metastasis
cocteau twins songs have the best names. candleland. half-gifts. stars and topsoil.
the rainy day has melted into my tea and chilled it like fine bones, this fossilised mood in a cup. cold! like me. it was pleasant the last few days, the sky light with this tincture of milk and honey. jason and i drifted in and out of our days meeting in bookstores and alternating between teasing each other and staring absently over the strange complexion of cappucinos. cried into a few.
it has been nice, really. i have a new winter coat soft as a fawn and jason's jumpers are cute and smell like soap and cKone and i drag him around intent upon buying him a present. i gave him a music box, most endearing thing on the planet. such a little boy treasure. plays 'let it be'. i want one that plays 'en vie en rose'. also, magnetic poetry for myself; we sat near something leafy in queen st. mall half in the sun and made erotic poetry while an old man pretended not to be sneaking glances at what we were saying.
birth control, i complained to my doctor about the way it makes you put on weight, so he gave me a more expensive brand, yasmin, that makes you lose weight. i'm a bit fuller but i almost like it. i feel horridly sane. i'm even fine without jase, although the rain makes me want to see him. i wondered aloud to him whether things might have worked out between us if we'd gotten together in winter; i think the universe sort of blinked for a second when we began liking each other, it would never have happened in summer naturally. then of course, i think, 'things might have worked out', what does that mean? i mean, we're warm with skin every night lately, what hasn't worked out, really?
waters soaked his blonde hair black. my daydreams are all deep dark blue lately, my nightmares glacial, monochrome. beginning to drape my frame in colours, but not too many.
jason says this song reminds him of me, apparently it is something i would definitely do, sugar over self-mutilation tendencies and compare my rotten wrists to raspberry jam or something. oh, and i bought this strange shirt that makes me look like a strawberry. i think my mood becomes more colourful when the sad season deepens?
i suppose this, and my tendency to cry even when i'm happy, and the vice versa, all comes down to some nutty equilibrium. i don't even know what i'm saying today, just oh. i need to say something. letra set, magnetic poetry, pencils, pastels, fuck. all these instruments for creation, perfect conditions, a womb with no seed. i need sperm, a muse?
well, the boy is no help, or perhaps i should start seeing him in a new context. perhaps keep him close to me with a very light touch. air. elusive. less heavy, somatic, less need. (less solid colours and forms like anatomy all night and like warm pikelets in the morning with globs of coagulating fruit jam.)
i'm filling the cupboard with things he doesn't usually eat, special things he'll only eat at my house, pop tarts, cinnamon toast. milo. things i won't touch. for when we watch cable at midnight, conan o'brien and the simpsons. ever so accommodating for him, buying things especially that i won't even touch, selfless, but then when it comes to buying bread and milk for the family i come home with rice cakes and fat reduced, so bratty i believe i have artistic licence over my purchases even though there are four boys who will be less than satisfied with my household contributions.
the rainy day has melted into my tea and chilled it like fine bones, this fossilised mood in a cup. cold! like me. it was pleasant the last few days, the sky light with this tincture of milk and honey. jason and i drifted in and out of our days meeting in bookstores and alternating between teasing each other and staring absently over the strange complexion of cappucinos. cried into a few.
it has been nice, really. i have a new winter coat soft as a fawn and jason's jumpers are cute and smell like soap and cKone and i drag him around intent upon buying him a present. i gave him a music box, most endearing thing on the planet. such a little boy treasure. plays 'let it be'. i want one that plays 'en vie en rose'. also, magnetic poetry for myself; we sat near something leafy in queen st. mall half in the sun and made erotic poetry while an old man pretended not to be sneaking glances at what we were saying.
birth control, i complained to my doctor about the way it makes you put on weight, so he gave me a more expensive brand, yasmin, that makes you lose weight. i'm a bit fuller but i almost like it. i feel horridly sane. i'm even fine without jase, although the rain makes me want to see him. i wondered aloud to him whether things might have worked out between us if we'd gotten together in winter; i think the universe sort of blinked for a second when we began liking each other, it would never have happened in summer naturally. then of course, i think, 'things might have worked out', what does that mean? i mean, we're warm with skin every night lately, what hasn't worked out, really?
waters soaked his blonde hair black. my daydreams are all deep dark blue lately, my nightmares glacial, monochrome. beginning to drape my frame in colours, but not too many.
jason says this song reminds him of me, apparently it is something i would definitely do, sugar over self-mutilation tendencies and compare my rotten wrists to raspberry jam or something. oh, and i bought this strange shirt that makes me look like a strawberry. i think my mood becomes more colourful when the sad season deepens?
i suppose this, and my tendency to cry even when i'm happy, and the vice versa, all comes down to some nutty equilibrium. i don't even know what i'm saying today, just oh. i need to say something. letra set, magnetic poetry, pencils, pastels, fuck. all these instruments for creation, perfect conditions, a womb with no seed. i need sperm, a muse?
well, the boy is no help, or perhaps i should start seeing him in a new context. perhaps keep him close to me with a very light touch. air. elusive. less heavy, somatic, less need. (less solid colours and forms like anatomy all night and like warm pikelets in the morning with globs of coagulating fruit jam.)
i'm filling the cupboard with things he doesn't usually eat, special things he'll only eat at my house, pop tarts, cinnamon toast. milo. things i won't touch. for when we watch cable at midnight, conan o'brien and the simpsons. ever so accommodating for him, buying things especially that i won't even touch, selfless, but then when it comes to buying bread and milk for the family i come home with rice cakes and fat reduced, so bratty i believe i have artistic licence over my purchases even though there are four boys who will be less than satisfied with my household contributions.