limp delicious

tom called early this morning, i was awake, but my voice was a new-born, quivering, wretched. to tell the truth i am centred, if hollow. i suppose it is easier to find a centre in an empty space, the space being that small bit more percievable in the context of its nothingness. so i am centred and hollow; a kind of frigid; a kind of existential funky. i find myself with many more edges. when peeping tom puts a hand on my belly, a nail on my nipple, a tongue in my ear, i feel i am this three-d prism, four-d even, five-d; i have million edges. i can't tell if he's joking when he says 'you're very beautiful'. but for the most part i feel him like an armour.

i am barren, essentially, barren and beat. but i don't care. it's a perfect measure of calm and chaos. i am limp. he is limp. and he is hard. we are limp together. limp delicious.

rapunzel and plumber's crack

p.t (that's peeping tom) is going to climb up my three metre exterior wall, into the window, or he'll throw pebbles, or i'll throw down a rope made of hair, or i'll listen for his whisper. the other day p.t put a chocolate biscuit in my nostril, i put one in his plumber's crack and then i ate it. i'm no longer his pet, we are both pets. i've got to work on growing up, save for wrestling and sweet teeth.

there were some friends in a room yesterday, a collective of timid souls, eating fritters and jam. one friend was high as kite, one friend was giddy.

i've narrowed down my list of great loves to four. it seems modest. peeping tom is on the list, but i won't mention the others.

exuent omnes

sencha and incense from hometown japan,
scan of dry flower
our duet hair-bag (black and yellow)
two buck chair with bum grease
chocolate paddlepop vs chocolate billabong
baggy eyes
wedgie on purpose
sweet sweat, the king of my jungle
sleep in the nude
cucoon mango
impaled mango

exeunt omnes?

bigger hurt smaller hurt

the sailboat is becoming real. it's a timid little raft, it's timid on my wrist. i need it badly. i think i want to make a bigger hurt to diminish a smaller hurt. i think it will hurt. but i think i will cry, i will faint, tumble in rapture.

sperm + egg

on the deck, yesterday, with wine and the boys, with the girl next door (who i have this beady-eyed crush on) and mosquitos. i got this strange scarification on my back, little squares. while i was boiling water the boys and girl-next-door speculated; 'is from rough sex' 'is from crocheted blankey'. girl-next-door made me feel like the sexy woman for an instant when she said 'oh your beautiful bits, i like your cleavage.'

how delicious when the girl you're crushing on likes your cleavage.

when all is said and done i can't think of anything i'd rather do than be covered; in kisses, in chocolate, in blanket, in shivers, in body. covered.

when all is said and done one leaves one's prose for the sake of one's brooches. mine are rice-filled felt pods with yellow dinosaur spikes. they are sperms and eggs that say 'i am sperm + egg'. maybe it's trivial, but it keeps me amused in the jewellery studio.

ode to peeping tom

how the skin beneath your eyes is humble, honey, how it is hopeful, and yet hard.

i should call this page 'ode to peeping tom'.

sometimes tom crunches down on my neck, on my collar bones, on my face. we have been crying all weekend, crying together and apart. he crunched my neck a little, and he kissed all of my sailboats. i carved them in my arm yesterday, in a frenzy. and i picked his nose and pulled his armpits, and wrestled with his small self.

oh tom.

balance/imbalance

yesterday i made tom cry for half an hour or more. he was gunky, claggy, i was transfixed by the sorrow on his face, i sucked his beads again. i marvelled at myself; at my stillness. i was so still. it was because finally i found out what i had always suspected; unrequitedness. not so extreme, i should say, not so extreme. perhaps i should say an imbalance, a balance, an imbalance, yes.

he said he couldn't bare to lose me, and i said he wasn't losing me, but he had to let me be little bit sad for a while. i'm sure the imbalance can be weathered. love is narcissistic afterall. i'm sure i can love him purely, in a single direction; for some time at least.

meanwhile, i have this big bow on my head. i think it's because i've made of myself a gift. i've given myself to myself or to tom, or something, i've let myself be perfectly natural. i've lain it all on the line, and in the end, it is much less gross than i had imagined. i'm all bare, but gosh it's peaceful. it's peaceful, and i can see it lasting, and that's all you can really want for isn't it, for something to last...