not sleeping. It's falling asleep, maybe. It takes over every limb and makes the skin comfortable.

I...I feel selfish when I make places of people. I am aware that I am asking too much and giving too little in return. I-

When I was riding the bus home on Thursday, it was already getting dark out. They turned the lights out in the bus. I sat in the front. The only other passenger I could see was the woman sitting across the isle from me. She had dark hair and held a blanket around her shoulders. When we stopped at Mt. Vernon, the driver got up to let on more passengers. He was a very old man. He put his hand on her arm and shook it lightly. It is...how do I describe this? A steadying kind of shake. The kind of gesture you give to someone coming from or going into a hurricane. I don't think she knew where she was going, because she asked a few times. "Don't worry; I'll let you know when to

get off." She slept for most of the bus ride.

should be...be more of myself. More human. More social. More something, in order to complete the exchange.

Comfort and guilt make my cheeks warm.

But I am so fond of these places, these people, sometimes, I do not know how to-how to-

Ask me to be robot, flora, fauna--ask me to be the walls themselves. Only let-

This is one of my favoritest things evar.

These are not the kinds of things one says. Not this way, at least.

I regret; but that is expected. I cannot help the taste dead words leave on my tongue. A wry little part of me feels cheated. Not cheated--that has a different connotation. Feels as if a player has cheated. But I do not regret my regret. I am moving on. This is something new I have grown. I am fond of it.

My legs, still, are out by the porch. Any who wanders by will see them there.

I thought I heard my name; but it's been awhile. I might've mistaken the sound. I am always seeing myself in pools or puddles of water. The vain need very little encouraging.

Korlsin

I don't like that work takes up my entire days; by the time I get off, a lot of places are closed or closing. My brain tries to close up shop pretty fast, too. But I don't let it. I don't like giving my days away--but this means I get to keep my nights. My nights are mine. My nights are sleepy and wild. My nights are haunted. I don't go to bed until I drop. And it kills me. But these nights are mine.

Sometimes, in some senses, the world does not move. I move, I change, but the world does not; and so I must run to find the parts I need. I go to certain places to be a certain person; I avoid other places because I am avoiding the certain sort of selves I become in those places. I go to places that and comfortable. Places just familiar and just strange enough to allow for entire sections of my brain to be let alone and forgotten. I am where I am.
Today I went nowhere.
Was I no one?
I make places of people as well.
Were you more me today than I?

One side is eating the other, getting larger, getting longer; but the shifts are still discernible, still there, of course. Here is the other now, back again. This is a good time for it; I will not fuss and roar. I will fall silent, as it demands of me. I have made so much noise; I have wanted to; I have had to. I am tired now. My body is full of it, and it takes my mind with it, sometimes when I am lucky.

Noisenoisenoise
This is what I have become

Nothing? She wants nothing. She wants nothing. Good God--how I want nothing.

Too much too much
noisenoisenoisenoise
Tyranitar uses earthquake FUCK WE'RE ON THE SAME TEAM YOU DUMBASS AHHHHHH
I think I can stop making noise. For now. I am ready to take on the black hole, leftover from a busted up star, that swallows nights whole at the edge of my galaxy. Take on? Tend. Feed. Unfeed. I will sit back and see where it goes, what it uneats next. Two strips of asteroids to the right, but that is too far to coast.
noisenoisenoisenoise
I apologize if I've been rude or a dick to anyone in the last month or two. If I've imposed myself upon you, if I've leaned too much, because I feel like I've been leaning a lot, and often, and on more people than...ever, really. I apologize if I haven't responded to you yet--I have something to say, I just haven't had a chance to get around to a few things since work started. I apologize if I've said anything stupid, because chances are I wasn't thinking. The louder I get and the tireder I get, the less I think about semantics and shit. The less I talk; the quieter I talk.
I apologize for not throwing out a 'thanks' more often. I am embarrassingly thankful more often than not, but shit at expressing it.

Time to sleep; time to put my lips to the tail of a blue snake and put this skin to sleep.

At least for awhile.

