| oops. |
[02 Feb 2008|01:44am] |
I slipped in a puddle of primordial sludge
And I've fallened
In love.
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| [all_unwritten] |
[21 Jan 2008|11:07pm] |
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How it happened. One moment everything was fine, maybe a little bit down, nothing serious, the hints of a midlife crisis beginning; not so young anymore, not so pretty. The next moment, everything is hellish and nauseatingly serious and the blood, the blood everywhere. And the look on his face.
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| Smut. Dirty smut. |
[24 Jul 2007|11:43pm] |
In a public lavatory,
In a white dress
He kneels;
He lets the scum and filth sink in
To his spirit, to the bruised skin of his knees.
In this, the flesh,
He finds redemption
And elation;
The magic in the sex, the sex in the streets.
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| Erotica, Death, Feminism & Media |
[17 Jul 2007|06:40pm] |
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Erotica and death; a woman falling from a tall building, her skirt billowing around her like a Marilyn Monroe upside-down. Panic makes it seem like slow motion, beautiful movements in a dance that lasts moments, seconds, last seconds of a life. Morbid, fragile fascination. Her death is a scene. No one thinks about the person inside that body while it's sailing through the air, surrounded by a whirlpool of thin chiffon-y fabric. That is the price you pay for a visual-oriented mind. They only think of the poor dead woman when she's earth-bound again, and broken.
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| Realism in BDSM |
[26 Apr 2007|04:28pm] |
Say I'm kneeling on the floor in the middle of the kitchen, because that's where my Master told me to wait, and I obey his orders, at least when in session; and say we own a large black tomcat, who decided that my being on the floor is in fact an invitation for a playful game of Hunt The Socks. Say I'm not too thrilled about that, because Hunt The Socks is a rather painful game, and not in a fun way, but in a my-toe-is-bleeding, cursing-a-blue-streak, kicking-the-cat way.
Master returns to find me not so much kneeling humbly, but instead jumping around on one leg and inspecting the damage. That's one sharp feline we have.
The world is not a porn flick.
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[23 Dec 2006|11:22am] |
It's in my legs that she walks, the lyrics in the writing in a lalaland of neverending dreams and lullabies; the dreams upon the feet of tongue and laughter, she sweeps and swift through doors and dreams, a lick of paint on wooden door.
A spider spy in torn pyjamas slippers through the doors; in touch of fingers dreams to hold, in sky and bitter almonds, the suits are brightly blue, and distinguished pearl grey in stripes and ties and matching shoes. She slips behind, laughter curls around her fur coat and with a toss of her hair she blows a kiss my way. Surrealist fairy dream, your words are kettles full of Earl Grey tea, and outside on the doorstep English Breakfast in small pink paper cups. The warmth spreads through my limbs.
Admittedly, she lyres, and with a spun weave speaks to me. Admirably, she flyers, and this I know from ink-stained words on paper pink, like leaflets in the wind.
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| Fur Elise |
[26 Apr 2006|03:55pm] |
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Fingers ghosting over the piano, coaxing the music out, bringing it to heights and then calming it down to a lullaby again. It spills over the chair and across the room, sounds dancing against the walls and then squirming their way along people's skin, touching like caresses, nodding as if they had heads, pouring like rain, and like paint they spread spots of colour on every surface, brightening every corner.
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[22 Apr 2006|01:12pm] |
And a green pear
Juice dripping on his chin
And he smiles
And he can smell the orchard in the succulence
Afternoon warmth of the sun in the stickiness that is sweet when he licks it off
His fingers,
Tongue reaching far to try and capture moisture on his chin
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[18 Apr 2006|10:14pm] |
Pool blue shiny radiant in the sun shimmering
Moments touched under clear sky no cloud in sight
Glass shimmering too, on the road sides, broken shards peeking from between blades of grass, glistening like the sun
And then a gaping mental wound somewhere in the road, in the asphalt, pulsing red that doesn't show under the black tar
It's a hot day.
Sun blazing, maybe that's why
The thoughts melt in the head and mix like soup and things that float
In soup
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[18 Oct 2005|03:03pm] |
1. The World is a giant green vase, and the rivers and seas are the droplets of water spilled unto the sides when the vase is rocked by the Gods in their never-ending game of Toss The World-Vase.
2. I see your eyes reflected in the green vase, glass on glass; you stand behind me telling me all that is wrong with me and this relationship, and in the reflection I can see the sparkle of the green-eyed monster.
3. The green vase was unearthed only recently; rough, dirty glass with bronze decorative design in two stripes. It was put in a museum, and a little plaque claimed it was dedicated to an ancient proto-celtic Goddess of the plant life and of fertility. But if you looked into the thick green walls of it, through the murkiness you could see demons dancing.
[Green Vase variations.]
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[05 Oct 2005|12:49pm] |
Little circles; the people you know, conversations you have. The parties you're at, the moves of your dance. Little circles in your drink when you swirl it and laugh a little circular laugh. Circles in your dress, modernised 1960s design, cheerful colours. Circles of your earrings and bracelets. Circle of the porcelain toilet bowl. The perfect circle of your lips in the mirror, puckered and painted a fresh bright red. Out again to circle among your friends and foes, smiling brightly and dancing in small circles. The moon is a bright circle in the sky, and something inside you shudders when you feel the cycle of it, something true inside you long dead and forgotten. Home, and in the morning, black tired circles under your eyes. Better reapply some lipstick.
