Of all the people you have kissed she was your favourite because she didn’t flinch when you curled your hand around her neck and tightened.
She said “I break the law because I’ve never broken a heart and I want to know what it feels like to be the brick not the window pane.”
When she’s drunk she’ll dress up for you, all straps & lace & stockings. When she’s high she’ll dress down for you, all skin & skin & skin.
I want to live so densely. Lush. And slow in the next few years, that a year becomes ten years… and my past becomes only a page in the book of my life.
Wolf.
A wolf is reading a book of fairy tales.
The moon hangs over the forest, a lamp.He is not assuming a human position,
say, cross-legged against a tree,
as he would in a cartoon.This is a real wolf, standing on all fours,
his rich fur bristling in the night air:
his head bent over the book open on the ground.He does not sit down for the words
would be too far away to be legible,
and it is with difficulty that he turns
each page with his nose and forepaws.When he finishes the last tale
he lies down in pine needles
He thinks about what he has read,
the stories passing over his mind
like clouds crossing the moon.A zig-zag of wind shakes down hazelnuts.
The eyes of owls yellow in the branches.The wolf now paces restlessly in circles
around the book until he is absorbed
by the power of its narration;
making him one of its illustrations,
a small paper wolf, flat as print.Later that night, lost in a town of pigs,
he knocks over houses with his breath.
“What do you mean, you dont dream of me no more?"A fox a day nr. 344 #sketch#draw#artistjournal#cartoon#fox#drawingdaily#monochrome#bw#blackandwhite#pen#ink#tail#paper#moleskin#artist#art#sketchbook#lines#illustration#girl#365#foxaday#dream#sleep#visitor
Reading is the sole means by which we slip, involuntarily, often helplessly, into another’s skin, another’s voice, another’s soul.
I drink from your gash. I spread your naked legs, I open them like a book where I read what kills me.
I need your teeth in me, slow and vicious,
to tell me my armor is just skin, bones,
only bones.
I am suddenly consumed by nostalgia for the little girl who was me, who loved the fields and believed in God, who spent winter days home sick from school reading Nancy Drew and sucking menthol cough drops, who could keep a secret.
