drippingblood

Sometimes I feel as if there's a fermenting peach in place of my heart, its stone lodged directly under my ribs and it buckles and gapes like the roundest vowel sound resulting in that pained gaze you sometimes catch me lost inside. I'm really staring into the bricks and mortar trying to dig my way out of a building with an ex-girlfriend's name above its door I say 'you are an island, and I am the sea' but what I really mean is that you are so much stronger than me. Who cares if kids in cars feel righteously opposed to the things you have said? If pens and ink break you'll always have your hands to gesture with instead. I lap at y

Jazz Filled the Financial District Humming like an infernal transistor radio, Hu-bub and cabustle and cracked glass, with duct tape that fixes everything. Notes drifted through the Pits, Crushed by prison bar fences and feet. They ride the Allen, Take him home to a fragmented causeway. The jazz. Ah, the jazz with its brass tunnels, Smoke filled bar rooms Now outlawed, illegal and smoke free, Haunted by the stench and yellowed paint. The jazz, night-light cognizance On the barren streets of the Quay, Lakeshore drowning in a sea of faces and rollerblades; Jazz slinks through cold cracked sidewalks, Salted roads and

Asa No Hanketsu Four A.M. locomotive whistle whale song To a world at sleep, solo's over steady meter Of off-kilter ceiling fan thoughts; Rotating blades cycled by a switch On a wall well out of reach. Sentries flank concave entries keeping watch For nocturnal communications – rhythmic rituals Not meant for human ears; he feeds them back As an undertow current emanating precious hours lost Fighting gravity with his heart, amazed The surge for air finds strength enough to stamp A permanence that begs to see the light of day; Reborn at every sunrise, stationed at every sunset. It's that calm hour, loneliest point of axis Offering

What follows is partially something my mother would call tragi-comic. I think she even pronounced the hyphen that shouldn't be there, because sometimes she spelt words wrong and it made me realise how she wasn't as smart as I always thought she was. The real tragedy was the day that I realised that I was much, much smarter than she was, but that doesn't really matter. After that she started looking at me suspiciously when we were having what she called intellectual conversations, but really they were conversations that I had every day with my friends at college who weren't even that smart themselves, really, just a little bit too life-worn fo

"New face" Gina exclaims, rushing towards her, and grasping her to her breasts, and not really looking. "I love it." But of course, her face is just the same, and Gina is quite clearly mad. She feels that warm, terrible feeling which is the bud of new blood from her vagina, and the start of the shedding of a month's worth of her womb's hard work. Now of course, she refuses to feel but instead lets the blood flow and flow without comment. The air changes slightly, not the smell, but, something. And now, yes, her lips are definitely pearlescent in this candlelight, and perhaps Gina is not so mad as we once thought. There is a smell of gunpowder