war is menstruation envy (by caste call)
I had planned to say something obvious like, he gets under my skin like blood. Mix a cocktail of saline and ash and whisky and call it The Cigarette Burn.
I saved up provocations, I remember the way his chin shone smeared with my blood. I tasted myself on him and I was the sweeter one.
I made up a romantic, tragic story about the love of my life dying, leaving me a young widow. New friends wouldn’t have known I’ve always been alone.
Spit. Spit it out. Miss me, regret me.
I could have given you everything. I want you to miss it.
Conversation stoppers. No one wants my heart, not even as a consolation prize.
Best of The Daily Siege: A Human Sacrifice, 1/11/2005
“Her blood on my hand. Or rather, her blood on my cock. My hand picking it up (my cock, and with it her blood) crazy, frenzied, pumping. Her life on my cock, in my hand. And also her death. What could have been, but was shed. That primal smell, turning us into animals. We never were anything but. The fertile smell, yet rotting. Life and death in one fluid. No, two, hers mixed with mine, blood and semen, red and white. The red of her insides, pulled out and smeared on the soft white curve of her ass.”
After the wave there’s the tide-pool in the ribbed
cup. Now I own what you left me and I’m
salt-rimmed, stained, lit by small hands trying
to feel their way inside, floating on the black
ocean beneath pelvic blood-stars. Because
I’m trying not to lose any, I sleep
against you to be the child on your back,
to be the fur on your skin, the eyes of your
shoulders. If I am the wolf drinking the milk
of darkness around your head, then you are
the lamb; or if I am the lamb then you are the wolf,
howling all night in my ear for the ordinary life.
I say to you: let your seed sprout from my lungs,
let me bear the strange animal of our love.
(via ahuntersheart)
if there is a river
more beautiful than this
bright as the blood
red edge of the moon if
there is a river
more faithful than this
returning each month
to the same delta if there
is a river
braver than this
coming and coming in a surge
of passion, of pain if there is
a river
more ancient than this
daughter of eve
mother of cain and of abel if there is in
the universe such a river if
there is some where water
more powerful than this wild
water
pray that it flows also
through animals
beautiful and faithful and ancient
and female and brave
(Source: poemhunter.com)
Falling in love with a mustache
is like saying
you can fall in love with
the way a man polishes his shoes
which,
of course,
is one of the things that turns on
my tuned-up engine
those trim buckled boots
(I feel like an advertisement
for men’s fashions
when I think of your ankles)
Yeats was hung up with a girl’s beautiful face
and I find myself
a bad moralist,
a failing aesthetician,
a sad poet,
wanting to touch your arms and feel the muscles
that make a man’s body have so much substance,
that makes a woman
lean and yearn in that direction
that makes her melt/ she is a rainy day
in your presence
the pool of wax under a burning candle
the foam from a waterfall
You are more beautiful than any Harley-Davidson
She is the rain,
waits in it for you,
finds blood spotting her legs
from the long ride.
(Source: poetryfoundation.org)
from Pulp Art Book, Neil Krug
Swallow a glass of Laudanum with a bullet in it. and a pair of motorcycle boots to wear.
Italian hot chocolate laced with Laudanum.
Viv and I walked home from a cabaret show at Drift on the river after drinking nothing but water and watching a very gay celebration of Barbara Streisand. Drift is like a club docked on the river (and feels a world away from its previous seafood and steak restaurant incarnation). I pressed my forehead against the floor to ceiling glass windows and imagined stepping out and walking on black, sparkling water.
We left and I shivered at the cold breeze off the river. We walked home along Park Road and stopped in a café for takeaway Italian hot chocolate; it slid like thick oil down our throats. The last of the hot chocolate refused to budge from the bottom of the cup so I tipped up the cup, burying my nose in it, willing the last of the chocolate to my tongue. We resorted to scooping it out with our fingers…it was dark and no one else was around.
Laudanum, lit from the flames of a burning cop car at G20.
In a world where nothing ever changes, who doesn’t want to set fire to a cop car?
Laudanum, the tears of the first person to break your heart, and brown sugar.
Bitter and sweet.
Laudanum and snow from the Himalayas in Nepal: a sure recipe for freezing this moment in time. I always forget.
Today is Friday, we’re back to gin.
Anti-government protesters pour human blood from containers at Government House in Bangkok. The protesters are demanding new elections.
BBC News - Profile: Thailand’s reds and yellows is a good primer on the Red Shirts and Yellow Shirts in Thailand.
