Screaming into empty paper cups lined with swollen, bruised tissues
I followed you beneath the veins
Of shattered umbrella hearts.
I missed you but.
You see how petals are peeled from an orange moon
So effortlessly and only moonlight bleeds from the bandaged craters of broken days.
I trid to touch your holographic skin
In the same simultaneous moment that belief in
Handmade stars grew.
We will learn to ink tattoos
beneath our eyelids once the sea stops breathing, panting, howling like mad women at night.
Time is rude. Time is impatient. Time laughs at your sorrows sailing across the feathered ripples, bursting into wilted cherry blossoms. Time kisses your eye and slyly takes your hand while you are preoccupied with its sunken lips, a sunken morose ship.
Time is rude. Time is impatient, like pyjama pants left unwashed by the sun.
The thing about letting go is that you have to bite your heart out, glowing and slug-slimey with fluorescent blood. You must hold it out on your tongue and let the smoke evaporate into purple, bruised fogs. This is because there is a point where sunlight stops being real. It slides like ice through paper in the summer and leaves you with wrinkled, shredded fingers. Fingers rendered edible like jelly.
Letting go of time requires the same sort of discipline. Let your teeth grow in the winter while the snow is still white. While we propel ourselves towards toothless fates.
‘Tonight, I’m going to let you in on a secret.’
Here’s why I haven’t been writing much🙂 Welcome to the world of HEELP PRODUCTIONS!
A post inspired by Dieu on the Grass‘s post with the same premise.
You are the rice sieved through jelly, sweetened in a peculiar way
You are the wool bleached by sunlight
You are the soak of detergent in porcelain and lace
You are the sky constantly stripped and re-attired
You are the burn of tree roots for baby carrots’ cradle
You are the orange filtering through candlelit napkins
You are the wall suckled with holes rippling, gravitational
You are the clouds who herald neon light in the dusk and stain the pages with shadows.
You are the wisp of hope in the glass slapped and powdered with ancient code.
You are Not Here but Somewhere.
Awww…. Thanks to Dieu on the Grass who nominated me for this award.🙂 Don’t really know why she did but anyway-I’m rather flattered. This is an opportunity for me to pass it on to the senior bloggers I do admire so much! For the 15 listed here, nominate 15 others for the award and tell us 7 things about yourself.
1. Graphite Capsule I love the quirky writing you can find here and it’s definitely one of the best blogs I have ever come across!🙂
2. Words Form Windows
3. Eternal Domnation
5. Geeky Book Snob
6. Lyrical Love
7. Illustration 365
8. Tada’s Revolution
9. Daily Writings
10. Perfectly Imperfect
11. Bliss Point
13. craving candy
14. The Sound of Rain
15. And Dieu on the Grass!! (can I actually nominate her again? I will anyway because she is so awesome!)
So… talking about me. Not really my forte but here goes:
1. I love wearing my beanie which has dog ears and the face of a dog. I wear it EVERYWHERE. I swear.
2. I am married to several brains such as Haruki Murakami and Richard Kelly. Yes, I am a tad underage.
3. I go to sleep listening to the Pixies: WHERE IS MY MIND? (Fight Club!!!!!!)
4. I want to get into art. Hopefully filmmaking, maybe animation, graphic design if neither of those work out and making coffee for the designers as a last resort.
5. I’m a fortune teller. Scout’s honour my Sri Lankan friend is going to marry an African guy and another friend is going to end up with tiger-babies after having a tiger impregnate her… Don’t blame me, it was all in their palms. The wrinkles don’t lie!
6. HEDGEHOGS ALL THE WAY! Check out some videos of baby hedgehogs on youtube!
7. I’m a morning person. I like to get up early and stay up late because I don’t want to waste a second of my life.🙂
Source: pink promise
“Take this and let it shatter into shreds of paper, blank paper. See the snow, see the glitter? Let it fade, child. Let it roll into the dust that gathers between the table and tiles. Let the water drain into the floorboards, the carpet. Let it spread like margarine, let it spread a magic underneath your tiptoes at midnight. I was young and curious but now my fingers are but twigs that crack and snap. Just as eggshells break into the wind and are swept up with a broom. Take this and shatter it for me. For you. If it pierces you, drink the blood and so you have lost nothing.
Now the glass is gone. This paper is the earth, crevassed and attired in streams and valleys and sand and snow and cloud. Unmapped, unchartered. It wants ink and colours seeping through its skin and you are going to map this life. It is your map and you can draw whatever you like.”
But it was just a pretty trinket and it tinkles now on the mantel and the crayons she gave me are smeared across the walls, later to be spring-cleaned away.
She is lost and those who lay eyes upon her feel the heat emanating from last night’s time. The smoke curls at her will, twining between her fingers like string, like a stream of salmon satin that listens, that hears her command clawing at their subconscious.
But now they are estranged, meandering amongst the dandelions and practising darts with neurons that stand within heartbeat distance, absorbing each shot. And she twiddles her fingers like toothpicks after dinner and her fragility exposes the ice that melts into waves crashing against her ribcage.
He lays her on the eiderdown and caresses her voice until it bursts into the night with a gurgle and hiccup, but she says little. Her words remain in the woods, with the crow that hoards such things beneath his black hide.
Did you think the sea bed was the Arctic? A cold place sheeted in the luminescence searing upon the sand? A place where the ice melts to settle in sugared layers of frosting, congealing clouds?
Streets away from the core, simmering, ebullient, fired by the gun. Warm as the socks that are thrown into the summer clouds to fetch your daydreams.
Lying here with the barnacles enclosing you until the specks of light mottling your darkness disappear. How heavy? As heavy as the wind that throws you into unwanted arms and buckles your knees to pavement and blood.
The octopus swallowing your skin and your nightmares, the coral fed through sieves lined with despair, blinking neon, thrashing.
Rocks are silent, they let the waves lick them, cut them, wash them away into timeless currents that sail through fairytale and nothingness. They are not steadfast, honest. It is better to lean on the wind that shall carry you with menacing timidity, than settle on the stone that cares only for algae and coral tiaras and pennies wished into oblivion.
I once believed in a heart with an ejector seat and a parachute tucked into a vein, because jellyfish belong in the sky.
I once believed in a heart with airbags and a seat belt across the septum, because hearts don’t like to sleep on the concrete.
But the tooth fairy gives nothing to the world-weary, hobbling about toothlessly. And the elves don’t wrap presents for the poor children gathered in carboard dresses on the street. In the same way, you and I stopped believing. I guess our hearts just had no insurance, because we couldn’t afford it and being carefree and young, we thought we wouldn’t need it.
Do you believ in the frozen dew in the summer?
Do you believe in the cat who howls on your clothesline?
Do you believe in the orchid etched on the cornea of your eye?
Do you believe in a dust so congested it is invisible?
Do you believe in the soap that eats innocence?
Do you believe in a star so dim it is the brightest?
Do you believe in a miracle hinged precariously on the threshold of Yester-Morrow?
Do you know where your faith is sleeping? In which atomic spockle of this darkened, unattired crevasse?