debt repayment: attack_womb
252 words.
There are crows gathering on the road side when her scooter skidded over on black ice, like they'd been waiting for the next wipe-out. When she sat up and shook her head the crows had dispersed, not exploding outward in a flurry of feathers and cawing as they were apt to do in the presence of a disturbance, but simply gone as if the twisted wire fence and broken-backed tree had never played host to a bird in history.
She touches her face, puzzled to find the helmet missing, as she could have sworn that this was one of the days on which her housemate had guilted her into strapping the thing to her skull. There is nothing but the faint hot reproach of a cheek turned to the cold wind.
On the road ahead there is a scooter in flames.
On the road behind - as she scrambles to her knees, the worn soles of her boots, and turns on the icy asphalt so fast she almost falls again - on the road behind there is a scooter in flames, the mirrored patterns of fire, a black reeking cloud of smouldering tires pouring at her from both sides.
Poetry rec: Not A Love Song by elenore
Not for debt repayment:
Year of the Ghost
winter's not yet over but we're already warm
from digging graves, always digging graves
out in the cold bright sun; the last words
laid to rest amid the dead leaves and the dirt,
all our hurts numbed by the ice and time,
tears frozen and thawed to our faces, and ghosts,
those fickle shadows fall across our lips, ghosts
fill the seats in the pub, keeping warm
by the fire. there's been so much death this time,
preceeding the first green shoots, fresh graves
more abundant than fresh air. Kneeling in the dirt
each dawn, whispering, "are we at war?", the words
so melodramatic, so silly; but they're words
of confused regret, begot by trauma, the ghosts
from shattered sensibility. Of course people get old. Dirt
is the death of skin cells, plant matter; warm,
cold, rotting, whole; life defined by endings. Graves
raised in anguish will fall in disrepair, and time
will carry us far from there, from grief, for time's
hand on the tiller steers us sober to words
with which we salve the last cuts, the graves;
epitaths. All our silent, flickering, patient ghosts
tag behind in "she was loved"; a final warm
farewell. We are star dust, we are worm food, we are dirt.
In the end, we say, toasting the dead, we are dirt.
And all that will survive of us is love, and time
makes scars of wounds, fossils of bones, warm
into cold in the race of entropy. These are just words.
Here in this room we are drowning in ghosts,
and each footstep we take brings us to the edge of our graves.
The year begins with ghosts by the grave,
If we are to grow warm in the dirt
We must take time to make better words.
of course it's natural for people to grow old;
that which cannot die does not live
but give us a minute to carve in the varnish:
"she was loved".
This took forever, has a complicated ribbon-based closure, and won't go over my fat fucking hand, but at least it kept me occupied or a good long time.
I decided I was going to make a Set:
Necklace. Gold-plated eye pins, red seed beads, hematite beads, pliers, swearing, boyfriend models.
Bracelet part of the set. More swearing. Modelled by me. Please ignore motivational Spanish grafitti on arm and notes-to-self about something I still haven’t done yet.
I also made earrings. I’ve since changed the wires for proper gold fish-hooks rather than slavaged brass ones that don’t match. Please ignore horrible state of skin, I am decaying as I walk around and my body tends to reflect the fact I should have died when I was 19.
I tried to make changes to someone else's design:
The blasted thing won’t lie flat, which is irritating, but the wire itself is excellent.
NB If anyone was wondering what Tumblr consists of as far as I'm concerned, it's basically Livejournal but with more photos and capslock and less attempts at coherent argument, and without my "please don't link to my thots at place X" caveats, as I couldn't give less of a toss if people attempt to wank in my Ask Box. And I continue conversations basically across every medium available to me so, you know.
I am not posting the picture of my pre-defragging hard disk analysis graphic here because dear god it is embarrassing.
There are crows gathering on the road side when her scooter skidded over on black ice, like they'd been waiting for the next wipe-out. When she sat up and shook her head the crows had dispersed, not exploding outward in a flurry of feathers and cawing as they were apt to do in the presence of a disturbance, but simply gone as if the twisted wire fence and broken-backed tree had never played host to a bird in history.
She touches her face, puzzled to find the helmet missing, as she could have sworn that this was one of the days on which her housemate had guilted her into strapping the thing to her skull. There is nothing but the faint hot reproach of a cheek turned to the cold wind.
On the road ahead there is a scooter in flames.
On the road behind - as she scrambles to her knees, the worn soles of her boots, and turns on the icy asphalt so fast she almost falls again - on the road behind there is a scooter in flames, the mirrored patterns of fire, a black reeking cloud of smouldering tires pouring at her from both sides.
Poetry rec: Not A Love Song by elenore
Not for debt repayment:
Year of the Ghost
winter's not yet over but we're already warm
from digging graves, always digging graves
out in the cold bright sun; the last words
laid to rest amid the dead leaves and the dirt,
all our hurts numbed by the ice and time,
tears frozen and thawed to our faces, and ghosts,
those fickle shadows fall across our lips, ghosts
fill the seats in the pub, keeping warm
by the fire. there's been so much death this time,
preceeding the first green shoots, fresh graves
more abundant than fresh air. Kneeling in the dirt
each dawn, whispering, "are we at war?", the words
so melodramatic, so silly; but they're words
of confused regret, begot by trauma, the ghosts
from shattered sensibility. Of course people get old. Dirt
is the death of skin cells, plant matter; warm,
cold, rotting, whole; life defined by endings. Graves
raised in anguish will fall in disrepair, and time
will carry us far from there, from grief, for time's
hand on the tiller steers us sober to words
with which we salve the last cuts, the graves;
epitaths. All our silent, flickering, patient ghosts
tag behind in "she was loved"; a final warm
farewell. We are star dust, we are worm food, we are dirt.
In the end, we say, toasting the dead, we are dirt.
And all that will survive of us is love, and time
makes scars of wounds, fossils of bones, warm
into cold in the race of entropy. These are just words.
Here in this room we are drowning in ghosts,
and each footstep we take brings us to the edge of our graves.
The year begins with ghosts by the grave,
If we are to grow warm in the dirt
We must take time to make better words.
of course it's natural for people to grow old;
that which cannot die does not live
but give us a minute to carve in the varnish:
"she was loved".
This took forever, has a complicated ribbon-based closure, and won't go over my fat fucking hand, but at least it kept me occupied or a good long time.
I decided I was going to make a Set:
Necklace. Gold-plated eye pins, red seed beads, hematite beads, pliers, swearing, boyfriend models.
Bracelet part of the set. More swearing. Modelled by me. Please ignore motivational Spanish grafitti on arm and notes-to-self about something I still haven’t done yet.
I also made earrings. I’ve since changed the wires for proper gold fish-hooks rather than slavaged brass ones that don’t match. Please ignore horrible state of skin, I am decaying as I walk around and my body tends to reflect the fact I should have died when I was 19.
I tried to make changes to someone else's design:
The blasted thing won’t lie flat, which is irritating, but the wire itself is excellent.
NB If anyone was wondering what Tumblr consists of as far as I'm concerned, it's basically Livejournal but with more photos and capslock and less attempts at coherent argument, and without my "please don't link to my thots at place X" caveats, as I couldn't give less of a toss if people attempt to wank in my Ask Box. And I continue conversations basically across every medium available to me so, you know.
I am not posting the picture of my pre-defragging hard disk analysis graphic here because dear god it is embarrassing.