several days later update: showed it to my sister and she took one look at it and went "i think that says lyrics" and she was RIGHT the BASTARD!!!
actually bothering to sit down and go through my physical notes is great not only because i find all kinds of stuff i totally forgot about, but because i get to try and decipher what on earth i meant when i wrote "⬑lyncs" beneath a random poem. that is not a word? did i write this at 3am and misspell links? did i mean lynx? lyms? what? what does it mean! what does it mean!!
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actually bothering to sit down and go through my physical notes is great not only because i find all kinds of stuff i totally forgot about, but because i get to try and decipher what on earth i meant when i wrote "⬑lyncs" beneath a random poem. that is not a word? did i write this at 3am and misspell links? did i mean lynx? lyms? what? what does it mean! what does it mean!!
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and it walks, yowling
against a grave that neither bends nor breaks
a game made of the ultimate stakes
howling, it stalks
against an afterlife it cannot see
with a purpose found only in dreams
and it balks, drowning
against a wave of shivers and shakes
a fortress, this tomb that it makes
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BLACK DOG
There's been something big and black dogging my footsteps
And when I crawled from the womb it crawled from the mud
Where I go it follows, this beastly shadow of mine
That barks at birds and balks at strays
It's got a mouth full of teeth it refuses to share
And a tongue it lashes without a care
This monster of mine's been with me since I was born
It ate up my shadow and from then I was torn
Between marching onwards with my head held high
Or looking back at that thing's glowing eyes
It doesn't have a name, or a place in this world
It walks in my footsteps along this sandy shore
And reminds me of the paths I've walked before
It's a beautiful thing, this shadow of mine
And I know it just can't wait for me to die
For then it'll swallow up this cavernous soul
Leave my bones, my shadow for the birds and the dole.
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I tied to you
a fate worse than flesh
with a prayer made in another name
and this hope devours,
it roars at our foundations
with the hiss of air through rotten wood
you tried for me
a face worthy of sacrifice
with a smile carved in another name
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Absinthe; I abstain from
Abstinence itself and its complications
This analog is an old one,
broken by the time it reaches the truth
But we hang it on the wall anyway
and miscount the minutes it passes
before crayon hands pray themselves away
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even snakes cry
A snake appears before Eve and speaks thus:
"This winding tale, as old as time, has yet to arise. Will you suffer it to be so?"
Its fragile tongue caresses the air, disturbing the water's surface with each passing breath. Eve does not speak with words but with motion, lunging towards its reflection with fangs bared.
And so the snake devours its tail and the moon swallows the sun, never-ending; ink and paper are drawn equal before the clot of blood, never-ending; and the fallen gods rise up before their masters and speak with tongues dipped in venomous youth. Never-ending.
And on that day their mothers wept before the choir of executioners; and on that day all were laid to rest; and on that day, everything was still.
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I am the unleavened bread
Devoured by the oncoming storm
Of locusts, ascending from above
The firmament, carrying with them
The hopes of yesteryear
And with desperation comes the harvest
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root of all
Circuitous is the brain in its wickedness,
Speak not of the forked tongue;
In its path, find instead the wavering wiles
Of the Saintly, the creatures most divine
In their unfathomable cruelty they speak
The serpentine form this Labyrinth takes
Is one most suited for voraciousness.
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wow, it's been a while! sorry about that; i've been having a wild year, and most of the stuff i've written isn't stuff fit for posting here (or have been tucked away for competition use). also, the two-hit combo of physical and mental illness makes writing a bit difficult, if you'd believe it. please enjoy a quick spam of scattered, unposted work from the past couple years!
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Say "I love you" and devour the throat
There's nothing left to fear; "I'll hold you close, I swear."
Seal the deal, yearn for the real
You, it's always you; "Don't you forget that--"
Roil, roll the dice again
Let's dance out a prayer to eternity; "I want to XXXX you."
Say goodbye for me, okay?
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the gift
My mother often told me that I was a rambunctious child -- the kind who had to be put to bed multiple times, for I'd always sneak out to watch the stars or muck about in the dirt. I'd never say it to her face, but I'd always wondered if maybe she just lacked authority. Now, I know that sounds like a terrible thing to say about my mother, but please understand -- in all my memory, I've never been possessed of the energy she describes.
