new icn messageflickr-free-ic3d pan white
FEMALE- After | by blossomcastle
Back to photostream


Girl, will never write like her or come close to the borders of a page that scuttle and jive in the distant lamplight from a broken bulb that got bought on the turn of one dime in your hand, flailing and faulting in the cracks of your palm, saying discreetly that your way was set in one place or that your imagination was too little to retrace the lines of your skin, of your body, when your eyes slammed shut and all of you was eyelashes, eyelashes on my paper page.


So many things are black night turning estates into wasteland and the old way home turns to young boys with fifty foot trees in their hands. Their bones ache from so much holding, I come to see them as the past, of the faces I never wore, young, playful, with mud on their mouths, dead broken leaves lay resting on their tongues, tormenting the chances of re-birth when they choke on the vines, veiled in ripping from all of the adults who laid claim to the time, set down the world in order of food, who sent their thoughts of waywardness, what came first, on what would be quickest to cook and burn over a fire of hot coal, before, before, they had ever rubbed two rocks. So close were their hands to eachother's thighs, wax worn on their flesh, felting in their fingernails are all the things which got rotten in the sink drain.


His untimely hair lays lukewarm on my memory of one place spent in the bath, got doubled when our ribcage boar out and tore the aluminum from the dining room walls where the car is kept. The car repair man says there is a problem with my heart, the glue I used is thick and borrowed and my house in his bedroom does not belong to me either. I stole the items of my childhood, the ones I had no use for. I forgot the duration for which I was stuck in the bathroom, counting the days until I crossed the Atlantic with my heavy feet and burdens on my back and the repo man is stuck, stuffed, in my throat, pointing and labeling my bones and talons, I had carved witch fingers from the stumps at the end of my arms. Toiled over the parts of me which had multiplied my wanting of a longer road with dust on the track sides and poison oak running to the cities after a fettler came and made his mark. He unwound the cotton in my jeans so that I became undone, loosened the holding in my head so that I became a wooden lamp, though they tried to mane me to the grid, I was sorry and they lost my thankfulness because I am liquid, viscous, congealing the glue that I stole as it turns its betraying head, pumping out smoke from the exhaust, white smoke turning my breath to oxygen, made me a gift from my christmas eve spent reading you. On the brown tiled floor, had distilled and became with the sky in our mourning. Of you, not with you.


Cotton faded, held in the palm of my hand, my fingers bent backwards lost by the rickety old bones of my escape from youth, pushed out and lit up as a beacon of hope for all the crushed weight of my waist, wailing in the wind. Willow caught in the breeze. All the mute sounds rolling over the path away from you. I am walking away from you at the end of a week I do not remember, when Monday was the day that I was born. The hold in the ground that got built on and got disguised by the bruising of summer on my knees, at the backs of my calves. My body is an axe carving away at the wood been built, all their furnishing and wasted carvings of men in battle, men dragged in metal and copper then money and cheap. I wear you, I wear you well. I wore you when you were two people, in the cold days of old you were worn and frayed. The whole of the muscle in your trouser legs was a gun that you do not know how to use though you have the words of command ingrained, black ink, into the inside of your eyelids where the days got shorter and the sun stopped rising.


The sun stopped rising because I saw it only as musk, lucid heat at the end of night, the sky is azure and I am peach, rose and white and I dive my little head into the abyss and all I see to not see is gone, gone, night faded and a day that has been made and ferried for me. My words tumble out when I am the saved shingle torn from the wheels, around and round. This is the path I had laid for myself, the bridges slayed against the falling back of avenues of trees. Trees that had grown musky because I had grown lazy and my eyes had stayed closed if I had not been told it would be safe to have open eyes to see this way of things, at this time in order, because they told me how fascinated by my limbs they were and said I could gaze upon the lines of my turning elbow until I would paint coral between my nameless hairs, in drawings I am nude and there is only shadow in the great depth of his uncut umbilical chord, with my fingers at the ends of all my closed ribbon thoughts, listless daydreams on why I would not marry, digging into his stomach. These were my fathers fingers and they ween't long enough to reach underneath the roads, so I became stuck to the asphalt. I am rock. Lava spilled on the boundaries of my city. The walls that wrap my arms in fabric since nothing is thick enough to keep out the breath of my past, no oak trunk could uncurl the history books turned solid by the printing machines. The woods are soft, soaked dampening quiet whistles that fade in from a chair. The public are all backs. Their spines producing riots- rampant desire to become unstuck from upright, stock stuck weaving webs of their person to a tiny carved chair in an old, husky room. A room in a building and the stomach being the only part of my self. They have yet to parade the food upon the working surfaces of the debris I left behind down my sliding wherry, ploughing overtime to keep up with the maturity I unwillingly fed myself on. But they move closer. They found out where I live and they send letters here to my address ad they will not not allow me to stay and become consumed by the paths in my head, in my own head in the empty and his replies to my stilted strings of sentences. His response comes before I may grant him the value of m thought. It is distant and burrowed because I had buried it with my eyes blindfolded so I could forget the important places set as the backdrops for the people I had already been. People with gold hair ad green eyes. I had been a pocket picker and stole the flight of many young women. I was a labourer and let them know I had work for them. I could fix the holes in their plastic and fill plaster into the edges of their untidy work committed by boys with button nails clipping at their hair. They have no hair.


