magamo

weak tea and ginger nut biscuits knitting cross stitch silver side roast fruit cakes at christmas meeces for possum to catch love and love and love.

Every morning I awake, opened yawning to the sun and touching myself, the sore welts of our sex -- at nights you keep me silent with that fiercely dark gem you stuff in my throat, make me tired with your Cadillac song. Love me, tell me how glad you are to have dug me up. You're too bright to look at, like a palm tree. When you wake me crooning with your bourbon kisses, head bathed in screams I pray to you - wild-eyed shaman who has stolen me, left me cold and dusty on the roadside, whose body spits and gleams like the stolen car we ride in.

where did that come from? that feeling it just popped up like a bubble escaping from under a rock ledge to reach the surface of the water and burst into me

will i ever slow down?

raindrops on kittens and whiskers on roses tattoos and piercings, like earings in noses raven haired beauties all tied up in strings these are a few of my favorite things decadent colors and nights filled with laughter childhood belief in the "forever after" dreams where I soar through your sky on white wings these are a few of my favorite things boys with strong hands and the good sense to use 'em biting my friends just to watch how I bruise them a slap to my skin and the sweet glow it brings these are a few of my favorite things

So you thought it was okay to do that, that it was fine? Right. Who are you to say what I'm okay with, what's fine? You thought it wouldn't matter, well it did, and images keep swimming in my head, cloud my brain, cause this pain with this stain of events I can't erase and I've tried. You don't even get it, what was wrong, what can't be fixed. Are you slow? Where you stoned? 'Cause this is not okay, not right, not feeling the things I once did, I felt inside, now it's pain and the hurt and the wrong and the dirt, feeling wrong. Not like before when things were fine, things were love. Now destroyed. How can I trust what does see past his

bits, motes, stars. they fit in the palm, in the pocket, in the quick glance toward the sea. they also fit the end of unfinished sentences and the gaps in between your fingers-- and in the zero space of a gaze and in the weave of a bird's nest. and in the eye of a needle and the margins of a book, and in the nooks of a trumpet and the spirals of laughter. they fit in film canisters and the cracks in the window frames, in tree bark and in the untouched night of the soup can. they fit in the spaces between songs and the gaps in fences, they fit between light and substance, between touch and feeling. they fit between flesh and fabric a

"You're in the corner of a photo I don't want you to be in." was all she said when he asked why she was burning her belongings. "What about that dress?" he said pointing to a wonderful green thing with sparkles all over it. "You took me to the dance in it." she said pouring more gasoline on the pile and lighting another match. She looked at him and he gazed silently into the flames as she flicked the match onto the pile. It made a satisfying "woomp" sound and he turned away. "It's a cleansing process," she called as he walked away, "My therapist thought it would help." He stopped. "Your therapist is a twat." he called back and kept wa