loss is love is lust is loss

phoebe thompson - sometimes artist/poet, sometimes deadbeat/drop-out. everything here is mine & belongs 2 ME

[anddorigo]

think im going back to art school eep (”nudes”, acrylic on canvas)

[anddorigo]

my philodendron moves from shelf to windowsill, is watered sparingly and then too much. it’s an exercise in keeping something alive. i’ve had it since december, a birthday, when i was overwatered and freckled. patterned with salt drips, speckled and skewbald with vermillion. it’s the longest i’ve kept anything alive, - not including myself.  - and i wonder how it would feel to remember, if remembering is as good as it used to be, if i could still spill crimson and carmine like gentle slicing into a poached egg and watching it leak. my skin glows in the sunlit bed of a curtained room. i trace the bumps - eyes closed - like braille, read between the lines, try to comprehend. - and then i watch the days of june and then july go by in a series of dates in an incomprehensible pattern, and it doesn’t seem to make sense, or it makes sense in a way that i don’t yet understand. i think of a series of tally marks, etched fragile into skin. are they the days or just the bad ones? i wonder the difference. if it’s the sun on a windowsill or just a bright light. - i check the plant, water it again. it’s still alive.

SAD (seasonal affective disorder) 

[anddorigo]

The pink of Beth’s cheeks, against the translucence of cherry blossom, leaves lined with veins. A skyful of clouds - shaped like bruises, next to the crepe paper skin of Damon’s neck. Like scraps - of watercolour paper, torn at the edges.  I write a series of unrelated images, join the dots with clenched jaw, nurse - the resulting toothache with spit and a heavy hand. Weighted by the worth of my own two fists. Where was I going with this? A neck: - reminiscent of two strawberries, squashed between the pages of Anne in Green Gables. - My mother’s copy, tarnished - how could I? We both live with carelessness, tucked gentle in pockets. A neck, - a hand over an open mouth. My thoughts cloud. Cirus and stratus and cumulus. All recollected from childhood books. I crush a fistful of leaves, and get out of there.

a wet mouthful of teeth lined with ticklish skin, a wrist lined with veins, a pageful of watercolours bleeding at the edges

[anddorigo]

erosion

i carefully untie knots, entwine new ones, all haphazard. in dreams, it is summer 

 and i plait flowers into hair. the sky is new & my nose is freckled. the ache full of light of loving someone 

lies upon these frail shoulders, this knotted back, soft like lips are. 

○○○ 

today, the sky is brooding & close. slowly, it edges. somewhere, a fist clenches, and 

i shock awake to the sting of nail in flesh. my tongue is an ocean 

of magenta & it lives in my head. my head cracks open and leaks 

all night long. i think of the tv and nothings on. i think in half-formed metaphors, 

an ever-eroding dune. i think of the beach, the swell, the way the sky looks 

in the hands of the cliffs. my hair, dripping salt water & sweat. my head,

an endless series of partial waves. i dream of wiping clean a slate like how the sand forgets the tide.

[anddorigo]

blood & hell

Liam gives me a fake knife (to keep safe),

my tongue presses against it; I am a mango,

ripe & unpeeled. What a shock, to remember the awfulness of wanting.

...

I watch Liam sew, imagine the gush of crimson  if he were to slip -- push too far -- tug too hard -- think of decisions & directions & happen to choose wrong. 

Sometimes, the threads tangle, I unknot. I run through the park. 

Not because I fear dark. Just for all the bloody hell of it.

[anddorigo]

whiling away /a while in a way

i while away hours idling, thinking of knife edges & cheek-sliced dimples, whilst treachery (lasting the length of the moments between two breaths)

lingers & loiters. behind shuttered eyes i pluck pitch-dark cheek-grazed eyelashes; i don’t wish for you on first-dark stars anymore.

i just think about it. the silver you left in my ears still cuts, beautifully so. beautifully so. and still i dream of beautiful weapons, 

the knives we discarded between us. still, a hooked nose, the boy who never grew up, and you, always, always,

beautifully so, you. 

[photho]

exo - 2014; found objects, plaster, thread

[photho]

insomnia (part 2) - 2014; oil on wood

[boobjesus]

scribbly drawings from english class & the cafe i went to today VS. my little baby cousin’s art (try and guess which one’s which????)

[photho]

smoking kills - 2015; coloured texta, fineliner, collage

wasting away - fineliner, watercolour

[photho]

a waste of potential (alice, joseph, adam) - 2015, watercolour paint, gouache

[photho]

scans#1

[photho]

scans#2

[photho]

scans#3

[photho]

holier than thou - 2017; watercolour paint

[boobjesus]

@boypartsmusic tshirt design wewww

[anddorigo]

useless loving / (no)stalgia

the past fucking stinks of strawberries and cinnamon, engraved eternal into my lips. and even i

know that nostalgia is a filthy liar, but oh lord does she sing so siren-sweet, and she looks so stupid pretty,

silhouetted soft against the peeling tang of bedroom roof and wall.

nights: i check beneath my tongue for scratches & i sleep crooked, still curled around an empty space.

the past lingers littered like the sand throughout the bed we loved-loud in (sewn together and unsewn);

she kisses me goodnight with a throatful of thorns and endless seaweed. she kisses me

with an unholy, wretched, god-loving tongue thrust down this shallow

throat, and oh god, does it remind me of you.