Mudspeak

Adam and James
Here in the dark, I'll say your names
Breathe your skins up from the carpet stains
Coffee wine wine sweat vodka water saliva blood vodka salty
Say it with me now boys, no shame no shame
Let's learn our lessons
Five times over
To hell and back
Follow me down the bottle, boys
Breakin' promises and spillin' prayers
Through rum soaked hair and slices of rye--
Mm, ain't this all the way to-



I do not think I can say either is worse than the other, or better for that matter. They are simply different, and each in its own season seems worse; the dust in this season or the mud in the next. They are both the dirt, and will both do whatever it is that the dirt does. They both kind of suck.

Happy people of a certain sort make me sad. Is that fucked up? It sounds pretty fucked up. It feels fucked up. But I haven't been able to do anything about it.

This cat's couch is comfortable, very comfortable; but there is something outside of the picture that is not. His comfort is fuzzed. There, see, his eyes--dark and bright like that--he is looking for another couch. He is wanting another couch. I wonder if cats ever want anything more than complete comfort. I wonder if this is a thing that is even possible, for any animal.

So...so the key here is to spread yourself thin. So thin your skin is like--no, no fuck you--so thin you can touch the edges of everything--anguish, ecstasy--and this is more maddening than drowning in any one thing entirely, I am beginning to suspect. Drinking is lovely but this is better. This is Tantalus' Tongue, for who are we to say that he is being so seriously, so unfortunately punished? The gods have their deviant ditches; I must imagine them sympathetic to those men who do as well. He is not in hell; not the way he is said to be, at least. He just resides there. He comes for the place, not the people. Some places must be gone to for some things to happen. Would Tantalus have been allowed his strange existence anywhere else? Would it have worked? If you are to go to hell, do not go because you have been told you are damned; go because that is where the goddamn parties are.

I can't tell whether my words are devolving or evolving into sounds. The sounds are the more...accurate. But also the easier of the two. So are they the best? Or do they have a ways yet to go? Where the fuck are they going, anyway? What do they intend to do? Sounds are safer, too. It is too easy for it to sit easy with me. I feel I must be cautious of this, wary of it, lest I become--but there was a story by Borges like this wasn't there?

I do not admire Odradek in the least times like these. I would deck him across the room if I felt it would do anything, but it wouldn't. So I won't.
My disdain hides affection; but that does not mean the disdain is not present and quite real as well.

Fuckin thing SUCKS


Some times more than others.
This being the former.

NoiseNoiseNoise

A man is employed at an estate as a servant. He is a carpenter by trade, and has been employed under the title of servant for this purpose. He bears the title of servant, but performs none or few of the duties of the other servants; he is, first, when he wakes up, a carpenter; he is, last, before he sleeps, a carpenter. When he is asked in town who he is and what his profession is, he says he is so-and-so's servant. He does occasionally perform the duties of a servant, and he wears the uniform of a servant. When he enters his workroom, he puts the clothes of a carpenter on over them. If the estate goes bankrupt, he will have to find work elsewhere, like all the other servants. When he advertises himself, he will most often advertise as a servant; it is the more popular and common of his two functions. But he is a carpenter, and wherever he goes, under the title of a servant, he slips back into this role and is allowed to. He is paid the same as all the other servants. And he serves, does he not? He is a servant. Just not as the others in the house are.

The things he makes, even, are not the things a carpenter usually makes, perhaps. But they are given places and paid for and more is asked for, and so he earns his keep. They do not question why he makes chairs and desks and frames for them; but they wonder why he kneels in sawdust all day for this sort of work rather than waiting on one of inhabitants or tutoring the children.

In his spare time, he slings his tired body upon his bed, or else crafts more things for the estate. He has never been seen to craft anything for himself, nor does he seem to own any bit of woodwork to show that he has ever made anything and kept it. It is often wondered how he learned to shape and carve wood. They wonder at it, but not too much. They assume he is simply a man of few possessions.

