so exhausted

my head kills and i feel awful. in more ways than one. i started reading sabotage cafe by joshua furst and it's actually quite good, i like the way it's written. thank you city library

the woman on the left is theda bara. she starred as cleopatra in the eponymous film in 1917. sadly, no prints are left today, but her prints live on. she made more than forty films in 12 years, pretty impressive, yet only 40 seconds of cleopatra are still around, there's a clip of another film in some museum and that's it. despite not being able to watch her films, i am in awe of her. isn't she intensely beautiful? she just is exaggeration. she's twice as much there as anyone else. the weird thing about women that are barely clothed is that they seem to have more skin than anyone else. she's such an inspirational figure. she was one of the original vamps, some of the most charismatic and non-body centric stars of cinematic history. i mean look at her: i worship her.

so here's to theda bara, a siren and a heroine.

be careful what you click on

my computer got a new virus, a youtube virus, and essentially what it does is pick random audio clips off youtube without any warning and plays them to you. for nearly 2 months now i've had to listen to everything from the looney tunes themetune to michael jackson memorials to baby's first steps to a man screaming DON'T DO THE WASHING UP, JUST LET IT PILE UP. seriously, try your hardest then try some more not to get this virus, it's kind of funny at first and then you get really sick of hearing michael jackson.

undecided on title

again, i wrote this a while ago, it's kind of inspired by thinking about how all your achievements are only relative until you die

This old man, he sits by the window collecting dust. It's a sad thing to see; people who pass his window gawp in like tourists to see him, this skeleton in clingfilmed skin. As if his protuding paper mache bones, heaving hollow chest, his baggy hound eyes would stop him from noticing. These people, they love to see his living corpse in its animated meat. His time-lapsed decay. He's their gateway between life and death; close enough to the next life with the milky orbs in his head turned outwards. A reminder that everyone dies in slow motion. The Prometheus of the estate, pecked open every day by these vultures, his glistening bowels strung out in elegant swoops on the rock he's chained to. Sewed back together every night for the carnage tomorrow. He's old in the way you revert to baby language when you talk to him, in your patient and soft voice. To be in his prescense is about as close as anyone will ever get to a seance. Soft peach fuzz and early morning are what you breathe in from him, sweet and damp enough to catch in your throat and make you retch. He chats quietly to himself, and his mouth smells hot and wet, like organisms cooling and dying on liver tongue. He talks in the way you'd expect a pipe organ to sound if you filled it with sand.
'But of course, you wouldn't have me believe it's right? The way they swallow us whole, as if we were the Jonah to their whale? Everyone's aching to know everything about everyone. One might think you couldn't be on your own for a second if you tried. I don't suppose you would notice yourself being gone as long as you've got your car with five seats, audio system and 4 wheel drive. Your job with paid holiday and expenses. Your children with their virtuous faces, clean teeth, good grades. Your red-headed wife. No, no it's not right. You capitalize Government the way you would the Queen. England. God. 'The tourists, as they pass, they miss his dialogue, his social commentary. They just watch as his shrunken scrotum cheeks convulse with the up and down of his wiry jaw, the slap-slapping of his dead purple tongue against the tarnished piss yellow of his remaining teeth. His face contorts again and again, and they wonder what they're doing for dinner.

nice

a short thing i wrote a while ago

when you sit down i think about the cello curve of your back fitting so soft in the chair so nicely. you say hello, how are you. i say i'm fine. i think about how i'd like to close your eyes and see the arc of your lashes sitting dusty black below your sockets and push my face to yours. i think about how i'd like to force my canines into the flesh of your cheek with my tongue licking the conch shell flesh of your mouth, our faces diagonal like during a kiss.

you say that every time you look in the mirror you're seeing another polaroid of a stranger and i imagine for a minute that i can see chemical ghosts in your irises. but then i think for a second about how contrived you are. keeping not talking i'm looking at you in the sunlight, you in the chair, and i'm seeing that everyone dies in slow motion. keeping looking at you i'm really quite tired of everything. fed up to my throat until my stomach strains.whine, whine, chatter, chatter, and all of a sudden your face clouds and a storm brews. electricity just crackles over your head. you would almost think something had happened but all that's happening is you're talking and you're not listening.