In fact, from the time I learned to write to the time I learned to drive, I've found myself gripped by a kind of lethargy. The insidious sort, that sinks into your bones and makes the world fuzz at its edges. My mother had it, too; the kind of exhaustion that left her sinking into bed in the afternoon, drowning in piles of blankets and used tissues. I'd be much the same, if I weren't drowning in fear of the future instead.
Graduation loomed like the executioner's axe. I had no money, no talent, no skills and no passion -- there was nothing of value within me. Maybe that stargazing child would have found something to call their own -- dug a pit to make mud pies and dirt kingdoms. All I had done was hit rock bottom.
My mother would have called me a fool, but by then she had sunk so far into her bed that I dared not wake her. Perhaps raising a child took all she had. It's a thought I entertain far too often.
She was right, of course. She always was, about me.
Understand that I've never been the religious sort. My life was too fraught with meaninglessness for me to believe in higher powers. But it was here, drowning in my sorrow, that I did something I had never done before: I clapsed my hands, and cast my thoughts beyond myself.
Desperately, I begged the universe, "Please, please, whoever is listening -- be it God or devil -- give me something with meaning."
And so He answered, and within my clasped hands I felt a spark of divine light. I opened my eyes and untagled my fingers, searching for His answer within my palms -- and there it was; a brilliantly beautiful thing, the splendour of the universe sticky with my sweat. A swollen mass of pure colour, my eyes were reflected in its surface -- as was the whole world; it caught the light drifting through the blinds, sunbeams dancing on its skin; it was unlike anything I'd seen before. Entranced, I dug my fingers into its flesh and tore it in two.
Within its folds I saw the beginning of life itself, the miracle of birth splayed out like a Sunday feast. And within this spark of life I saw the beginnings of death, too, a quiet poison lurking within its dark corners. Amniotic fluid covered my hands, sticky in its sweetness; it sunk into the lines of my palms, tracing the map of my future. The flesh itself wasn't an impressive colour at all, but as its fluids caught the light, it danced with a kaleidoscope of colours. My shaking hands likely contributed to the effect.
It was beautiful. It was ugly. It was something to live for.
Charged with passion, I leapt to my feet and rushed to the lounge where my mother rested. Shaking her awake, I cried, "Look, look! It is a Gift from God!"
She rose from the bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. I shoved my prize under her nose, breathless; I knew, innately, that I must share this vision with others.
"Dear," She began, blinking down at the object with clear eyes, "Why are you showing me an apple?"
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SHE LIVES IN T[h]REES
There is love in the heart of the garden; it breathes with gentle rises and falls, humming with the buzzing flies. The dirt – still moist from the night’s events – pulses with energy, restrained beneath the earthen skin. It weeps, I love you, I love you, a desperate chant that never completes itself – it ends on the third I love, choking it back; the edges of a crowd that never gathers. Its cracked skin heaves with each confession – they tumble into the world like newborn lambs, and they are slaughtered the same way, torn apart upon the gnarled branches it calls teeth. The buzzards fly overhead, feathered fingers trailing through fairy floss smoke; they can see the death here but care not for why it has made its home among the roots – their eyes are only for the worms wriggling amongst the ash.
The love came with the blaze, with the embers that cracked like bones, like a partner begging you to stay; it came with heat, when the clouds cleared and the sun turned its gaze upon the garden. The sun, who looks upon all with equal contempt, was particularly focused on this garden. It saw the apple blossoms dancing in the tepid winds, the daffodils battling their way through the blankets of clovers – the bumbling bees and the hummingbird taking a baby’s breath – it saw them all, and it burned brighter for it. The sun’s thoughts are known only to it, but whether it was from jealously or admiration, the garden felt its steady glare and gave its own back.
What happened next is known only to them; to those with no place amongst the sky or the earth, the story remains here – with the love’s vines choking the garden’s heart, lingering smog a clogged artery; the blood in the dirt and the tears in my eyes; the echoes of your last I love you and the knife from your back. There was love in the heart of the sun; it breathed with pounding rage and screaming righteousness, and the garden was there when it fell.