They are bald because they must sail and they must leave behind no scale or fishtail, no looping of their repetitive singing. They have it always clogging up their arteries, you stunning fool. You look so good from the inside out. You had a photo in the waiting room and while you ran on late I knew it would be you who in the past who would peel from the woman's skin since all she is is a nurse and all she has to hold are your clothes. You ankles twisting in her ovum. Those are not ankles of her child, now. All of her children are reminded of her blank stare. She rests bolt up and all she sees are a troop of worm that cling to the muck spilled out through her pores. A troop of worms who have given eachother names so they have someone to call to in the complete absence of light, in utter darkness, until the rot and stink on he becomes jelly, hustling in the echoes, bouncing off these two walls. My stance made her wail, my hips pouring into her eyesight as I was lines on her seat. I was falling into the grooves that he oath before me had set. Though he was well, he was healthy, he had not told of the shaking in his rib and the balance on his wrists. All of the money in his keep succumbs to the water, waves of sweat, sorrow in the knowing that our climbing is without mercy. There is no rescue if we reach the clouds. The tight hold aboard our ankles grows with blood. My veins bleeding with years of telling myself I was young. Without responsibility. I was a baby in the womb with all my body liable to descend into pieces. Before I was said to be female or male, I was cold clay before I had been turned through.


But they wanted me so they stuck a knife in my Mother's stomach.


No. Not her stomach but her torso. It's just I am without the words, they knew, but I could fix their paper copier and laugh as I told him I would do. I made a promise to the end of cruel months. Gorging on the screws that would line my lungs and I felt guilt because I didn't see where my ears would be during the enfolding celebration of nuts that awaken brown. I thought I'd hear dead when I buried myself below bath water, my own bath water, myself in the bath alone since it is my punishment to stare at the foul below, if I would not listen to their guidance in words. I would not listen because their words were reverbs of the images that made me crawl inside of me and lay eggs in my digestive track. Those images cracked my finger knuckles. The joints in my body are all one, bulbous and inflamed.


And now I can't tell the difference between looking upon myself inflicted and the things I let be. Believed there was order and I had been stepped upon and vandalised because I had not been discrete enough to banish myself into the cornered walls.


I apologise for my flat chest playing a costume and I apologise for the nail marks I dug into myself on those three occasions. Young, I was. I had poison in my veins and I could not cut it out so I blinked and turned humans into blade. I had inflicted myself with people.


Wet, I would stay, when I opened letters and wanted answers but water soaks the ink marks. My wrists are forever stained with apologies.


Dawn, before dusk, I was awake and shaking, quaking in my grass boots, unforgiven and finally, without reticence, dipping my blood into another. Smiles saluting my attempt- that I may bleed on you when I wish it, but the days that commence the full moon, I lock you up and quietly caress burgundy glaze down my raw thighs in the privacy of my day alone. But with all the bathroom doors swung open and my feet naked. My feet as a fork and spade digging up the garden where the midnight slugs have bathed for all my life. But I had believed it well that I should be sound when the birds stopped singing. Back when I had listened to my own voice and not the intoxicated screeching of those I claimed to be born on the same day as.


No, I am as old as the clean, inspected bandages in the judas basket I had strength to throw so far for I had been my whole life dropping and retrieving. It was gravity which wore away the sewing in my upper arm strength. We all become cotton twisting and braiding into the topsoil when we bid farewell to our wasted work. We have been short breath that devours our words and heavy sighs raising their bar to an increase. It's all too soon. For the money has bee paid and all the pages have been burned or traded with the poor. Yet we are still beating in the Doctors holding bay. Loaded crates of bile and bone, bone of brittle unembalmed, left stinking up my sleeping room, MY sleeping rooms. Exhausted before I could rest. Too much time spent escaping rough hands, musky and petrol, stained from his shift where his hands were once silk with marks but unspoiled because those silken hands were washed every night with flowers, sung, and linen.


He had wanted his hands to always be the bedding plants outside, whipping off the dirt that clung to him, his green gloves and penmanship. His hands. His hands. All he washed was his hands. He had no woman, no other, but he wanted his hands, he wanted them fixed for they had become and remained dust since delving his fingernails into the vaginal walls of his Mother. She had let out a small cry. He scratched. He had carved hands. Somebody had entered her body when he was still between boy and girl, woman and man, rest and labour. Those were his instructions.


Now she is strung up on meat hooks in her Father's writing room. He has no imagination and still dreams in sepia tone. Yet he can still write a tall tale. I say none of them are true. I saw him steal the ink from the man who tells him where to sit at dinner time. We all laugh and sill over that commanding man whose fingers are longer than his ams. We laugh until there is evidence on the table. All of our sweat took a surprise since we had not moved in a lifetime. I had shaken when they told me I was poison. Disbelief when I told them I did not drink


Excuse me, madame, can you see that I am all dried out.


I take oil showers and I have glue, that same sticking glue, rubbed through my hair by the same shape of hips and collarbones.


They all have hips and collarbones and it does not matter which ones you decide to chew on, (you had started off with lips) they will all crumble when you close your mouth after having been through a lengthy divorce.


Sped so long with your mouth open, you will not be able to help from crushing all of the things you ate when you close it. Eventually all that wheat, all the unchewed grain, will swim willingly out of you. My fingers smell of bleach and repulse even me. This room is very large so I get stuffed into the corner. I am retreating back to the first days of adulthood when I could run quite fast. But I was not very much, getting lost in the lemon wallpaper paint, clinging to the sweetness. My last days of health.


Until I got sick, sick to death, and I became the milk lapped up by the fat cat at the end of my bed. This man can taste it on my tongue, he knows I ate myself for being afraid of losing the lifeless parts of myself. My self. I have lost her in pure white sheet. They stole my pure white sheet and repeat that I have only myself to blame. I have only myself to blame.


I find her in all the built walls, pastel blue for our hazy eyes. We are not blind yet, they let me know.


Gorging on their laughter.

23 faves
Taken on June 11, 2013