Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Thursday, September 15, 2011
breathe me
Help
I have done it again
I have been here many times before
Hurt myself again today
And the worst part is there's no-one else to blame
Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold me
I am small
I'm needy
Warm me up
And breathe me
Ouch
I have lost myself again
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found,
Yeah I think that I might break
I've lost myself again and I feel unsafe
Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold me
I am small
I'm needy
Warm me up
And breathe me
Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold me
I am small
I'm needy
Warm me up
And breathe me.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
found
some glow-sticks by the side of the road one rainy day a little while ago.
I opened the tube they were in & accidentally snapped a few in the process,
so I proceeded to play with them
& then get toxic-flourescent-stuff all over me :)
I opened the tube they were in & accidentally snapped a few in the process,
so I proceeded to play with them
& then get toxic-flourescent-stuff all over me :)
the result sure was pretty, though.
Monday, September 12, 2011
GOODBYE PAYCHECK
HELLO KITTY EARS
"We created new human's organs that use brain wave sensor.
"necomimi"is the new communication tool that augments human's body and ability.
"necomimi"will be released in the end of this year.
Price, color and any other gadgets are undecided."
"necomimi"is the new communication tool that augments human's body and ability.
"necomimi"will be released in the end of this year.
Price, color and any other gadgets are undecided."
Thursday, September 8, 2011
dreams
Last night I had vivid dreams of Machu Picchu, the lost city of the Incas built high in the mountains of Peru.
I swear I saw every row of houses and arm of fog- it was so strange and clear, but I remember not being able to pronounce the name of the place for fear of getting it wrong.
I can't wait to go to South America.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Monday, August 29, 2011
Disarm
There was movement in the living room below- a sigh of static followed by an inverted burst of sound, blaringly loud then turned down just as suddenly, as the television volume was tuned. It was eleven o’clock. The family of rats was crawling through the walls and ceilings, and Jimmy was watching his father watch pornography.
He’d applied make-up before he’d ventured downstairs, his mother’s mantra in mind and mascara and lurid colour on his eyes. Now he was sitting in the corner by the doorway, outside the room but inside a shadow; from here he could see both the TV and his father’s profile perfectly, illuminated as it was by the light reflected off oiled, jiggling figures.
There were not, as yet, any naked bodies on the screen, but Jimmy had seen this one before. He knew the lines by heart and sometimes at night he would catch himself having imaginary conversations with the characters, correcting them on their grammar and advising them to put more passion into their delivery. Or perhaps he’d re-write the entire script. It wasn’t a particularly good one, as far as he was concerned, and not at all plausible.
Jimmy’s dad stayed slack-jawed for some time, hands lying palm-up and open on the arms of his chair. Jimmy understood. The performance had only just begun: the figures on the screen were still scantily clad, playfully whipping each other with towels. The coach was yet to come in.
He licked at his teeth, carefully so as not to smudge his lipstick. The coral shade, he knew, did not stain so much, but he couldn’t help himself. The depth of the red and the sweet waxiness of it on the tip of his tongue was too hard to avoid: the sight of it was even more enticing. Suddenly his mouth seemed alive.
“I’ve just got to put my face on,” he remembered his mother would say when she still left the house, before she stopped leaving the farm and finally the house altogether. It was seen as pride by some, vanity by others- “her womanly duty to look good” said his grandfather, who Jimmy had once intercepted in the process of putting his hand forcefully inside his daughter-in-law’s blouse. The roast pork had been irreparably charred, sitting smoking in a dish of bubbling fat beside the sink; his mother’s hand was poised on the handle of the meat cleaver. It had clattered to the floor when Jimmy had walked in, and although the old man had quickly extricated his fingers from between lace and skin, and released the grip on her wrist, both mother and son followed him with their eyes out of the room. After that, Jimmy’s mother had become a vegetarian, and not long after she’d locked herself in her powder room for four days and had cried herself into a state of severe-dehydration.
There was such a difference between the woman who lay in bed all day and the one who glued delicate-spider’s legs to her eye-lids and painted herself into a perfect corner. They were like two sides of a coin; they were like sisters who were never in the room at the same time but were Siamese nonetheless. One would respond only to Imogen, whilst the other to Immy. In later years, she didn’t respond to either.
Jimmy divided his time between watching the screen and his father’s face. He took note of the fact that in the beginning, his father seemed barely interested- that much was clear, even from here. But as the breathing on the TV quickened, a cigarette was lit and his father inclined forward, further and further until he looked as if he might fall.
There they were now: swinging, squeezed and sweaty chests on the screen. They vaguely resembled the udders of the sows they kept and sold, or slaughtered instead for food. But there was something so different there- nothing natural about them, even though mouths were sucking at them like the piglets did. Jimmy didn’t particularly see the appeal of it, watching naked grinding and slapping and licking, howling like animals and guttural grunting. He just wanted to see what it was that his father did to occupy his time, other than feeding and killing pigs and avoiding his son.