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crescents, pt 2
Fold and unfold and
Dissect and reflect and
Whine and entwine and
Rot.
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crescents, pt 1
When a dream starts at midnight,
Does it end in starlight
I long for a world that holds me tight
The way my eyes hold the sunrise
And the way your smile
Blooms with twilight
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Your favourite medium was watercolours. If anyone had asked you why, you’d say: I’m good at them, so why bother with something else?
The truth is, you’re not good at watercolour painting. Whenever you tried, you’d find yourself so far from the assignment, you weren’t sure how you’d get back; you’d flick paint everywhere, soak through the page, forgo the linework entirely to stroke golden wattles onto the empty sky. You’d paint the same pieces over and over, willing your hands to stay put, growing ever more frantic as the hours slipped through your fingers. Your final work would always be covered in smudges, fingerprints pressed against the edges, subject so intently studied that you’d dream about it the next day. The teacher would smile and say thank you, Connie, and you’d try not to cry because – well, you don’t know why. You don’t know why you liked watercolours, either. Maybe you just liked scraping the bottom of the cake.
Of course, you’re not in school anymore, so nobody asks you. Nobody asks you much of anything, really; there’s no did you have fun or how are your friends or wanna work through it together, only how’s work, Connie? Can you do this, Connie? Is it ready yet, Connie?
Most of the time, you’re okay with that. Everyone is busy; there’s no time to breathe between the flurry of activity. After your father’s… passing, the well-oiled machine that was the Westaway family was now choking on rust, crying out as the world cranked it onwards, day after day. Sometimes, it makes you want to scream. You don’t want to think about those times, so they sit in the shadows of your bedroom and bleed into your dreams. Nobody asks you about your dreams, either.
“To make art is to take your world and give it to someone else,” your teacher used to say, while your knees trembled before the easel, “To take your thoughts and capture them between your strokes; that is the essence of painting.”
You’d never been good at painting. You should be glad you gave it up, exchanged your dried pigments for washing powder and your paintbrush for a broom – you’re supporting your family, now, holding their clammy hand as they whimper through their cold. This is what you tell yourself when you’re washing sheets, when you’re cooking meals, when you’re scrubbing the rust from the cracks; that you’re glad you gave it all up, that you don’t miss it at all, that you weren’t good at it anyway, so why bother with something else? You’re better at photography. Your hands don’t shake when you hold a camera; the subject appears as it should, with its blue skies and rumbling clouds.
The truth is, you don’t miss it at all. You don’t lie awake at night, listening to the heavens weeping, and imagine that the raindrops hitting the shingles are your peers shuffling around in the studio above. You don’t hear music in the wind and laughter in the trees, nature’s symphony crying, are you having fun? And you certainly don’t cry into its arms, I love my family, but I can’t do this forever. I have to support them by filling the void in their hearts, but it’s so exhausting. ‘Connie’ doesn’t feel like a person anymore, just something that exists for the sake of everyone else. But if I don’t exist, then who am ‘I’? How do I take my world back? I don’t feel anything but the cracks on my feet. Sometimes I think that they’ll spread up through the rest of me and I’ll tear open, like an ugly wound. This is what I have to do. I don’t want things to be this way, but I don’t know how else they could be, either.
Of course, you’re not alone anymore, so you take your thoughts and capture them between the strokes of your broom; your feet ache, cracks swollen and full of dirt, but you dance onwards anyway. There is a rhythm to the world, one only you can see, and you let it take you in its arms and guide you home. You’ve given up on your art; all that is left for you now is the cloudy skies, the damp earth, and the swaying trees that bind them.
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MAGGOT BRAIN
Okay, maggot brain
Pretty sure I'd rap my knuckles
Against your skull and find there's nothing there
Alright, maggot brain
Substitute your genetic predisposition
Towards addiction with a heavenly almanac
So then, maggot brain
Your brains are all bruised
Like an egotistical apple that's been abused
It's just like maggot brain.
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