brioesque's profile

wide wide black of false happiness and fire-mad moth thoughts, the gleam of us in chemical love. when i was younger than now i knew how to read souls, i knew what people were and where all their tiny dark parts were to be found but that was lost in this wide wide black. when i was younger than now i lived in a house with a bottomless well, full of water like a glassy black hole. there were fish inside or maybe eels slick and fast or monsters with hard skin. maybe there were brick walls slimey...

So when we were little my mum used to put us to sleep with this tape, yeah? Two little girls giggling and fighting to shove cold toes under the other one's legs. And this tape of Dreaming stories. There is a man in the room with us. He's not old, I don't think. He is tired. Content, though. The slow deep of his voice makes us quiet, sleepy. This country in long vowels, brown dust and warm black sky in each curl of his tongue. The stories he tells grow pictures, grow landscapes. Sky and dirt, ...

And this and this and this. Spun and sugarspun. Gouging fear of spark and flash in roiling grey sludge. You are mine. Shift of sky and road and face into whistling strangeness. Mine, mine. Organs sucked and liquefied by the sliming blankness mine for me mine. I remember that girl gin girl but she lost her only shine and was cracked like an egg. Skin loose and greysick and in the yolk there was bone and veins and a tiny soft beak and when the room is dark I can hear her cry. Flesh is all we ha...

For the last eight nights I have dreamt of his sheepskin boots. Every night I wear his boots. His boots hugging my feet and calves and I can feel his body heat still trapped in the fibres. Sometimes I am doing mundane things; sometimes things are bloodbright and flash by too fast for more than muscle shock. I am walking through every room in my house, moving things from here to there and then again and sheepskin trim is brushing my legs with each step. I am clawing my way up a never ending sa...

there is no start to this no start only pressing shoulder blades to the wall and the grind of muscle and fat against bone tongue thick gagging on each breath. there is this thing and i can't name it and it has no head for a name to sit on and my tongue gags me. hollow painted easter egg yolk and slime blown out two small holes and all these insides are gone just walls and flesh that won't come off bones but i dig with fingernails the red of captured skin. there is something inside of me there...