Honeysuckle

December 31, 2018

bees, my
skin smells
of sun, the
insides of
roses. I want

to eat that
light. Every
thing that
grows does.

Lyn Lifshin

fruit sundae

December 31, 2018

I must confess that after last night’s fun and games, I devoured a fruit sundae. The crumb, the fruit, the cream and ice cream were a delight. In fact, I had seconds with crushed meringue and spray cream and licked my plate clean.

Death Curses

December 31, 2018

sold herself…?

December 31, 2018

The claim that sex workers ‘sell our bodies’ is not only logically absurd (I was a prostitute for years, but my body is still right here with me), but totally sexist because it is based on the notion that a woman’s sexuality is her entire worth. The belief behind this expression is that since a woman has nothing of value to offer except her sexuality, if she ‘sells’ that she has ‘sold herself’ and there is nothing left. The fact that anti-sex worker activists use this expression so often says a lot about them.

Maggie McNeal
The Honest Courtesan

kill the hour

December 31, 2018

Who has never killed an hour? Not casually or without thought, but carefully: a premeditated murder of minutes. The violence comes from a combination of giving up, not caring, and a resignation that getting past it is all you can hope to accomplish. So you kill the hour. You do not work, you do not read, you do not daydream. If you sleep it is not because you need to sleep. And when at last it is over, there is no evidence: no weapon, no blood, and no body. The only clue might be the shadows beneath your eyes or a terribly thin line near the corner of your mouth indicating something has been suffered, that in the privacy of your life you have lost something and the loss is too empty to share.

Mark Z. Danielewski
House of Leaves

Satanism condones any type of sexual activity which properly satisfies your individual desires – be it heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual, or even asexual, if you choose. Satanism also sanctions any fetish or deviation which will enhance your sex-life, so long as it involves no one who does not wish to be involved.

Anton Szandor LaVe
The Satanic Bible

Every morning I look up at the moon and I think
You are a kiddie-pool and I will drown in you.
I think about field trips and cold cuts.
I think about dividends and other words
I don’t understand. I make five hundred
lunches in advance. I want to be prepared.
I want new shoes. I want them to be waterproof
and unforgettable. I want the kind of resume
that takes home all the prizes and a salary
commensurate with thunderstorms. I want to believe
that there are people in this world
whose lives are the size of houses and their bills
are paid on time and when they see birds in the sky they think
that’s a nice thing to see. In my free time I clip coupons
and put them in my wallet where I forget
to redeem them and this gnaws at me
day in and day out and when I close my eyes
I can feel my heart and it is trembling.

Sasha Fletcher

After she’s gone I cherish all of the signs she was here. I press my face to the pillow and inhale what’s left of her scent. I wear the necklace she gave me, I hold the pendant in my palm while I think of her. My pubic bone aches from grinding against her. I press my fingertips into the small purple bruises on my thighs, she leaves them with her teeth. I run my fingers through my long mess of hair searching for the section she cut, late at night while I sat at her feet and we planned an epic art piece using both of our hair. I love that there’s a short little patch in my mane now, hidden underneath, a sign she has been here with me. I collect these signs like seashells so I can press them to my ear and hear the ocean.

Herdirtylittleheart

a vast melancholy

December 30, 2018

That long-drawn, wavering howl has, for all its fearful resonance, some inherent sadness in it, as if the beasts would love to be less beastly if only they knew how and never cease to mourn their own condition. There is a vast melancholy in the canticles of the wolves, melancholy infinite as the forest, endless as these long nights of winter and yet that ghastly sadness, that mourning for their own, irremediable appetites, can never move the heart for not one phrase in it hints at the possibility of redemption; grace could not come to the wolf from its own despair, only through some external mediator, so that, sometimes, the beast will look as if he half welcomes the knife that dispatches him.

Angela Carter
The Company of Wolves

narcissism

December 30, 2018

Women speaking of mirrors and prettiness make it all too clear that even for pretty women, mirrors are the foci of anxious, not gratified, narcissism. The woman who knows beyond a doubt that she is beautiful exists aplenty in male novelists’ imaginations; I have yet to find her in women’s books or women’s memoirs or in life. Women spend a lot of time looking in mirrors, but the “compulsion to visualize the self” is a phrase Moers uses of women in her chapter on Gothic freaks and horrors; the compulsion is a constant check on one’s (possible) beauty, not an enjoyment of it.

Joanna Russ
Aesthetics, How to Suppress Women’s Writing