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“I don’t know why this is so important to you,” the ground was cold, and she could feel the damp seeping into her jeans. She tried to shove her hands deeper into her pockets, but they ended just shy of warm.
He was pacing. He liked to pace; it gave him momentum, and, with momentum, surely it would come. “It’s going to come. I just know it.” He stopped to look at the metal box on its perch. Its little red spatula-arm saluting the rising sun. He paced some more.
She sighed and ran her hand through the tangles in her hair. She hated early mornings—for one thing, why were they associated with productivity? She had never known anyone to be fully functional before nine. For another thing, why was it always so damn cold? “You could at least gotten us some coffee first. I mean, are you even wearing socks right now?”
This finally seemed to catch his attention; he glanced down. “Yes!” He spat. His socks were mismatched, but he was wearing them. His face reddened; he hadn’t meant to sound so infantile.
She grinned crookedly, like a cat that used to be a contender. He hated that look; he had fallen in love with her once for that look. It was like her mouth was loaded and aimed right at his heart. His right hand flew up and waived it away, continuing to pace. He let his breath out slow between his teeth for effect.
She stood and brushed off the seat of her pants, grimacing as she touched the twin mud splotches on her back pockets. She could be ignored but not dismissed. If he wasn’t going to explain, she wasn’t going to be around to listen.
“I figured it out! I swear—we just have to wait.” She reached up and put her hands on his shoulders. They rested just so the tips of her fingers brushed the back of his neck.
“Aaron, this is about Moe, isn’t it?”
“It’s going to come, you’ll see! A white truck is going to pull up—” the words vanished as his throat tightened up. Her hands felt warm against his neck. She drew him closer so that their foreheads almost touched.
“I love your brother too, Aaron. But we can’t keep fooling ourselves. It isn’t fair.” He didn’t mean to, but he stepped back from her. Tears welled up and made her amber eyes glow in the sunlight.
“Miriam…” he whispered but she didn’t hear him; she was already back on the porch.
“Nothing ever came in that stupid box. For Chris’sake, nothing ever will. Who sends mail these days anyway?” She tried to laugh but it came out as a sob. Miriam marched into the house. She wanted a stack of pancakes the width of her ass and the height of the house. She would drink all the coffee in the pot.
Aaron cursed under his breath; now, even the pacing wasn’t helping. It had made perfect sense when he woke up. He had never been more sure, and now he just hated himself. He found a baseball bat a neighbor’s kid had abandoned in the hedge separating the houses, and swiftly knocked the box off its post. He didn’t stop until he saw a flash of white turning up the road.
12 - I am at the bookshelf and I am a spider and the captive thoughts of dead men are around me.
At the bookshelf I am a withered spider thinking of my father. My father climbs a thread of silk which snaps half-way up and he splashes into a half-empty cup of soda. My father struggles and nearly drowns and aspirates cola. His legs wrack and spasm. The cup is styrofoam and his feet barely find purchase but they do and he climbs to the rim and escapes up the bookshelf. He is repulsive and survives.
My father makes the most incredible plans for devious and beautiful webs and they all crumple to shriveled sticky lumps. He will hang all his best webs upon the best books sturdy spines. He will do this endlessly with good-natured shouts of Cocksucker! each time another cable snaps without a sound.
My father catches bugs. My father wraps up bugs. My father eats his bugs. My father runs out of bugs. My father starves. My father shrivels like unanchored webs. My father has a change of luck. He is repulsive and survives.
My father the spider taught me to spin beautiful webs and I am afraid of what will happen to me.
Blorytime.
Reading through a Tumblr called Velvet Blory I thought I may as well tag my work and see if any of it interests the people running that ‘pseudo-literary’ publishing agency, seeming as I need to get feedback or some sort of voice out there.
Therefore here is some of my recent work (after the jump) that has been edited to a “final” stage. Some of it poems, some of it prose poetry, some of it just experimental.
Feedback appreciated as always.
WARNING: The following writing probably goes on for a bit, hence hiding it behind a jump as not to clog up Tumblr dashboards. Also, Tumblr destroys my heartily slaved-over formatting so please forgive me on that front, I’ve used full stops to give myself the necessary line breaks but it looks a bit like I’m transmitting in Morse code..
PS. www.velvetblory.co.uk is the website of the aforementioned agency, it’s got some really good stuff and you can buy quarterly compilations of their best publications for not a lot, plus part of it goes to charity, check it out!
I’m that girl
with stars in her eyes
and words in her wrists.
