dance the flood away.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
if you knew someone's body once, does it mean you know it forever? are we then, through the bodies we touch/ want to touch/ end up touching, all connected to each other by the simple sensation of feeling someone else's skin other than your own?
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
the room is vast, with lots of floors and lots of clothes. there is a tiny bed, in the corner, and many books to the right. when she comes over, she makes this all work to her advantage. he forgets how it was that he managed to sit still when she was in the room. right now, he was lying on his back, watching her. she was slow, careful and intentional in her moves. Her clothes were lying among the many clothes at the end of the room, everything but her lace gray-colored underpants. she bent over at the edge of the bed, legs straight, to reach for the cigarettes in her bag. She unbends, slowly, legs still straight, she knows she's being watched. She lights the cigarette, walks slowly to the door. her hair giggles on her back, in on her every move. she closes the door, keeps her hand on it, inhales long and hard. lights don't hurt much. plus she needed the time, to make sure he was watching her. he was. she walked over to the tiny bed, starts crawling to him. making her hair dance to the music that she put on. she blows smoke onto his bare chest. he pulls her rope of hair towards him, she doesn't hesitate a single bit. smirks, even. like she had written the script. next line: he knows better than to hang on to the rope, so he lets go. this activity causes her hair tie to ride up her wrist, where it rests comfortably in the divide between her arms. she gets up to open the window. 'to move the mirror, or not?' she asks herself out loud. she decides not to, and starts dancing with it instead. the window is now open, the late evening monsoon wind makes her fly. in this room with many floors and clothes. 'the smoke matches her underwear' he thinks. she dances too close to the window sill, as if she wants to be seen, as if she isn't being seen right now. this causes her hair to knock over the fragile ashtray.
she looks up with her large eyes.
he forgives her, like he has forgiven other women, countless times.
Monday, August 23, 2010
In the summer, we walked around a lot. So much so that our jeans tore because we didn't know how to be weary so they'd wear out for us. And afterward, when the sun had or hadn't gone down, we'd lay in bed, and suck each others' genitals despite the wetness of blood and sweat. The nectar of the body was always sweeter in summer, and there was always enough to last us.
Till the next day, at least.
Till the next day, at least.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
I saw a man today, in the park. His socks were on his hands. And then another man, carrying a bag that stunted his growth. And then another man, made of stone. Then I sat inside an empty bus.
When I told you I loved you, you didn't believe me. Just drank from your guitar and strummed your cup. I was limp in your arms, on the black leather couch with the garish throw. I'm pretty sure someone was watching us and filling our mouths with words they wanted to hear. I was so sure I had gotten through, please God, maybe this time I was lucky, I was honest and hopeful and unabashed in my affectionate ways. I let my feelings chip away like plastic paint that someone uses to cover up a mistake. I thanked the Mother Sea.
But you just needed your guitar and your cup, leaving me to think my hands needed frantic warmth.
Monday, August 16, 2010
I'm watching a bug on my wall. It's quite fascinating because he/she is using it's antennae to look for something, but there's nothing on the wall that it could remotely relate to. I'm thinking about the foreign shore, about the Brazilian sunset in my living room, and how my hands are moving faster than my mind. Every day I think about cutting my hair, donating money to the poor, actually making an effort with people this time, and every day, it's just me and my fan, listening to each others' forced noises.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
that is the summer we started doing things. the summer of bulimia and drugs (lots of drugs), of bubbles waiting to be blown, the summer we itched our skins for too long, of classical music. of noticing things. things like lone cups sitting by window sills and white shoes. how our vaginas smelled different because we were wearing each others' clothes all the time. It was the summer when the river was orange in color and loud in thought. it was the summer of taking in, then pushing out. of wanting to be honest, but getting caught up in sacrifices so much that we finally sewed our mouths shut.
Monday, August 02, 2010
'my anklet keeps getting stuck in the carpet'- she complained to him. struggling.
he was trying to read something in a different language. 'take it off, then'.
'no! how many times do i have to explain this to you? it makes me feel beautiful' - she was indignant.
'like wearing silver bangles reminds me of your mother. even when you don't want to become her'- he smirked through the foreign words.
'no...that's different...'- she was ashamed that she had divulged that information. she was still struggling.
'i don't understand how you can become so attached to a piece of jewelery, who's only trait is to sometimes make a deathly faint sound. A child sleeps louder than that'- he said, still reading.
'speaking of which'- she got up and he watched her go. The baby was pouting in her sleep when she checked up on her. Maybe a stroke of love would help change that. And anyway, she was saving her silver bangles for this one. Unless she turned out like her mother, in which case she'd probably chuck them out or bury them alive.
He was coming in just as she was going out. They bumped into each other, apologized, tried stepping out of the way, but not really getting anywhere.
He kissed her then.
'It amazes me how you get any painting done.'
'nearly all of it ends up on your face'- he said, wiping it off with the back of his hand, kissing her nose.
He goes in while she goes out.