He’d awoke to the sound of a pig’s screams that morning: it was Thursday, and thus pork day. Outside, he knew his father had chosen only one; he wondered which one it was, if it had, like his own mother, been thinking about piglets while she died. Jimmy sat thinking about his father walking into the house, drenched in pig blood. He touched his lips and looked at his fingertips covered in the same colour.
He turned his attention back to the living room; just in time, too, to see his father do something he never did. Leaning forward far enough, he stubbed his smoke out on the floorboards and with a quick arm flicked the switch and the screen faded to black.
“Get in here.”
Jimmy stood in the most recent exhalation of smoke and hoped that hsi makeup looked more like day-wear than night-wear. Apparently his father thought differently.
“Oh for fuck’s sake. Not again.”
“Why do you do it, Jim?” they’d asked, and he hadn’t answered that for the first few weeks that he’d been there. He’d sat there instead, gazing hard out the window and avoiding his reflection, studying instead anything outside. After a little while he knew the lines of the buildings so well that they became just that: lines and shapes, shifting with the position of the sun until it was time for him to go. But his reflection was still there, sitting in the glass of the cabinet opposite him. He knew it was staring at him, even when he wasn’t looking at it.
He told them why after his mother had died. It was the day of her funeral and when he had put the lipstick on, looking in his mother’s mirror, he felt for the first time that his face belonged to him. For the former thirteen years of his life there was surely a mask affixed to the front of his head, because it wasn’t anyone that he had ever recognised. The more he put on, the more he saw himself appear.
He know longer went to the doctor’s rooms; like his father, he no longer left the farm, except to take the pigs to market once a month. Up in his room, Jimmy heard the TV turn on again, and the sounds of sex resumed. He cried for a while, then swore. Then he cursed his father for making his mascara run.
He’d applied make-up before he’d ventured downstairs, his mother’s mantra in mind and mascara and lurid colour on his eyes. Now he was sitting in the corner by the doorway, outside the room but inside a shadow; from here he could see both the TV and his father’s profile perfectly, illuminated as it was by the light reflected off oiled, jiggling figures.
There were not, as yet, any naked bodies on the screen, but Jimmy had seen this one before. He knew the lines by heart and sometimes at night he would catch himself having imaginary conversations with the characters, correcting them on their grammar and advising them to put more passion into their delivery. Or perhaps he’d re-write the entire script. It wasn’t a particularly good one, as far as he was concerned, and not at all plausible.
Jimmy’s dad stayed slack-jawed for some time, hands lying palm-up and open on the arms of his chair. Jimmy understood. The performance had only just begun: the figures on the screen were still scantily clad, playfully whipping each other with towels. The coach was yet to come in.
He licked at his teeth, carefully so as not to smudge his lipstick. The coral shade, he knew, did not stain so much, but he couldn’t help himself. The depth of the red and the sweet waxiness of it on the tip of his tongue was too hard to avoid: the sight of it was even more enticing. Suddenly his mouth seemed alive.
“I’ve just got to put my face on,” he remembered his mother would say when she still left the house, before she stopped leaving the farm and finally the house altogether. It was seen as pride by some, vanity by others- “her womanly duty to look good” said his grandfather, who Jimmy had once intercepted in the process of putting his hand forcefully inside his daughter-in-law’s blouse. The roast pork had been irreparably charred, sitting smoking in a dish of bubbling fat beside the sink; his mother’s hand was poised on the handle of the meat cleaver. It had clattered to the floor when Jimmy had walked in, and although the old man had quickly extricated his fingers from between lace and skin, and released the grip on her wrist, both mother and son followed him with their eyes out of the room. After that, Jimmy’s mother had become a vegetarian, and not long after she’d locked herself in her powder room for four days and had cried herself into a state of severe-dehydration.
There was such a difference between the woman who lay in bed all day and the one who glued delicate-spider’s legs to her eye-lids and painted herself into a perfect corner. They were like two sides of a coin; they were like sisters who were never in the room at the same time but were Siamese nonetheless. One would respond only to Imogen, whilst the other to Immy. In later years, she didn’t respond to either.
Jimmy divided his time between watching the screen and his father’s face. He took note of the fact that in the beginning, his father seemed barely interested- that much was clear, even from here. But as the breathing on the TV quickened, a cigarette was lit and his father inclined forward, further and further until he looked as if he might fall.
