AnnelyseRobin's profile

here are contorted angles of hands that once hammered silver now soldered together in prayer her knotted grey hair a birds' nest of ash and distraction her son’s fingers tangled in unwashed wool chest reluctant to drink the soot and smog of Bangkok haze mother and child, stones eroded by sidewalk traffic worn smooth by the harsh transparency of averted eyes here is the collapsible universe of her empty pockets throat coated with honey to soothe the wounds of the city's reply—silence here are ...

She stands before the mirror again, her threaded seashell spine twisted in dispassionate disgust as she travels the familiar valleys, the topography of self-hatred, her arms outstretched like a patient crucified on a hospital bed. She wants to escape the ribcage that encircles her heart like a chastity belt to hunger-- she wants to flutter like the feathers she finds on the beach and only the mirror can teach her how to fly. Want nothing, it says, until the wind rushes through the gaps betwe...

Over her breast, her hands clasp fragments of darkness, rips in spacesuits, involuntary sighs through purple lips. It is the white noise of waves over sand, the rustle of bed-sheets in dim condominiums in the twilight. The feet are the last to vanish, curled toes buried in the womb's shores. Something stirs within her: The first breath like florescent flickering. She awakens, suddenly electrified, shuddering, grasping seashells like pacifiers, numb fingertips searching out the sun in frozen o...

The summer of love has frozen over, and I think it's about time my generation faced the fact that the 60's are dead! Now, I can appreciate the nostalgia of our parents and their parents rehashing their hashing, et cetera, and I hate to be the bearer of blatant truths, but our generation has no excuse for trying to relive the past for sons of sons desperately reaching through the looking glass; to remake the present into "It's a Small World After All" ghost-town merry-go-rounds and anarcho-pun...

the ship's sailed and you're a stowaway anxious to find another phase another casualty of causality another annotated history. the clocks are rotting the hull is thin, and you can hear every whisper of water in the creaking cabin. you're fogging the porthole with your breath, chasing death in the space between the bullet and your brain, but you're waiting for an echo or an answer cerebrum spattered on the deck like a modernist painting to cure our collective cancers of habit. well, if fate's ...