dire me/1

Me, lately: black metal folklore, foxes, brothers, twins, Jessica-Naomi, Heathen Harnow, Phobs, Daniel Gildenlöw, rain and rain and rain, genderfuck, tall sharp-jawed/grace-necked creatures who are always always/shouldn’t be allowed in here; writing things no one will get. Cyberpunk/goth, shiver-y book anticipation for The Diamond Age; sprouts, food and anatomical reactivity. Semi-colons. Pages of paragraphless text. -cest.


Part of me wants to make a photographic record of myself. Feral selfies? I want to get rid of everything; I want a shadow wardrobe somewhere between cyberpunk and mori girl and Lisbeth Salander and androgyny. I find myself drawn more and more, ever ever ever, to these shifty places, where I might sit but never be still.


Skullplay of late; we’ll call it Seagull: skinfuck and hurt and abuse; a nonexistent room, walls/bone so thin sunlight suffuses>>treacherous quiet binding, a Greyhound–aka escape, only to be cutoff during a smoke-break>>fists then, a guitar case thrown from the bus, bitter exhaust in his face>>a walk along a road, vapor and black concrete>>waiting, then following>>a wet meadow>>he concedes>>a car ride through misty nightfall, the sort where sunlight collapses through silky tattered rainclouds>>dozing>>decision: end it all>>a hotel room, a tub, three knife-lines in the gap between collarbone and throat>>asleep in cold tubwater, found>>towels, bed>>breaking; chest-spine, nose-neck, limb-tangle (all innocent)>>morning, weary, sorry, six shots espresso. tbc


When this (dire me/1) is released, when you are, perhaps, reading it, I am: emptying blood, tumblring, stretching, eating, icing, running.






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