There they were now: swinging, squeezed and sweaty chests on the screen. They vaguely resembled the udders of the sows they kept and sold, or slaughtered instead for food. But there was something so different there- nothing natural about them, even though mouths were sucking at them like the piglets did. Jimmy didn’t particularly see the appeal of it, watching naked grinding and slapping and licking, howling like animals and guttural grunting. He just wanted to see what it was that his father did to occupy his time, other than feeding and killing pigs and avoiding his son.
He’d awoke to the sound of a pig’s screams that morning: it was Thursday, and thus pork day. Outside, he knew his father had chosen only one; he wondered which one it was, if it had, like his own mother, been thinking about piglets while she died. Jimmy sat thinking about his father walking into the house, drenched in pig blood. He touched his lips and looked at his fingertips covered in the same colour.
He turned his attention back to the living room; just in time, too, to see his father do something he never did. Leaning forward far enough, he stubbed his smoke out on the floorboards and with a quick arm flicked the switch and the screen faded to black.
“Get in here.”
Jimmy stood in the most recent exhalation of smoke and hoped that hsi makeup looked more like day-wear than night-wear. Apparently his father thought differently.
“Oh for fuck’s sake. Not again.”
“Why do you do it, Jim?” they’d asked, and he hadn’t answered that for the first few weeks that he’d been there. He’d sat there instead, gazing hard out the window and avoiding his reflection, studying instead anything outside. After a little while he knew the lines of the buildings so well that they became just that: lines and shapes, shifting with the position of the sun until it was time for him to go. But his reflection was still there, sitting in the glass of the cabinet opposite him. He knew it was staring at him, even when he wasn’t looking at it.
He told them why after his mother had died. It was the day of her funeral and when he had put the lipstick on, looking in his mother’s mirror, he felt for the first time that his face belonged to him. For the former thirteen years of his life there was surely a mask affixed to the front of his head, because it wasn’t anyone that he had ever recognised. The more he put on, the more he saw himself appear.
He know longer went to the doctor’s rooms; like his father, he no longer left the farm, except to take the pigs to market once a month. Up in his room, Jimmy heard the TV turn on again, and the sounds of sex resumed. He cried for a while, then swore. Then he cursed his father for making his mascara run.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
black
This old black dog is hounding me
It waits ‘round the corner and hides in the trees
I feel the chill of something blown in on a breeze
In the light of a cinema screen I hide
Laughing I only feel empty inside
Crying means nothing, I’ve nothing to say
I wish I could kick this old black dog away
And the worst part is knowing my part in it all
Yeah the worst part is knowing its nothing at all
Oh if I can pull myself together I’ll try
I can’t explain the tear that sits in my eye
I try to outsmart him but somehow he knows
Wherever I am, that fucking dog goes
I’ll kill him the next time I swear I won’t fail
I’ll kick in his ribs and I’ll rip off his tail
And the worst part is thinking it’s something it’s not
Yeah the worst part is thinking it might never stop
Oh if I can pull myself together I’ll try
I can’t explain the tear that sits in my eye
And the worst part is trying to explain it to you
The worst part is knowing there’s nothing to do
Oh if I can pull myself together I’ll try
Oh but I cant explain the tear that sits in my eye
If I can pull myself together I’ll try
Oh if I can’t pull myself together I’ll die
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
happy birthday to me
breakfast:
cupcakes for the non-birthday people:
"dear housemates,
happy birthday to me,
happy Wednesday to you,
please take a cupcake :)"
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
crazy space
can't really get over Swoon, it's kind of amazing
anf Florence has been haunting the inside of my head, because that's what it looks like in there :)
Monday, July 4, 2011
my body makes me so unhappy.
I feel like I am being forced to wear something that does not fit,
that does not suit, that just doesn't look right.
stupidly staring breasts, the sickle scar above the larger of the two
ugly, ill-formed nipples of unripened pink
they point in different directions like blind eyes
my arms are no good
sandbagged by fat on the upper where they join at the elbow
they are curvaceous & when pressed to me they flatten
the flesh laid flat to my hidden ribs
how can my hips be so wide?
they were, seemingly not so long ago,
wrought with just-sub-skin patterns of purple all along
the sharp edged protusions
of my bones
now they are thickened,
tangibly coated in fat that wraps around me
in a lopsided, scarred band
particularly thick at the back, just above my buttocks
it's no good down there, either
wobbly, puckered, dead muscle & coarse parchment skin
elephant legs with the reddend-roll
where the thigh hits the knees
wide wide wide
I feel like Frankenstein's monster
pasted pieces of others & a skin I do not belong in
I have been sewn up in the wrong body
I long to tear this unfeeling, putrefying mass to pieces with my own teeth.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Saturday, July 2, 2011
the sweetest thing
"Fucking Amal (Show Me Love)"
The most beautiful little Swedish film about two 14 year old girls, one Buxom, bitchy and with a reputation, and the other, an androgynous little misfit, who fall in love.
