Thursday, 23 April 2009

I love taxidermy

come eat with me, my pretties

Wednesday, 22 April 2009

sleep sound and dream of words

soon I will be sleeping here
thank you rvw

carbon

"I remember being young in school, being told our bodies would yield enough carbon for 2,000 pencils and enough calcium for 30 sticks of chalk, as well as enough iron for one nail. What a weird thing to tell kids. We should be told our bodies can transmutate into diamonds and wine goblets and teacups and balloons."
Karla in Microserfs (Douglas Coupland)

Tuesday, 21 April 2009

a manifesto of sorts

this is a new home for the ideas which want to stick around: a dumping ground for inspiration and crushes, the good lines which come like a fist in the dark, pitch-perfect images, and other detritus kicking around.  it is a glimpse into the half-considered flotsam of my brain and, as such, is likely to be hyperbolic, nostalgic, ridiculous, and romantic as all hell. 

these are words that loiter.

my next project


will be a dark room filled with EL wire


Sunday, 19 April 2009

you (idea from Jenny Holzer)

You spit on them because the taste left on your teeth excites. You showed hope all over your face for years and then killed them in the interest of time.

You felt lonely so you shot the tide in the ankle. It was a cheap trick, but it was yours.

You thought I was going to leave you. I wasn't. I was waiting for the moment to make an entrance.

You did it first, afraid you'd miss the boat. You shouldn't have. Now you're alone with cigarette butts and cats for secrets.

You sit at home, composing excuses and fairytale endings. You think of me, always.

In your mind I am pliant. I am open and warm and soft, and you crawl, kitten-like, into the tumble drier. The door closes, the drum begins to spin.

You almost cannot bear it. You are close to the edge; teetering, giddy, teeth bared with too many gums.

You are my fucking sunshine.

You have yet to realise this. You think I am laughing at you because I am laughing. When you scream, I think you want to go faster. Ecstasy is a delicate concept.

You end up naked with a polka-dot silk scarf tied around your neck. Reciting blank verse and terrorist threats, writing conspiracy theories on supermarket receipts, stash by the canal for them to find.

They never do.

You start dreaming in parallel sequences. The doors are exploding; the shoes turn to liquid at the apocalypse. The screams unzip your eardrums and your sanity turns to static. It is too late to reach for the remote.

You are going to die, and you are going to die alone.

I can't help you now.