But this lack of woodwork is the only speaking detail given regarding the carpenter's investment in his craft. He keeps none of his work for himself because he invests nothing in it that he wants to keep. They call him a humble man; he is not. He is greedy and he is silent. He makes only what he can give away. They may call some of his work art, but it is not, not to him, at least; the primary function of his woodworking is a profession; the primary function of this profession is to take the place of another profession--that is, that of a servant, the sort whose title he bears but whose duties he does not perform.

I will explain this later. Or delete it. In a couple of hours. Tonight. Satellite.

.Quinn

I have drafted fifteen blogs in the past week.
I HAVE ABUSED THE CAPS LOCK BUTTON IN MOST OF THEM.
I have written shitty prose in some of them.
I have unposted one of them.


The point being: my writing is shit lately. Moreso than usual. So here's some of the pictures I've been drawing. Maybe they'll make more sense than what I've been writing. I dunno.

*

So I've started drawing these things.

And I'm not really sure why.
It started with this. Part of my 202 notes. Picture makes it look big, but it's actually quite small. The size of my thumb. The rest of the page is filled with other things.

Someone said "demiurges" in class. I like that word.

Right color. Right pattern. This is the only thing I am certain of.

Headplaces

I am stuck between a love of this form and a love of transformation. They do not contradict or oppose one another, I want that to be clear. They do not. In the same way that indigo does not oppose a spectrum of colors; it is included in it. But still, it is difficult to hold the two of them in one head. One is a stickyness; the other is wet and quick and fluid. They do not oppose one another. They are running hand in hand, lips peeled with curiosity; one is just lagging behind the other a bit.

Vulture

A man is not walking. What is this?

Walk, the bird whispered wetly. Get up. Walk. It swabbed it's bald brow and waited for the man to listen to its magic or not.
The man, moving man, living man, did not.
And what was more--a smell, sweet, so sweet, so heavy and musty and ill to any other, but only sweet to the bird, was coming from that sweat licked head of his.
What's this, now? The bird craned its bald head to follow the man's progression. What is this what is this? Beneath his feathers, his stomach rumbled eagerly. Come now, come, I am forgiving, but this is unforgivable, the bird whispered, its lips drying and hardening as the man moved on and on.
When the bird descended, the man threw his arms and fell back. The bird faltered in its path but swung around for another assault.
What are you doing? The man cried out.
Give me that sweet head of yours, the bird replied, the sound whistling through its cracked mouth.
No! The man replied fiercely. It is mine!
It is dead; the dead are mine. Give it to me. And those legs, too.
I am walking, am I not? I am talking, am I not? This head lets me talk and these legs let me walk. They are living, you wretched bird!
But why aren't your legs talking? Why aren't your words walking? They are dead, fleshman, if they are not doing these things.
I could not make them if I tried!
Then they are even more dead to you, the hopeful bird said, winging lower and lower. Give them to me; they will be useful to me. They will fill four bellies tonight, strengthen sixteen muscles by morning, and be burned in the beats of eight wings by noon.
The bird dove. The man clutched at his face with one hand and beat the bird off with the other. He felt as if he clutched at a strange rock, heavy on his shoulders and under the sun.
Where are you going? The bird asked.
I am running. I have committed a crime, and now I am running from the law. I do not know where to.
What are you thinking?
I am trying to think of a place where the law will not find me. Where I will not feel guilt.
You will die before you find this, the bird informed the man. Look, part of you has already died--your legs cannot speak and your head cannot walk. You have forced them to do one thing too long, and now they have forgotten that they are interchangeable, as all your organs are. Soon they will pull away from your body, as any organ that becomes fixed must. They will never walk or talk or beat or pump again. But give them to me and they will push and burn and fly and, in these moments, remember when they talked and walked and pumped. The bird made lazy, patient circles above the man. Now use them or I will use you.

The sun was hot. The day seemed endless. The law seemed infinite. So the man conceded. And after three blinding hours of pain, he forgot every word he said, including their agreement, and when a stranger passed by, he cried out for help. The bird did not look up from his work; he continued to dive at the man, turning his silent legs to talking blood that pumped beneath his dark feathers.


Dear every author who's work and images I've mutilated for my own purposes this quarter:

Hope you don't mind. I'll try to be kinder in the future.

Sincerely,
ThisCat