here i am sleeping at the altar, drinking the
holy water like cough syrup. here i am beneath
the stained glass window trying to cheat death
i paint my body with the ashes of this holy fire, line
my too-light eyes with charcoal. i am learning how to
see clearly in the darkness. my southern sky
constellation, my nighttime ocean, i am holding you
against me as if i can stop the waves from
crashing. i am controlling the tide for you. i
wash away the blood as if there will not be
more. bathe in the iron, my name becomes a
copper coin on your tongue. blessed be.
beloved. i want you to say this until it feels real
until you know the color of an electric candle
in a room shrouded in darkness. until you learn
your own holiness. beloved. give me your
hand, let me show you this night sky crystallized
i am creating a home in my body for your
heaviness. i am hanging holly and lilies from
the ceiling, singing and closing all the windows
i will trap myself inside, sleep tangled in the arms
of your trauma. i search your hair for rings as if
in a tree cut, charting every loss, every cruelty
every time the weight of personhood nearly
ruined you. beloved, i am beading your resin
tears. i hold them like a rosary, like a lover.
don't search for me, don't ask me why i had to
adorn this shrine with dead flowers, dried
juniper, torn clothing, my own teeth
you know it takes sacrifice to reach sanctity
#CutUpConfessions aims to fluidly investigate the human experience through a mixture of collage and confessional writings. By playing with different structures and media, Cara is bluntly honest in words, often directed as a question or request, while hiding smaller, more nuanced admissions throughout the imagery.
I'M A SLEEPWALKING CHEETAH WITH A HEART FULL OF LIP BALM
We were ultra purple and also so for real.
In the binge harvest, we got it straight
from the source. We made things meaningless
so meaning then could come. Watch us whittle
ugly urges. Watch us tabulate the inky costs.
Good lord, I think you could have waited
at least until we hit the next text stop.
We look up at the new reflective roadsign
typeface: All the World’s a Forgotten Boy.
We tune in to the weather band and listen
to a poem of pure joy written by police.
BIG MONEY FOR BROKEN GOLD
You find out what kind
of neighborhood you’ve got
by how the others jump
when you pass them
on the sidewalks.
In ours, they’re almost all
resigned to being
overtaken by surprise.
If you want to know their secrets,
hang out behind the hotel
where the employees
all sneak smokes.
When next we see those idle dads
shredding by sunset at the trashed
skatepark, let’s make a pact
to never jump again.
Her ring was diagnosed
nine karats British dull,
and I thought right, the rationing.
Your grandmother’s story is
never not achingly everything.
I put up the paper to cover your body in,
there you are, that Platonic poppycock with words in the absinthe of time
just puckered pink and the red there, too
So. Many. Women.
live; ghosts in the scaffolds or folds in the ghosts.
Reading your journal, archeology, really.
in the absence of me
just blue and black ink,
homage to some girlish bedroom and
prairie wind, hairpins,
Fuck you but fuck me
like Toshio Saeki
you cannot replace a woman who gets fucked by a squid.
Clumps of hair— just evidence
carry around those intestines in paper bags feed it—Alive!—to meaningless creatures of Woman,
their dumb heads all tilted back and their mouths open like pleasure like homogeneity like
replaceable like one of three reoccurring characters like interchangeable like plucked but not the
thing that precipitated plucking
… poppers, poetry, pills.
Your body is still here
well, it's been ~six months since we shared doe deer's music with you and - good news - there's a new album!
official album description: "a collection of stupid songs that don't really mean anything"
sea foam's garbled stream-of-consciousness mini review: nostalgic, bird sounds, warm, fleeting, tranquil, soft, hopeful
read our interview with doe deer here! cover art by matt leibowitz!
two big-ass clouds
hatching plans like pokemon eggs
a safe yet relevant metaphor
knowing how you hate the taste of those
hanging on your tongue w/ your coffee breath
but like whatever man
remember the moon
remember the alamo
remember the titans
remember on sports day
may 11, 1994
when mr. smith's ball-sack
floated out his shorts on the high-jump
this was before we had accessible internet
a month before netscape was found
looking ahead to weezer themed chat-rooms
short-lived eagle eye cherry msg boards
when you were the size of a sears brand beginner guitar
or other eight-year-old children
big-haired / blue-eyes
rly into beekeeping atm
thinkin' abt midwifery soon
auto-tune the sound of my future dentures
biting into a sandwich just like this
i wish (i wish) i wish
so we spend all of 2008
in child's pose
because at the vry least
we need our lives
to be a stretch
so happy in this "brand new" & brown vintage scarf
so happy in this new set of arms
so happy in this drugstore
where an akon song is playing
so happy & so gay safe from harm
we hug ourselves
knees to heart
knowing nothing lasts forever
even seal is going to die
hopefully not for a long-ass time
baby's day out (1994)
900 fire extinguishers exploding in the trunk of my subaru hatchback for a music video being shot in south africa. wow, holy fuck! a rose-red screen fades to pitch black as our producer peeks out the window through a crack in the venetian blinds. you've been reading bret easton ellis again, i can tell. i am going through my mumble-core phase, finding bibles in the sky, questioning everything except these rad-as-hell dogs in this wide-open wal-mart parking lot.
long post-rock interludes to hardcore songs, delida of buttercups, the dylan thomas sky.
i understand more about ryan gosling's character in "blue valentine" but i am not saying that i relate to him. you made it out. father had his surgery. i rub this daisy into my palm and know that i am leaving. spanish birds fly into my lungs, closing my throat. yes, this is beautiful and perfect.
we stop to wonder where this quilt came from. i ask if i can hold your hand again. i am addicted to saving, but boy do i ever want that lawn-chair.
tell me again who taught you the cold water extraction method and exactly how she died. make me a real tight fist by the mid-field boxcar at night. we kick up, with hot soft light under big october sky and we are shaky high.
I’ve been waiting for warmth again
trying to conceal that I am a pile of dirty dishes
shaped in curves
and pretzel knotted curls
and knowing that you are indigenous,
even if the others don’t think so
that’s what calms me
If I had a spear, if I plunged myself through a flagpole, it would all spill out. It would happen slowly, like honey. You are a little fucking ball of love, she says.
I think about the love inside me. If the love inside me has divided into little men and women working who all reside in different parts. If they walk around, bow-legged, and cramped over so their backs have become dinner tables. I think about if they curse at me, hate me, if they want a break. Maybe they want to get a good rest in before they have to work again. But there is no rest, they are always working, and it makes me want to cry.
I think about the love inside me. If it has died, like it should have by now, I could watch it roll out like a black glob onto my sneakers. People would stare, point, ask how an oil spill could come from a little girl's body, but no one would be sure because I wouldn’t be breathing. The love inside me is not yellow, like it used to be.
You are a little fucking ball of love, she says.
I look deep in the shower, and hold the black I feel behind my belly button. I hold the slime in my intestines, and I think that’s the reason why my stomach hurts so bad this year.