~displacedbody
no such thing as a final hit <
Newest
M taught me how to hide.There used to be a little boy living here. He had no name but they called him So. Do you know how he died? Oh silly you, he hasn't died yet.M taught me how to hide.
So,
he was just a plastic bag filled with blood that broke. way up there on the hill by the shore. We told him not to go, but he didn't listen! What a shame.
All that blood fell into the sea. I told his mother So but she didn't believe me She didn't even look!
My hands are clean and
these teeth are brand new. I got them at the foreign shop 'coz well i hate keeping bloody money on me. &nb
by ~displacedbody
SKIN:as told by my fingertipstip tap skim smooth across the globe of your skin. Down subtle curves and fleshy crescendos, limbs silky beads of sweat- peaks.SKIN:as told by my fingertips
Tentative territory of touch spontaneous
firing of synapses.
Short strokes pondered relentless breaths sharp mutterings.
Torn flesh wet with spit- no touch. Specific, hesitant, slow and greasy.
Pressure shaped
rounded
surface, indulge in sensation and revel in attention.
I glide along memories,
hovering awareness of heat and hair’s perception.
the tiny vessels beneath me constrict near the surface, old friend
by ~displacedbody
Random Favourites
if I am nowhere am I everywherI am talking to her saying our roads will be all that’s left; that our avenues will turn to altars, set in onyx. look what we remember of Rome, all pavements and temples arranged like vertebrae in dirt that goes on living, full with prayer;if I am nowhere am I everywher
and as I say this, it occurs to me that in a Mexican bar in Florence I might disappear
to the streets and run, eyeless
through an eyeless crowd,
(take me, Florence! I am a son among these heartbroken stones, take me from the marble block lift me out!)
to laugh hysterically; she is pulling me,
by ~danstijl12
The Disability to WriteDo your hands ever all of a sudden lose the ability to write? The letters, formerly tight scribbling cursive, loosen to flowing nonsense. The letters are trying to flatline; the life is going out of the letters. Why? Where does the life of a letter go? Where did it come from?The Disability to Write
The fingers, you see. The fingers are flaccid. The fingers have lost the ability to let the words out. Perhaps also the fingers have lost the ability to pull the words in, from whence to be let out. The fingers find themselves inutile, lacking utili
by ~sisterjanet
Fave News
- 12 October / November ProsePrompt - Oct 12, 2007
- 85 A Place for Poetry #1 - Sep 15, 2007
- 28 September ProsePrompt! - Sep 1, 2007
- 112 The Ugly Contest - Aug 30, 2007
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Devious Info
- Interests: absolutes, substance abuse, imperfect teeth, nerds, shoes on strangers
- Favourite genre of music: kick-ass boo-hoo cello-rock, brechtian punk cabaret, and a few completely different scenes
- Favourite cartoon character: tank grrl, rylie
- Tools of the Trade: subconscious
- Email: turnquest.ava(AT)gmail.com
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Sweat for love, and bleeding sunshine onto these pages
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*WordCount : Prose Exposure
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silly me to think that you were sinking
<remind me next time to leave those floats behind>
[despite my blurred mind and abstract~NESS i found that my emotions led me to you. stayed with you. i found that i love/d you. you're the best i ever knew]
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"You're like the joints to my skeletal structure of consciousness, the weakest point of an otherwise calcified process of protection and support." ~monoliath
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scared shitless
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