YGM

Dowe Digters – uitdaging: skaamlippe van skryf

Feylian — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 14:34:44 +0000

(i)

My skaamlippe ken die taal slegs tweedehands

(wat die mond van vol is syfer deur die slukderm)

My hart praat verraaier rooinek vlot

(wat die hart van vol is drup deur die ribbes)

In my skede stotter meng die tale blooswarm en gladdebek lieg

o|o

Ek het jou hemp gesteel

Dit ruik soos jy, en vanmiddag se sitrus|sweet|seks

Jy, wat my onvoorwaardelike liefde belowe

Ek, wat net weet van oester koue tabasco en sjampanje spyker

en so min van jou

Memo 3

Feylian — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 07:22:54 +0000

Today I will fortify my patchy little emo soul with bursts of socking fat strangers in their need to be loved. I think it is located in the fleshy dimple above the elbow.

Memo 1

Feylian — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 07:19:56 +0000

Sometimes eyes aren’t so much a window to the soul as a metallic iris marking where one used to be.

Memo 2

Feylian — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 07:19:03 +0000

Heartbreak tastes like soured copper and disappointment like cardboard fortune cookies with blue litmus strips of words that cannot be unsaid.

Of needing to run

Feylian — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 06:58:44 +0000

I think rage builds like quicksilver in me. It coats my muscles in silver ghost whispers of willingness to do harm. With enough rage my tongue becomes a scalpel and my fingers talons wanting to pinion and skewer. The balls of my feet ache with the wish to snap bones and my breathing becomes jagged and spiky with lack of love for my fellow man.

I haven’t run in a week and the quicksilver is building a fortress in my chest. I am heavy with calcium grit of bones and teeth serving as tinder and flint. My joy has drowned in the melted plastic of what used to be my heart, good intentions and wagging tail sloshing in the gasoline.

I am not enough. I am too much. I try to fit into what will get me loved but it never works. It possibly has something to do with creating an imaginary trachea stapler for hapless strangers dressed in 90’s kitchen yellow whose fat elbows rests on my hip for 36 minutes despite every other person in the cabin edging away from the waves of anger and audible tooth grinding from yours truly.

Who can I tell this to? Who will not be horrified that happy go lucky, funny Feylian imagines gory murders and identifies with the Evil Queen and not the plucky Emma? Yeah, I am awesome. And I should never forget how awesome I am. You have only the vaguest idea of who I am or what I can do, so instead I pour my chi into a socially acceptable vehicle and lock the rage away. Stick to sarcasm and double Jack and pretend like I don’t mind that my love and acceptance counts for nothing at all. Shall I roll over and beg now?

Please don’t offer me your platitudes. Don’t pretend to know what I am “going through”. We are all alone and sometimes only the sound of thrashing guitars and tortured vocals sap the worst of it from me. So leave me in my little corner. I will eventually climb in the mostly-me and drive it around with loudspeakers of cheer and shoring-up-of-others.

Tin Cup guy

Feylian — Wed, 09 Nov 2011 07:36:57 +0000

Years overlay/ life lines overlap, blurring the original pretty picture. Kevin Bacon/Kevin Costner hair, undoubtedly styled exactly to emulate way-back-when. No extra muscle but plenty extra life, wrinkled, reedy papyrus skin. Strangely blurry hair; not thinning but no longer full. A definite air of used-to-be handsome.

How much of seduction is personality? Maybe intellect = magic/obfuscation. Could charm cover a multitude of shifting lines? Think Terry Pratchett’s elves in Lords and Ladies. How without glamour they are just vaguely fox-faced beings with pointy ears and little substance. How much does mind matter?

Of being blessed, grateful and eviscerated

Feylian — Sun, 06 Nov 2011 12:35:41 +0000

I am in gadget heaven. I now have a Samsung Galaxy Tab, a Samsung Galaxy SII and a BlackBerry (for work). I am such an Android slut it isn’t even funny.

I’m retiring from the search for love thing. I can’t hack the sweetly worded rejection anymore. I’m done. After this year I have a blasting area where my heart used to be. Something is clearly very wrong with me and thinking about it is just about as much fun as sitting on a pointy stick so, fuck it. I am going to focus on the awesome friend all the (clearly misguided) objects of my desire keep on telling me I am instead and get a lobotomy and a vibrator.

If you know me and interact with me, please be kind for the next while? My brain chemistry hasn’t exactly been ideal the past few months and after last night I am a bit broken.

1. Word of the day: heartsick

2. Insight of the day: awesomeness does not translate into love. Just look at Barney.

3. State of the pool: salty and dampened

4. Joys of the day: It is an astoundingly gorgeous day in P-Town. It is everything that summer should be. It is not too hot and the view from my bedroom window is heart melting. The boys are cooking full bore Sunday lunch and D is happily playing with the other little kids in the complex. I may even go for a swim *gasp* later.

5. Awesomest lines: Sarah McLachlan – Train Wreck

Of turning into a Merchant Ivory Jackie Collins

Feylian — Sun, 30 Oct 2011 21:17:59 +0000

There is rather a lot going on my little kingdom. I’ve been dreaming stories. I actually had a poem swirling this morning but I swallowed it with the last of my coffee. I also realised that I don’t have much of an imagination, I am not good at thinking up plot lines. Or scenarios involving fantastic things. What I am good at, is daydreaming maybe-love. No matter how much I try to avoid it, it seems I am built exactly to write girlporn. But indy girlporn (as if that will make it better somehow).

Ok, before you think I mean bodice rippers (although why not) I define girlporn as romantic comedies, romance novels, chick flicks…Austen. With the exception of Austen, I avoid such things like the plague. Probably because me not avoiding would be like throwing firelighters into a hearth.

Maybe if I just give in and write it I will stop trying to turn my life into a story. That would be ever so helpful.

Will keep you posted.

PS. I got El the Legend to promise some poetry /squee

PPS. Frost aka Perfect Guy aka legitimate son of a extremely nice lady, who caused the blog and just about broke yours truly, is in love. And here is the clincher. He is in love with someone he describes as “nice and conservative” and I, because I am neither nice nor conservative, describe her as made of lard and good deeds.

Bitch’s love leaves

Feylian — Fri, 21 Oct 2011 06:45:19 +0000

The whitegreen capsules valiantly battle

the rising tar

Mostly the pills work

Mostly the pills don’t

The tar claws scrabble against the plexiglass pills the resultant

plastic scrapings rise in my gorge

leaving my eyes baggy and my mien

weary and blackgreen jaded

Mostly the pills work

Mostly the pills don’t

Of romantic options – black mirth

Feylian — Fri, 21 Oct 2011 06:33:26 +0000

What happens when landslides meet and multiply, when both are used to pushing, testing, hungrily devouring? A brief mushroom cloud of entanglement. So it won’t. Or at least this landslide will only have the occasional sliding pebble, some loose grit perhaps. This landslide will give, otherwise, not a gram of gravel.

As for he of the ill used ellipses, he³.³, it would be fun if the aforementioned abuse of punctuation did not give me a case of the howling fantods.

VDK, him of the impossible to get. He is the lake. Lakes swallow landslides and just get fuller as the water level rises with a smug ego-ripple. He has had shovelfuls enough. Let the lake be fed with the thin slabs of sparkly ice that will have a rise in him.