Can you love her?
Can you make her smile
and her eyes dance
just as fast as her running feet?
I’m that girl
with a heart on her sleeve
and walls to protect it.
Can you trust her?
Can you make her open up
and trust you entirely
just as much as she’s never wanted?
I’m that girl
with love in her hands
and hurt on her face.
Can you understand her?
Can you hold her tight
and know when to let her go
just as accepting as her tortured heart?
Just Like You
If I was as pretty as you,
I don’t know what I would do.
Maybe I would do up my hair a bit,
Or buy a new pair of shoes.
If I was as charming as you,
I think it would help me see.
That even if the smiles might come and go,
You’ll always be there with me.
If I was as happy as you,
I think I would want to cry.
Because then I’d know that on the inside,
You really just want to die.
Updates
There should be some more writing appearing here soon, I have a few pieces I’m working on.
Also, my piece, Insomnolence, was featured on Velvetblory today. Take a look, and like if you… well… like it :)
Link here.
And let me know what you think here!
Fall
is that time of year when leaves
flutter to the ground and collect together
in friendly hugging groups, unified, loving.
The wind whispers through them,
susurrant sweet sounds teasing my ears,
telling me that fall is for
love.
I walk on
and find soft orange sunlight
kissing the mountain peaks,
embracing one another, unified, loving.
The sparrow sings to them
delicate melodies mocking my mind,
telling me that fall is for
love.
Now
I find a couple on a park bench
grasping hands over a mug of hot cider,
eyes locked together, unified, loving.
A jubilant child laughs with them
effortlessly full noises taunting my heart,
telling me that fall is for
love.
Ode To the Gulf of Paria
The body craves water.
Aqua,
clear to fathoms.
The white boat a gull flying on the surface.
I am haunted by you here,
where the North Sea roars black and cold.
Still it is the mother of you,
child-ocean dressed in your play-clothes,
emerald, turquoise, sea-blue,
harborer of dolphins, mermaids,
old-man loggerheads,
coral kingdoms
and my tiny water-baby self flying,
swimming, forever dreaming.
a massive thank you to velvetblory for featuring me in velvetblory #3. i’m seriously excited.
you can buy it here: http://www.lulu.com/shop/d-walker/velvetblory-3/paperback/product-20365863.html
A (very) Short Story
velvetblory.co.ukA cool little literary blog out of the UK was kind enough to post a short story I wrote.
cathexis
they ship me off to a free health clinic in coketown
because I enjoy feeling for every surface, from
island kitchen countertops to lumberjack junk.
surgeons dig syringe teeth into my skin, struggling
to numb my nerve endings; and knotting and
twist tubing my veins like tourniquets so I can’t
discern when my blood’s spiking and curdling.
following incisions, they take me to an asylum white
room where a mind reader sits on a cockroached cot
and feels around my head.
peeling tomatoes instead of dicing them; zipper jeans
instead of yoga pants because I like the zuh it exhales
it makes when I tug down on them; ripping
up asparagus tufts with my bare hands and
masticating the stem; you’re paul bunyon
with godzilla fingers and I want to see
those fingers grip and claw into sycamore
barks and uproot them; I like to pin you down
while you choke the words out of me.
“shes far too handsy” says the mind reader
as the surgeons inject a hypodermic needle
with bacteria into my arms and wait for them
to smell like liver rot so they can
gut the life out of me.
velvetblory replied to your post: The Waiting Game
fantastic!
Hey thanks! That sure doesn’t feel bad.
Posting a dramatic monologue I wrote for my poetry class last week because I’m interested in getting the attention of the Velvet Blory tumblr who acknowledge writing on the internet hahah.
Tis called ‘Loch Lomond’ and is based on an interpretation of the “Bonnie Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond” song :)
03.01.13
Hold me in your devastating arms again
Place of dreams,
Of fiends, of
Beggars and beauties
It is hard to think of a time when life went quite that way
The way that it went
When I felt that particular
Cold wind
Bite at my exhilarated face and my frantic hands
Searching through your hidden alleyways
Or the way that it went
When I felt that particular
Red wine
Pass through my wanting lips,
In copious amounts,
My wanting lips, wanting
To be drunk with your romance and your roses
True, my wanting lips were almost
Always
Drunk with your romance
And your red wine and your river
True, I woke up each morning
Head pounding, Stomach madman rambling,
Brain wild with enquiries
What happened, who was I, what did we do
Last night?
But the one sweet thing, complete thing I always knew was
Where
I was.