( x )
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[05 Oct 2005|12:49pm] |
Beat. Beat. Beat. Rhythm. Like a heart. A large heart. The water feels the beat. Circles in the pond. Beat. Beat. Something walks towards us, something huge, so huge we cannot fathom. Beat. Beat. Beast. The ground shakes. The trees move. It's still out of sight. Still between trees. We crouch in low bushes and wait, our own hearts beating, only heard in our own ears. Beat. It comes close. Heavy. Steady. Beat. The air is still. No one dares to breathe. Beat. Splash. The other side of the pond. Shrouded in the mists. Splash. Huge. Heavier than boats, larger than anything, walking in the deep water. Splash. On the shore. Beat. Closer. Right in front of us behind the vegetation. Beat. Beat.
( x )
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[03 Jul 2005|04:05am] |
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The smile of a snail is so slimy. Not sinister, just sort of slight and slippery. When snails simply smile, all silly and blissful, still it seems like a smirk. So sassy, sans respect. Supposedly sweet, yet disturbing. Snails slither and slide smoothly, seamlessly, serene, still you sense that they snark softly, snicker and snigger behind their shells. Seems senseless, I know. I should stop.
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[15 Jun 2005|12:42am] |
A man playing leapfrog with a unicorn. The very image, the ridged horn plowing in and out, the magical creature galloping in the green meadow and the man's face contorting more with pleasure than pain at each thrust inside him.
You never think things through, do you. Take a moment. Think; think about the man playing leapfrog with a unicorn.
ETA: Advice.
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[17 May 2005|11:19am] |
That dirty feeling of being in touch with humans. That thin film of scum on your skin, in your delicate membranes, breathing in the filth and choking on it. Makes me nauseous. Wish I was more immune to it. I overcame the emotional and mental difficulties of dealing with humans, but the physical reactions are still the same; high, violent allergy.
I try to take a deep breath and continue conversing like a civilised being. I barely suppress the shudder that goes through my spine. I don't want to take their human medication, it helps one thing while destroying many other precious structures, often not worth the trouble. I just wish to return to the quiet solitary cold of my cave, curl there and sleep the dreamless sleep of the peacefully dead. Avoid humans until I have to wake, until the very last moment.
[144]
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| Doggie |
[16 May 2005|01:37am] |
Lightning, storm; wet. Bright light again and then noise, cower, hide. Run across wet fields, wet dirt, world turned mud. Find a hole, under the ground, hide where it's safer. Bright tear across the wide purple sky, then the thunder like an explosion all over the entire world, resonating inside the ear all the way through the skull. Wet, terrified. No howl, no bark, would be heard over the rain. No creature can find another in this darkness. Run, hide. Can't brave the elements. Don't brave the storm.
( ... )
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| I, Chewtoy |
[03 May 2005|11:04am] |
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I think I'll be the one in the back, in the leather jacket, leaning against the wall and being quiet. The classic add-on to this image would be a cigarette, but I don't smoke. Anymore. Or a bottle, but I don't drink. Just narrow eyes trying to gather all the info I can before I push myself off the wall and leave, I guess. Just me. Empty circle around, and people drift into it and then back out again. I know I help some of them, and that, for one, can be a reason for existence. I might have left scars on some, but that's okay because in a way, many of them leave scars on me. Doesn't matter, as long as I don't detach from the wall and try to mingle. I don't mingle. I don't do groups, tribes, packs. I lurk, and it's about bloody time I remember it.
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[29 Apr 2005|07:57pm] |
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The gherkins are getting out of the box. They're crawling on the table, across the plastic place-mats, wriggling like the cut ends of some green, bumpy, tentacled creature that faintly smells of vinegar.
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[19 Apr 2005|11:31am] |
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Gore, open windows, glasses grey as the dark grey sky outside, rain falls hard, blood runs in the streets. Blood inside. What is this, I look at my hands blankly, look at the floor puzzled where the body lays. Not human, just flesh with a head and the eyes are closed, or they're not there. Papers strewn around, blowing in the wind, getting wet; the rain slipped inside through the open window like a cat burglar, like a ghost, whooshing in when I wasn't looking and wet everything with its watery footprints. Killer. Good word. I don't know what it means. Just remember the crunch under my fingers. Walk to the window, the wind pushes me back in, throwing the raindrops in my face to keep me hidden inside, but I won't, I won't have it, I walk until my hands are on the window ledge, mud made from dust of the ages and new rain.
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[18 Apr 2005|08:23am] |
Save yourselves. It's all you can save, in the end, your only possession, only valuable. Save yourselves because no one will do it for you, no one will die for your personal sins. Guards, defences, walls, they rise and fall. Protect yourselves. Run. Save your souls.
Ell-Jay of insanity and paranoia and darkness, not of brilliant sparks; still serves a purpose.
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