died; got all of his possessions.
dungeon load of music, hellish crime scene photos, memories of us.
clothes; got all of her soul, Nikotine™.
Old and crusty Make-up; didn’t know he wore any, magazines of self-loathing, rusty blades for his angry fur.
faded memories of us.
nothing more.
flailing under weighted blankets with the world’s sniggering vitriol dampening my resolve which never was up to it anyway like everything else or everyone I’ve known, few as they may be, and diminished by time and the noise of my tentacled senses holding me under, I can’t breathe.
Release me.
She dreams in clips.
A music video; she’s walking beside a stranger she loves terribly, they’re in an amusement park and laughing, on a rollercoaster and gasping.
Reaching up to the swirling sludge-puppy sky.
The sharp jabbing beeps of her alarm shock her into the deep end of her room.
Left with nothing but a headache and time running out before her boss calls to swoon into her ear his concerns and constructive bullshit, she quickly and inadequately washes up, bites into a piece of last nights pie and has her instant coffee on the go, almost spilling the black liquid down the stairs.
The sun’s too bright, the streets too loud, the walk way too hard, her clothes too close, what she wouldn’t do for a nap right now.
The blur of faces at work remind her of that rollercoaster, that stranger with a red tongue, and the foreign smile on her own face.
She pokes and prods her cheeks – hollow tombs for the flies.
Maybe it all becomes a type of drug, the lies and the ridicule of the world, and you take it all in. It does its job and you piss it out, shit it out.
The Virus of life.
Be Happy.
They Kiss Quiet
He kisses quiet and she kisses quiet
Nobody knows when they kiss except them
Any passion in their kiss is shared in private;
They haven’t done the French kiss;
He isn’t a prude, it’s the saliva, and besides – how do you coordinate such a thing?
She isn’t a prude either, it’s that foreign warmth, the texture of a tongue (her own tongue gives her the shivers at the best of times), what more a strangers’?
They watch porn together;
they’re fucking like maniacs, she says
He nods, adding: and so loud,
All of that sweat she concludes
They haven’t had sex, they would like to, theoretically. The idea of losing yourself in the moment, in another person, they both agree that this would be an exciting occasion. Although that’s very Hollywood, that «losing yourselves in the other», what does it actually mean, she wonders
He blunts out a theory, maybe like when a really deep song is playing you close your eyes and for those minutes you’re gone, on a another planet
She adds: In another dimension
They smile, if sex is like that then maybe it won’t be too bad, a few seconds of contemplative facial expressions, wistful even, quickly turn to frowns and furrowed brows
But the smell! And the noises! They both blurt out, laughter rings out in front of the muted TV.
Endless fucking; even in movies without sex, they manage to squeeze in something, be it a pointless relationship or love interest (or brothel, she intercepts). His words hover for a second.
The whole world is a Sex of Noise, she declares,
He smiles, nodding, but frowns immediately.
The porn flick concludes with an “Over the Moon” money shot and fades to black.
She says: I wonder what the rest of her day will be like. Wouldn’t it be funny if she went to visit the family back home and she’s kissing grandma and sister’s daughters.
They laugh and watch Classic Tom & Jerry cartoons into the mid-night and beyond.
I was digging a grave for my dresses when it started raining
The little hole I made grew big and wide and deep
For a second I thought that was the end of me but it stopped just as I ran out of place to run
After checking to see if all my limbs weren’t missing
I looked into the hole and saw a red eye big as the back of an elephant’s ass starring up right at me all deranged and angry looking.
Mama won’t believe me when I tell her ’bout this.
Mother sat on the beach stool out front
Watched the cars and baked in the sun
I always snuk out back like a cat
Payed HER a visit
She lived behind a locksmith shop where her father worked
Right next to a tall mountain; almost like a wall reaching for the sun
We talked ’bout all sorts of stuff.
These violet orbs hung over her head like discarded halos running out of power.
It makes my kidneys sore thinking ’bout them days.
I’ll just get on with feeding the rhinos and take my daily hike now.
Bye.
The lady selling blankets was a mystery to us all.
My betting Cousin said she looked older than our grandmother.
I said grandma was the oldest person in the world.
She said “not anymore, that lady has sixty-years over grandma.”
The lady cycled into town dragging big bags of blankets.
Singing hymns from what seemed like a foreign, dreamy era.
“Have you seen her blankets? Handmade, but amateurish.” Babbled Cousin.
I just shook my head. “I’m going to buy one..”
“My ma says she should be ignored until she disappears.”
“Your ma would!” I power walked to the lady, annoyed.
Cousin shouted “you’ll wake her up then we’ll be ghosts!”
It caught my eye during a routine morning.
I was mowing the lawn and I saw it.
My friend always says “Gina, you’ve got bionic eyes.”
I believed it that day.
Once I got closer; I saw it was an axe.
Polished maple wood handle, an edge so sharp it sang out a slicing tone which cut through the silent autumn wind.
The Orchid Oak Tree was particularly menacing this morning; it boasted its immensity on days that were going to be stale, eventless.
Everyone around the town would picnic around the hill it was perched upon.
Lest it release agents that produced stinging nightmares.
But this axe… I wonder.
«It’s in your hands» a thought runs up my spine; tickling the tips of my fingers.
Another gush of wind. I squint my eyes.
Bending down and lifting it up.
…I wonder…
Barking electronic voice boxes
Ghostly static persisting,
insisting on outdated data,
eroded ideals and fossilised schemata.
Upgrades are slow with time standing in the way.
«What’re the algorithm specs?
Any word on the paradigm progress?»
Nails spin out, face stretches out; senses phase out.
Digital zombies barking with electronic voice boxes.
She’s reading The Book
Reading it with care
Lingering over every word
Pronouncing each dusty syllable
Her clock ticks along.
Ghosts behind the microwave
Buzzing, listening; guilty pleasures.
When tomorrow arrives again;
She’ll do it over.
Until death doth sever.
_•_•_•_
Make no mistake about why these
babies are here; they are here to
replace us – Jerry Seinfeld
This is not a shrine, but fragments of time that remind me how even endings leave their ink behind — a place where words that once mattered can finally rest.
2 Lines each day...
from the forest, from the furrows, from the field ... and further
relishing in life's surprises, delighting in food, travel, art
The Writings of an Aspiring Cadaver
the literary asylum
grano a grano el gallo se llena el buche
"Hay que inyectarse cada día de fantasía para no morir de realidad" Ray Bradbury.
Making media that matters; Empowering others to create media too
A bit of entertainment, a dash of humor - life in a multi-cat household!
"Be yourself - everyone else is already taken."
Autism, Anxiety and Allergies. Please feel free to email me abigailbrookshalling@gmail.com
bipolar, uninterrupted
Asperganoid 