synchrochick007

Tod's a mute, it doesn't matter why. It doesn't matter why, but Tod's a mute. He sometimes wants the world to spin so fast that he's on the other side and he's singing, he's singing so loud that the crows in the rooftops stop their noise because there isn't any point because no-one's listening, because they're all listening to Tod. God stops to hear Tod sing. But Tod can't sing, not at the rate this world spins. He can't sing. Tod starts to paint. Starts in his room at the sound of the door, but the sound's only so loud because it never comes from his mouth the way we sometimes surprise ourselves with words we never planned. Starts to paint

I am writing this to you drunk, From a bathtub in Jerusalem. This room is gold like the city itself: stone sitting smugly on strata pedestals looking down haughtily at my scrawny form: Scribbling ego into scraps. scripts. dusty dreams. Humming history Till tongue is soaked in movements and images of people burying all mystery in the same old void. I was speaking to the Rabbi’s wife tonight, Slurring my words and cursing myself and only thinking about The dead bird stuck in the Wailing Wall Its beak jammed in there like a personal love letter to God, its wings flapping like dead weights. From here the world loo

Do you remember the days when you scooped me up and I thrived in your sand-grain pores? It was autumn then, the leaves were too crisp and red back then, and you know how terrified of fire I was. In the summers I turned into burning coal and cracking volcano shells, and in the winter I would be blown away in the wind, acrobatic summersaults until I became another piece of hail in an ice storm. But the hail is beginning to thaw and soak sweetly in the swelling ground. The mud will spring grass and flowers and forests will grow before my eyes. I’m still a naive fledgling but you have your own freedom to chase after. I’m the flower und

You glisten in my throat, baby,        and glow across my pores -    but for our love to be         effective, you've gotta start shimmering, too.   You, though, will remain dull and we will                 be like either side of          a glazed vase - sparkling Side A                                vs. cold, unfinished clay.   I had been content to play Dagny Taggart                       to your Hank Reardon,        or Hades, on fire with patience                        to have my time with                                  the Persephone in you.             But now I'm out of analogies,       cyclically suffer

Fat square head ugly cheeks lank blonde hair turning brunette. Awful beaked nose lends an air of predatory asymmetricality. Chin that juts out heavy makeup suffocating lazy eyes. Sloping shoulders bulging stomach sagging bosom ripple judder shudder stutter. Swollen fingers pink choked in silver. Clothes strain to cover colossal bulk stretch marks tear through excess flesh. The actinic taint of nicotine clinging like a callous lover.

It's not always about things like slipper slaps on wilting skin, knees turn supple and give way as you heave up ribs. you lost a red rubber dingy in a sea that reminds you of sinks, white skies turn and run in the opposite direction. You will not always be this way. A judder from the core right to the jaw lets out subtle things like sighs and almost tears. Stumble, bash your head against an SOS sign, I am on the other side of the helpline with fishbowls and plasters on three fingers and every inch of my arm. Five was enough to hand you glasses of water and a heavy-but-warm telephone connection that runs through my toes right to a

Months grouped together like careless footsteps stroll upon the lashings accorded to me by the sun. In January I am caressed by ghosts or something as cold and invisible. They intrude upon hair, clothes; books dampen with monstrous hand prints.    Are these shells of half-dead creatures    holding themselves, ancient in a cavern somewhere    or tethered to the earth by thought? Bits of cloud, the flesh of heaven picked off like a soft disease nestle on my shoulder as if pulled from my sweater. they emerge quietly like droplets of blood. Whisper:          we are the teeth of ancient things. White drift presses upon the house