TWO POSTS IN ONE DAY
because I forgot I wanted to put this up here.
It's just a little something I wrote.
Black Lines
(yes, she has a gender, this Harlequin woman made from absolutes)">It's the way the ink starts so thick, slick and black like oil on snow.
The paper absorbs the dark color, and the way it thins out and tapers, a single brushstroke on a not-so-vast paper canvas. It smears when the next stroke is made, and soon four taper out like fingers from a dark patch that almost makes itself. Half a spider, poorly formed single cell organism, monster crawling. When its dry (one learns this lesson after the first time it smears, and those beautiful brushstrokes are torn apart into fringe and smoke) the next one forms slightly faster, that same painstaking love poured into black lines on black lines on black lines. It looks like two halves of a spider cut apart, crawling away from eachother desperately, the reproduction of an amoeba into two, two monster's hands crawling from the void wherein those creatures belong. A line down the middle, a few marks, and the true intention takes form. Harlequin woman, face undone and half-made, stares at whatever lies beyond snow white paper, black lines on black lines on black lines making black and white lady, a crude imitation of grey shades. Is it imitation when it is merely two halves of a whole? Swooping lines frame those black monster eyes, curling eyelashes wrapping around slim neck and face. Harlequin woman, face undone and half made, stares at nothing because there are no eyes; just two monster's hands, two amoeba reproducing, deformed spiders crawling from each other as fast as they can.
Quick strokes make a neck, from a neck grows shoulders, and her (yes, she has a gender, this Harlequin woman made from absolutes) malnourished, overdrawn body soon follows, beautiful in her grotesqueness. In any other medium she would look painstakingly ugly, a harsh blend of anorexia and curls, clashing like black lines on black lines on black lines. Harlequin woman has no lovers, no friends, no world, and she only knows oil on snow paper, feathery tapering and smoky blurs. What kind of existence is that? She has no hair, a cancer patient in a sterile, dead world. Curls sprout from the scalp, blossoming and blooming and bristling out of control. They drop from the neck all the way to the breasts, frizz and warmth (another symbol of brittleness flooding from her).
It does not hide her body, which has no bumps, no muscles or breasts or kneecaps. It is an outline of a person, just as white inside as it is inside. The body is flawless in its own disgusting way. What would you even dress her in, though? Dress her up, down, she could be a French cabaret dancer, a hospital patient, dress her up and down and in nothing at all. She is alone (alone with white paper and black dripping eyelashes) and nobody can see. Still-- curled lace begins at the shoulders, ends as the wrists. Lace drapes and hugs to bony hips that didn't exist seconds prior (who cares, who cares about the hips or the neck or the lace or black lines on black lines on black lines). Her lace growth, lacy tumors on her body, stuck there forever, sticky and oily, end at her knees. Her kneecaps are painted now, painted with the bruises of a youth (Harlequin woman never grew up, she was just born) and for some reason the lips are dropped next, dripping with sensual maturity. The contrast is more similar than it seems, because it is all just black lines on black lines on black lines and nobody even cares about the black lines except for the Harlequin woman, who is a cripple. Her calves shape themselves now, muscles and stockings and barefeet inside. The bottoms are soaked in black oily ink, delicately sopping with black life.
Her lips are curled, because it all is so curly but she looks so sad so she learns to smile. Unfortunately, black lines on black lines on black lines make the Harlequin woman look like a mess, a smile too wide and mixing with tapered lashes crawling from black abysses she wishes were eyes, a sloppy distasteful mutant in a line of lovely ladies, pert breasts and shapely, muscular arms with sleek blonde hair. It's not her fault; she did not choose to be a Harlequin. But now she is alone, as she has always been, but it does not matter (after all, the Harlequin woman is just black lines on black lines on black lines).
When it's done, it's the way the ink is so thick, slick and black like oil on snow.
It's just a little something I wrote.
Black Lines
(yes, she has a gender, this Harlequin woman made from absolutes)">It's the way the ink starts so thick, slick and black like oil on snow.
The paper absorbs the dark color, and the way it thins out and tapers, a single brushstroke on a not-so-vast paper canvas. It smears when the next stroke is made, and soon four taper out like fingers from a dark patch that almost makes itself. Half a spider, poorly formed single cell organism, monster crawling. When its dry (one learns this lesson after the first time it smears, and those beautiful brushstrokes are torn apart into fringe and smoke) the next one forms slightly faster, that same painstaking love poured into black lines on black lines on black lines. It looks like two halves of a spider cut apart, crawling away from eachother desperately, the reproduction of an amoeba into two, two monster's hands crawling from the void wherein those creatures belong. A line down the middle, a few marks, and the true intention takes form. Harlequin woman, face undone and half-made, stares at whatever lies beyond snow white paper, black lines on black lines on black lines making black and white lady, a crude imitation of grey shades. Is it imitation when it is merely two halves of a whole? Swooping lines frame those black monster eyes, curling eyelashes wrapping around slim neck and face. Harlequin woman, face undone and half made, stares at nothing because there are no eyes; just two monster's hands, two amoeba reproducing, deformed spiders crawling from each other as fast as they can.
Quick strokes make a neck, from a neck grows shoulders, and her (yes, she has a gender, this Harlequin woman made from absolutes) malnourished, overdrawn body soon follows, beautiful in her grotesqueness. In any other medium she would look painstakingly ugly, a harsh blend of anorexia and curls, clashing like black lines on black lines on black lines. Harlequin woman has no lovers, no friends, no world, and she only knows oil on snow paper, feathery tapering and smoky blurs. What kind of existence is that? She has no hair, a cancer patient in a sterile, dead world. Curls sprout from the scalp, blossoming and blooming and bristling out of control. They drop from the neck all the way to the breasts, frizz and warmth (another symbol of brittleness flooding from her).
It does not hide her body, which has no bumps, no muscles or breasts or kneecaps. It is an outline of a person, just as white inside as it is inside. The body is flawless in its own disgusting way. What would you even dress her in, though? Dress her up, down, she could be a French cabaret dancer, a hospital patient, dress her up and down and in nothing at all. She is alone (alone with white paper and black dripping eyelashes) and nobody can see. Still-- curled lace begins at the shoulders, ends as the wrists. Lace drapes and hugs to bony hips that didn't exist seconds prior (who cares, who cares about the hips or the neck or the lace or black lines on black lines on black lines). Her lace growth, lacy tumors on her body, stuck there forever, sticky and oily, end at her knees. Her kneecaps are painted now, painted with the bruises of a youth (Harlequin woman never grew up, she was just born) and for some reason the lips are dropped next, dripping with sensual maturity. The contrast is more similar than it seems, because it is all just black lines on black lines on black lines and nobody even cares about the black lines except for the Harlequin woman, who is a cripple. Her calves shape themselves now, muscles and stockings and barefeet inside. The bottoms are soaked in black oily ink, delicately sopping with black life.
Her lips are curled, because it all is so curly but she looks so sad so she learns to smile. Unfortunately, black lines on black lines on black lines make the Harlequin woman look like a mess, a smile too wide and mixing with tapered lashes crawling from black abysses she wishes were eyes, a sloppy distasteful mutant in a line of lovely ladies, pert breasts and shapely, muscular arms with sleek blonde hair. It's not her fault; she did not choose to be a Harlequin. But now she is alone, as she has always been, but it does not matter (after all, the Harlequin woman is just black lines on black lines on black lines).
When it's done, it's the way the ink is so thick, slick and black like oil on snow.