It was such a perfect depiction of young love: the naivety, how agonising & terrifying it can be, but ultimately how falling for someone is unpredictable & magical.
Fucking 90's baby-lesbian movies making me tear up... :')
Friday, July 1, 2011
Thursday, June 30, 2011
lurch
two poles of a planet, magnetic flesh
exhalations that are not words
but are incantations
palpitating, pulsations
tremors all along one's insides
the epicentre of the soul's sigh
a woman-shaped rod
a man-shaped hole
a slide inside
filling the emptiness & finding a place to reside
I am so afraid that if I breathe too deeply
the expansion of my abdomen with air
will break this funny state
this skin of wax around us
(encased, in case we slide off the side of the world)
a form somewhere between hot molten liquid
& a hardened shell
neither brittle nor completely malleable
you're neither brittle nor completely malleable
it makes us delirious with desire
(for more, for this to never end)
& possessed by the act
some sort of darkly-divine ritual
that will convince you to sign over your entire life
to loving & living & existing like this
tug-of-war with proximity
the want for closeness & the need for air
the best method of suffocation known to man
that such things could pour from the mouth!
obscenities, pleas,
please
extend this second & give me now over everything else
I'll give you everything & then everything else.
exhalations that are not words
but are incantations
palpitating, pulsations
tremors all along one's insides
the epicentre of the soul's sigh
a woman-shaped rod
a man-shaped hole
a slide inside
filling the emptiness & finding a place to reside
I am so afraid that if I breathe too deeply
the expansion of my abdomen with air
will break this funny state
this skin of wax around us
(encased, in case we slide off the side of the world)
a form somewhere between hot molten liquid
& a hardened shell
neither brittle nor completely malleable
you're neither brittle nor completely malleable
it makes us delirious with desire
(for more, for this to never end)
& possessed by the act
some sort of darkly-divine ritual
that will convince you to sign over your entire life
to loving & living & existing like this
tug-of-war with proximity
the want for closeness & the need for air
the best method of suffocation known to man
that such things could pour from the mouth!
obscenities, pleas,
please
extend this second & give me now over everything else
I'll give you everything & then everything else.
Friday, June 10, 2011
nightiming
One night, a while ago, I was wandering around in a state of inebriation- it wasn't extreme, it was wearing off, actually.
I can't remember who I was looking for, but I was fairly sure that they'd walked down an alleyway.
This alleyway lead to several flights of stairs, so I climbed up these, & in the end I reached a rooftop.
This alleyway lead to several flights of stairs, so I climbed up these, & in the end I reached a rooftop.
I found myelf in a half-constucted open-roof-top bar, and in the midst of it was a two-metre tall metal man gleaming in the light cast by a far-off billboard.
I lay on my back for what must have been an hour, speaking to the statue.
Then I got up & walked back to the club & I haven't been able to find my metal man since that night.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Sexonomics: What Women Want...
Sexonomics: What Women Want...: "The great question that has never been answered, and which I have not yet been able to answer, despite my thirty years of research into the ..."
BEST
THING
EVER
BEST
THING
EVER
Saturday, April 23, 2011
deary me,
feeling a little delirious from lack of sleep,
will go remedy that now.
will go remedy that now.
also I have dirty nicotine-stained fingers,
it's rather filthy
but I am so in need of a fag that I was contemplating
riding my bike to the servo to buy a pack.
Monday, April 18, 2011
20th century boy
friends say it's fine, friends say it's good/everybody says it's just like rock 'n' roll/I move like a cat/talk like a rat/sting like a bee/babe i wanna be your man/well it's plain to see you were meant for me, yeah/i'm your boy/your 20th century toy/friends say it's fine/my friends say it's good/everybody says it's just like rock 'n' roll/fly like a plane/love like a car/hold lots of hands/babe i wanna be your man/oh well it's plain to see you were meant for me yeah/i'm your toy/your 20th century boy/20th century toy/I wanna be your boy/friends say it's fine/friends say it's good/everybody says it's just like rock 'n' roll/move like a cat/talk like a rat/sting like a bee/babe i wanna be your man/well it's plain to see you were meant for me yeah/i'm your toy/your 20th century boy/20th century toy/I wanna be your boy/20th century boy/ I wanna be your toy
Sunday, April 17, 2011
dear music assignment, you make me happy.
Not only have I chosen to do my assignment on glam rock (which I know far too much about)
I have a valid reason to make slideshows of effeminate men.
Weeeeeeeeeeeeoooooooeeeeeeeeeeooooooooooooooooooooo
"Why are these artist's effective?"
Because their music is amazing & they are delicious, that's why.
Because their music is amazing & they are delicious, that's why.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)