God of Cries

The God of cries is man and woman. She is not half woman and half man. He is not a symbiosis or a collection or a union. The god of cries is everything. She spans and drifts and churns, and he is teeth and mouth and lips and vulva and sperm and cunt and cock.

He has been called a tower, a maze with soft, round stones that are hard, with secrets in the lowest chasms and melodies in the highest peaks.

The God of cries never thinks. She doesn’t speak. But he sings, through the teeth and the pubic hair, like a slithering melodious cry that shakes and sends shivers through the bones, like wet and hard kisses that starts in the neck and sends jolts of eclectic, jolting rushes down the back and ends in the thigh.

Like spasms. Like spasms of sounds.

Some say the God of cries is sad. Some say its tragic.

But really the God of cries is a sect. A platform with vinegar and viny growths with tiny, hard, juciy red grapes that are blackish like hair. And the prayer is masturbation. And the bible is porn. And the hymns are heaving breaths of ecstasy and laughter and creaking beds that fall together and the rythmic pulses and beats and throbs that sooner or later sound just like the cries that the God of cries sings.

And sings.

And sings.

Wierd when high on coffein

SWEAT

I thought it was kinda wierd when my boyfriend said he had something ”fun” for us to do. Usually, he is not the type to initiate anything fun.
I was, because he is a complete fugly, boring jerk, very suspiscious.
His idea for fun meant lying naked on the floor, wrapped in specially importet seaweed, listening to whalesounds on a CD and pretening being born.
Suspiscious indeed.
So, anways, opening the door, I entered his crummy appartment which looks something right out of an add on how screwed up you might actually end up if you go to art school and learn how to draw your inner space. Naturally, my fucked boyfriend failed that task, just drawing a rectangle with a bed.
He sucks.
His innermost, sacredmost space is a rectangle room with a bed.
Anyways, opening the door, I could tell he was excited. He gets interesting little shudders around his eyes, like something poking under his skin. Its really gross. I can’t believe I loved him.
He took my hand, and he was clammy, and he dragged me into the bedroom, which smells like bananas, and on the floor there was a present, wrapped with a lavishly embrodiered paper and ugly piece of string that I bet my nipples on he just had left over from that time he made a statue out of string. The statue was supposed to look like a figure. But then the entire thing collapsed upon itself, and the string-statue ended up what it started as. A ball of string.
The lame bastard had obviously packed the present himself, because it looked like a guy with Downs, high on LSD and diet-pills could have done a better job. There was discared pieces of tape strewn all over the place. On the walls. On the floor. Even on his pants.
“Open it”, he whispered in my ear, pressing his small, little, purple, jagged penis against me.
“It isn’t a jack-in-the-box, right?” I moaned.
He snorted.
I hate it sorely when he snorts.
So, him shaking like an anemic palm-tree to pitiful and stupid to bend over and die hovering over me, I opened the present.
At first I didn’t know what to think.
And that happenes rarely with me.
It looked like an enormous plastic balloon. Like a condom, only hugerer and more appalling.
“What. The. Fuck. Is. This?”
He went to his knees, and I could tell that he was rock hard, if the rock was a tiny litte discared piece of cement on an old parking lot in Mexico. He kissed me with the fugly lips like snorting cocain on the floor and shuddering and crying because he pushed his wheel-chaired grandfather over a small bridge when he was a kid because the grandfather touched his “special place”. What a lame-o!
And then, that throb around his eye going off, he whispered:” I want you to take it on.”
So I did.
I undressed, threw my clothes at him, and the buckle on my belt hit his eye, so I liked that, and then I stepped into the huge plastic thing. It stuck to my skin. It was a carpet, a veil of this thin but durable marverlously sacred and beautiful polymer.
“What is it?”
“its a fetal membrane. I want you to be a big, horny child, unborn. And I want to watch you.”
So I did.
I put the fetal membrane around myself, its comforting walls sealing him away, and I put my face close to it. Soon, I began to sweat, and the sweat dripped from my skin and stuck to the plastic, gluing me close to it.
I could tell that he was jerking off.
His purple penis was looking at me.
I didn’t care.

And through the life force and there goes her friend

This is the first free-saturday I have had for ages and ages and years and years. So, woho, I don't need to sit chained behind a register whilst the consuming-paper dolls fly by with their fat children and their bearded women who are so frustrated and lost in their ivy-climbing gardens and their yellow checkered kitchens.

So freedom for me.

I have to get a LOAD of chemistry-work done, with entails tedious searches for mechanisms for the reaction between K4Fe(CN)6 to prove the Fe3+. Gawd! What the fuck is this?

Need to write more. Need to write more. But my time isn't mine any longer. if anyone ever asks me what it means to grow up, I would say that it is about losing your own time. The hours are still there, of course, but they are not your own, like shiny marbles in a purple veily pouch, lost one and one.

Going for a run. Want to spend some time in the sauna. Get so steaming hot all the toxins and all the shit and every fucking bad thing that ever, ever happened to me will seethe through my too-big-and-hideous pores.

Yes.

Yes.

Then I will write. About isabella Høst. And her water. And her oceans. And her piano of stone in the stormy shores.

Familia

My littlest sister is on a sleepover in my new house, which isn't a house so much as a tiny room connected to a slightly tinnier room. My other sister is going to her first ball today, and she had her hair done like, for a gazillion hours, just like in TV, and she had a pink dress bought for money saved through years. And my other, other sister is at her boyfriends, and they like to sabotage christmas by making out until my mother flips.

And I am here.

There are pink little shoes in the hallway.

And two glasses on the table.