i think about how i'd like to dry out your tendons, the webs of your skin, and hang them like spiderwebs on my furniture. you keep talking and talking and all the time i can hear your music blaring around your neck because you never ever turn off your headphones. i hate it. you can't listen to the world without having to control one part and make it feel a certain way. you can't listen to the world in neutral.

just as i'm thinking about how much i loathe you, you move your feet and our feet are zigzagging together and i'm thinking that i really really don't want them to. my spine is pushing out of my back and my intestines are cobra twisted around my heart and my lungs are drowning and you're still saying something.i wish i had any idea what you're saying but i'm just thinking about how nice your hands look. their dusting of monkey hair, their jointed knuckles and stained eagle nails. hands with character. and i'm thinking thinking thinking that i'd like to cut them off and sear the flesh off them until they're bare bare bison skull bare and put rings on their fourth fingers and make them hold so you're married to yourself because i know if you could do that you would. we're sitting in silence, the pulsing moment supposing to be time has died.

all we have left to do is repeat because to be honest i haven't been listening to a thing you've been saying. i'm thinking about how it'd be nice to wipe the goobers from the insides of my eyes on your cookie when you're not looking. god, i'm thinking that i fucking think too much.

bones

a story i'm interested in pursuing, a model who manages to look dead in photographs. obviously an early idea of how i'll approach it, but i feel good about it so far.


it didn't matter that the wall wasn't quite full up, or that it stood out against all the chipped and peeling mint veneer. the intentions didn't matter, and hollow screaming way it looked didn't matter. looking at it, it didn't look like much at all.the photograph in the frame just should not have been a big deal.
sitting and looking at it, it should not have been a big deal.
sitting and thinking about when it was, what it was; that was when it mattered. she sat, drunk as hell, just looking and not really seeing, not ever stopping.the cracked open rib way it looked, it felt like watching yourself being butterflied like a shrimp. the photograph, he hung it there on the wall all shitty and fucked up.
when it was taken there wasn't any way anyone could have known it would look like that. the knees that don't look like they could bend without tearing through the skins. the twisted way her waist makes it seem like she's about to burst, not that anything would come out. the cavernous ribs pasted with cream tissue paper, the violin string neck, the way a dead person's teeth look so infeasibly big in their empty face. it makes you wonder how they fitted in there when they were still being used. you'd swear you can see her heart straining out while it beats, timekeeping for itself until it doesn't need to anymore. a toothpick is that thin because that's as thin as it needs to be. people shouldn't work that way.
a photograph of a dead person is the closest thing we'll ever have to a ghost. the precense, the aching way that what it is isn't tangible, the fact that what it is just isn't possible. the way it's unbearable to look at. so how could a picture of something alive look like that?sitting stewing in her cheap gin fog with her mouth smelling like wet kisses and penis, her scab red dress dotted in black mascara tears like some sick ladybird, it's crumpled. she's looking into something that makes her chest feel like it's a black hole, her brain bursts from her skull behind blank eyes. and yet it's awakening. there's a misery, a grief, something pungent and raw that creates itself in how she looks.
introduce an element of chaos:
'babe' they had said. 'it's holocaust chic. beauty queen bones. you've got something rare here; a real look'
a real look, she later reflected, of a carcass. of stripped, bleached bones, the most honest of things. bones can't lie, can't pretend that they're something they're not. what they are speaks for them. self-contained and real. having previously been a working man's dancer, the red and black lights of her stage had puffed out her flesh, hidden the bone shadows. when she danced it didn't seem that she needed fixing. the alabaster of her skin meant that her pencilled eyebrows, her dyed hair looked like the props an old lady uses to be beautiful. her varnished nails were a measure to stop her looking so worn out. now in this photograph, this instant of eternity, nothing hides her.
sitting and peering through her alcohol haze she might as well be very very dead.