Katie needs to chill out and get a grip.

unspun

They were in a truck
below the bridge, I on a catwalk
spanning the ignorant midsummer river,
only passing by, peering down.
I saw just hands, parts of clothes,
sticky white fingertips, her honeyed hem
dropping threads
like something loose in a tapestry.

They were the blood that hastened hot
to my cheeks, the dust I brushed
off my heels to march on; all afternoon,
the image clinging unctuously,
I pictured the faces of girls I knew
and tried to match them to
that sweet brown thigh,
dappled by a prism revolving in the light.

Infidelity is itself a machine
faithful to one thing, two -
an assailable need, to moments enacted in a void, or
time outside the dial.

We were in a room, a chamber,
one of indistinguishable thousands within buildings
inside the city
and she was smoking thin import cigarettes, or
pretending to,
we all were.
And the TV was laughing, no-one else,
as the cat pulled
at my sweater with its teeth, unravelling it.
When she said Do you think God
can hear us right now?
and we held our breaths, sweaty,
waiting for the reply.

the most beautiful thing i've ever seen

Hundreds of pure white Tiger moths lifting into the air against a darkly roiling pre-thunderstorm sky. Dispersing as it finally gives down torrential rain, circular lightning, and bone-and-tooth-rattling thunder.

God, I love summer.

night run

Only
little fools and wistful girls
dream of birch
with moon-blanched paper skin,
wish for star-tipped spruce
all thick with snow.
I too have certain ideas
about a night-time boreal run,
streaking soft and crazy
'tween tree trunks,
wide-eyed as any deer.

In the future, my husband
will sit up in our bed
and wonder
where I have gone
in my nightgown and my boots,
why I've left the door
ajar behind me
as if to let
wild winter in.

Life So Far II

An unfinished drawing - I wanted to experiment with a more sensual style, and looked to Milo Manara's chapter in my copy of TheSandman: Endless Nights for reference.


Now you can say you've seen me naked. :P




"'An artist is identical with an anarchist,' he cried. 'You might transpose the words anywhere. An anarchist is an artist. The man who throws a bomb is an artist, because he prefers a great moment to everything. He sees how much more valuable is one burst of blazing light, one peal of perfect thunder, than the mere common bodies of a few shapeless policemen. An artist disregards all governments, abolishes all conventions. The poet delights in disorder only. If it were not so, the most poetical thing in the world would be the Underground Railway.'"

- The Man Who Was Thursday, G.K. Chesterton


That gold paper? Actually the inner wrapper of a Caramilk bar.





Fooling around with ideas for the next tattoo.

Abacus

I am unable to begin
scoring the days lapsed
between them and now,
the sixteen mornings I awoke
to the snow
which in all tenderness felt
like a kiss
like your lips shaping my palm
and remembering it,

fifteen nights
spent
lap cradling the cranky old blue electric
wailing you to sleep
providing you a taste of discord
to accompany scenes of future grief.

I am long for the world now -
how I long for the world.

Life So Far

So there's this journal/scrapbook/portfolio/art project called Life So Far that I've been putting together for my own edification, mostly because I've decided that I have way too many artsy odds and ends floating around without a home, but also because I wanted to get back to having a record of my life that wasn't LJ. I'm really liking what I've put together over the past few months - this isn't DaVinci's notebook by any stretch of the imagination, but it's colourful and honest and me all over, and if it's not exactly a work of genius I'm still satisfied.