teach me to fish

formerly: sdjalinger/sadghostaesthetics // now in the form of: wolves;ghosts;saints;birds. "when geryon was little he loved to sleep but even more he loved to wake up" (writing blog/"portfolio": http://loisafenichell.tumblr.com/)

[swampyentrails]

them eating by the spoons

when we ate with spoons,

i saw them, my lovers, them eating by the spoonswhen we ate with spoons,i saw them, my lovers, 

[swampyentrails]

wow, i forgot.

[swampyentrails]

PERSONAL HISTORY

How do you say 'bitch' in French? (I am referring to myself.) How do you say 'bloated'? A: 'Gonflé.' I do not come from Québec. In New York, in January, when it snows, the snow falls in trembles as if from a startled mouth. There are worry lines across my mouth. I want you to see them! See them. Watch them. Watch me go blind like a play. You can call me 'genius' and 'beautiful' anytime you'd like. Just know that it will never be true: 'gonflé.'

[swampyentrails]

1

His fists awake like a town I’d waited to believe in

2

In his bed, chocolate wreathed my mouth -- I spoke to him I was all around whispers

3

Next night I slept on the carpet he stood in the doorway

he stood in the doorway I slept on the carpet

When I awoke, bruises on the carpet, he was in the doorway like a father’s worn coat

4

Next night (again)

I saw her. It was still   jealousy wrapped around me like her hair around his shoulders he refused to look at me

[elanormcinerney]

Christa Wolf | City of Angels: Or, The Overcoat of Dr. Freud

[nosebleedclub]

Giants

a prompt series

1. The withering North wind 2. Houses couldn’t hold us 3. Fall of the island 4. The dozen beauties 5. Again: high school football season 6. Spiritual contemplation 7. Lords 8. Gas station revivals 9. Approaching harvest 10. New moon’s daughter

[swampyentrails]

lol

[thedigitalouthouse]

Visit Original Link

Lying on my side you were half awake and your face was tired and crumpled.

If I had a camera I’d snap you now cos there’s beauty in every stumble.

We are out of practice, we’re out of sight.

On the edge of nobody’s empire.

If we live by books and we live by hope,

does that make us targets for gunfire?

[yourangelonline]

[swampyentrails]

I. I screamed, loudly, somebody solve my hunger. Put me to bed like tinned fish, I am quaking like slivers of green thumb: this person could not be me. II. In a small room I ate on a bloody mattress, sat, the small bits of you. Inside, with the heater on, we were o.k. The heater broke inside of us. III. In the rain we sang the broken songs I’d written for you sitting cross-legged in a stream too small for me to sit in comfortably. IV. I sat cross-legged. I hated my legs.

[swampyentrails]

[swampyentrails]

HOW POSTMODERNISM NEGATIVELY IMPACTS [MY] EATING HABITS

[swampyentrails]

http://www.patheos.com/blogs/geneveith/2008/03/modern-postmodern-food/ lol

[swampyentrails]

HOW POSTMODERNISM NEGATIVELY IMPACTS [MY] EATING HABITS

[swampyentrails]

Your white bone in my bed -- this the magical realism I’d searched for; I loved you even with my dirty teeth.

You used to sing me songs in the nighttime, peeled away the skin from the rock of my knee. Even when we saw my blood we did not speak, for fear of trembling up the silence that seemed fragile as pinecone.

For two years I forgot about the bruises you left on my chest. Even when across the white wall of a church in a land far too away I saw your name written like a long strand of black hair. The letters identical to those of your name was only the funniest coincidence. I did not laugh.

We laughed at times in my bed, peals of our laughter falling away from us like the pale breasts I did not have. I did not have pale skin and even for you I could not change this. Yet still you held

my body close to yours as if, like the dreams you never had, I would disappear. In the mornings I asked you the same question, the same question I asked every boy who lay in your place, what is it you dreamt of, and in the mornings you had the same response: you did not dream.

Then you told me it was no longer morning, it was softened afternoon, and you fell away.

[swampyentrails]

All my doodles r the same!

[swampyentrails]

o um UPDATES

1. I am now a part of that experimental theatre collective I wrote about a couple of posts ago

2. & I got a callback for another play! (wow am I really now ~acting~) 

3. my relationship with writing is real weird at the moment, existential crisis-y type things

4. been writing (shitty) songs though

5. can’t sing

6. still hate my body

7. hoping that will stop a lil once this collective gets going & I stop feeling so fucking restless

8. keep having dreams in which I’m dating somebody & can’t stop saying the word ‘fucking’ 

9. I want to be in love, which is a shitty way to go about thinking about all of this in the first place, probably (’I want’) 

10. JON FUCKING (see???) BERGER

11. I have a French exam soon that I’ll probably fail 

12. school’s weird & I can’t get used to it & I wanna go back to London & social life is weird & the academics here are weird & fucking. goddamn. shit. I....(for that first audition for the collective I had to yell my favorite curse word & even though ‘dick’ isn’t a curse word that is what I chose to yell & it...it felt good) 

13. my phone broke...again....fourth time

14. GODDAMN BOYS! (still) 

[swampyentrails]

working on something - class doodles