easteri'm in the back of the car, sucking my chlorine hair and watching with sleepy eyes out the window. brown dirt is soon ochre and we are nowhere in particular yet. we are going to the atheton tablelands for easter. i fall into a broken sleep on my sister's warm shoulder and when i wake up we are there.easter in Biography & Memoir More Like This
it is nighttime and my cousin is only still a baby and she cries from inside the house (which is really only a very large shed). out of the car the air is like freezer air but fresh and crisp like cold water. my eyes become wide at the rolling of the hills around us, the living green they are, the horse paddocks, the shapely trees. there is a loud, insistent buzzing of myriad thumbnail sized insects slamming themselves against us, and walls, towards the light. they scare me and i go inside, under blankets. i am still tired and softly i ease back into sleep on a mattress on the floor.
when i wake up i am the only one awake, even the sun is still sleeping. when i'm the only one awake i like
stvwyoustvw in Scraps More Like This
are a middle-aged woman with skin that has turned more into leather mask than a face as you have been in the sun. you are a vitamin d addict with the burning need to stain white skin, brown. you have spent twenty-five years in and out of dermatologists' offices, asking for opinions and second opinions on the warped moles on your back and the bleeding sores on your chest. you have two children, whom you view as distractions from your mission to capture your forever-young. you are forty-five in december, but halfway through november, those riotous patches of skin will spread like poison ivy. you will die three weeks after your birthday- untanned, unloved, and bald.
are a teenaged boy with freckles and a small nose. you are a sad soul, an epicentre for all things tragic. you are run-down and marked with tire-treads and pale lip imprints, a product of society more than anyone, despite the war you wage against it. you have sharp-angled lips and stand with crooked shoulders. you are
i meant to tell youplease (tell me another story, tell me every dream you've ever had so that in case you) forget (i could remember it for you. i'm stumbling over my words again, asking, do you love) me, (do you dream of me? i love and dream of you every night, i am a mess of limbs and i remember to lie to you and tell you that i) do not (remember my subconscience's wishes on stars that do not exist, i will not tell you that i dreamt that we could) talk (underwater, and you would never come) to me (again because you would not leave me, n)ever again.i meant to tell you in Scraps More Like This
he said, she said .collabyou said hi.he said, she said .collab in Scraps More Like This
the earth shifts, a body moves, lights blow out, a star decays, veins twist,
the last dinosaur's cry finally echoes back, a language without words is born,
the sunrise is blue, sunset is red, a day is wasted, people are feeling feelings,
an insect genocide, writing on skin, why are the other planets empty,
had a life started when a baby died before it could remember,
our bodies are ancient artifacts, i stepped on a crack on purpose,
table is a beautiful word, life is a videotape, we dry like grapes,
wallets are too much weight to fly, heartbeats are not fascinating, clocks are bullshit,
diamonds are rocks, breathing is nasty, walls are immature,
touching should not be uncomfortable,
every thought and emotion to think and feel is already in your head;
everything else is just a trigger,
how are tears ready to be cried, why did God invent pain,
we're smart animals, we're dumb humans,
eyes glow, neurons rattle, blood flutters like a gamma ray burst, love is nonexistent,
worse than it soundsi reign in enthusiasm like a pair of overzealous carthorses so they don't trample the man on the side of the road. he is too lovely and i do not think his beautiful face would look nearly as handsome if it was covered in horseshoe prints and steel wheel tracks.worse than it sounds in Scraps More Like This
he is my age, whatever that is today. i wonder if he decides how old he is each morning when he wakes, the way i do. he is beautiful and i hate him for it, i just cannot leave him alone.
he is so much of everything i could never imagine, too much more than i am used to and i just want to sit on his lap (because today, i am six years old), with my ear on his chest, listen to his heart beat ugly rhythms black and blue, and feel his throat rumble with each word.
he will tell me stories and i'm only half paying attention because his voice is so pulchritudinous, he taught me that word when he told me about how pulchritudinous, how beautiful the riverbanks were when he travelled two miles downstream, just floating on his back; i could
what is meant by playing deadthe house looks like helium. it is faded with cold as its body, thickets of slatted wood painted palely. shutters are closed eyelids, unbearable lightness to the miserly scene before them.what is meant by playing dead in General Fiction More Like This
these streets are cobbled and winter-bleached, colours in hibernation save for three bodies of varying paleness lying slatternly in its centre.
bones compounded, salted twigs in white shades bent and broken; there is no blood, just an overwhelming taste of death.
who's that? a bloodless face murmurs from its position on the axis of the recumbent spine.
think his name's johnny, a nearby body whispers.
it's not, the broken limbs in question croaks.
the wind calls for a hush. feet shuffle in stumbling waves, the way they would at a wake, before the judgemental face of the open casket.
are they all dead? a crisp voice calls.
the bodies on the cold road cringe at the sharpness of the sound. a bird rustles the newspapers just fallen from the basket.
a black boot taps a girl's shattere