Emily Wood
you tuck yourself into bed and that thing you do with your face feels like a penny on the sidewalk of everywhere it feels like extinction...
you tuck yourself into bed and that thing you do with your face feels like a penny on the sidewalk of everywhere it feels like extinction...
CHLOE HAS LOCATED, from a very young age by way of crying all night into her dusty pillow, the pearl of her consciousness, and from what she imagines as a kid at the back of her mind, it almost looks like a real pearl....
You mention the thing about atoms, and I recognise what you are saying. It’s true. Nothing can ever really feel anything else. I reach out, regardless. Fuck....
the manual says i got to love myself, but when i jerk off the spell breaks and i don't love myself no more. back to the garden for mandrake and pinfeathers from a dark bird....
Even then I imagine touching myself while you’re in my bed and your eyes are closed and wet....
i go in search of myself i find a thorn a train ticket a sense oil, and a whisper ...
the problem is. I’m trying not to look. at the gazes coming through the Café Window. am I Whimsical enough? waiting....
i put the moon under my tongue a token, the moon told jokes & swam around my head...
i am starting to feel something resembling a fierce desire to move away from myself at lightspeed toward a cold silent massive void ...
the backbone of my existence is a warm shower there’s a magnet holding a red apron made of serious wood and feathers...
i see brown brothers break open their rib-cages to drink the urine of pale women. not-my-colour women....
sometimes i wonder who sews the flowers on these motel bed spreads and on the pillowcases...