Energy Gifts

I make trinkets out of my horrors.

Remember that railroad spike? No, love, not the one impaling society-spawn shame to rotting tongues I want nothing from—that one can’t be removed without reviving dead brains or touching hearts that lie… lie as elusive as the common-sense continuum. I’m talking about the rusty one, the one clad in bloody screams from trembling young lips (my trembling lips). Yes, love, the spike that tried to break my teeth, the one that scared me (once), I turned it into a bouquet of nightmares that sits charmingly outside time, guarded by sentinels crafted out of all your energy gifts.

I shall never run
out of shields, my wicked love,
not if I have you

 

 

the (not so) wee notes…
– some people have justifiable (even cool) phobias. Then, there is me: I have a mostly irrational fear of rust. So, when a friend (who has seen what rust can do to me) said, “What is a jar of giant rusty nails doing by your bed?” I told her the truth: “They are doing absolutely nothing. They probably want to, but they can’t. See that lovingly grinning skull? It was a gift from my boy. The stones, crystals, marbles? Gifts from different friends. All of them guardians. Rust can’t touch me.” The latest boost to my shield is a spoon made of horn bone. Yep, now one of my sentinels can also make sure that I never run out of spoons. Thank you so much, Kerry.

Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

 

The Truth-Telling Jacket

Greetings, humans. I’ve taken a page out of HRH’s book (if you’ve yet to meet that kitty, you should swing by She Who Seeks). I’m Magaly’s Muse. “She is sleeping right now. Shh!” You might not know this, but my Writer is disgusted by the news. Moi? I am obsessed with it. So… while she slumbers, I surf through real reports that taste disturbingly dystopian. Last week, I read about “a lady” in a truth-telling jacket.

 

This is exactly what happened:

A naturalized U.S. citizen (suffering from selective memory loss) was photographed right after a reporter from Hooey! Magazine asked her, “Is it true that your husband is a dementor wearing human skin?”

The lady seemed to be struggling with the complexity of the inquiry, phrases like Can you define ‘human?’ and ‘Must all of my husband’s hair be technically of this world?’ popped out of her eyeballs.

The reporter wasn’t sure how to proceed. His editor didn’t clear him to discuss popping thoughts of alien hair. He was about to say something nice about the lady’s attire, mostly to stole, but a collective gasp uttered by the sea of reporters standing behind the lady shut him up.

“She’s wearing a Truth-Telling Jacket!” the crowd shouted as one voice.

As the lady placed a hand over the spot where her heart should’ve been and turned to smile at the crowd, the reporter was able to read the clear message spelled by the truth-telling fabric: ‘I really don’t care. Do U?’

I’ve been following this reporter for some time now. He isn’t known for his sentimentality. Still, his eyes were shining, when he said, “Love like this is hard to find. Human or not, those two are made for each other.”

And I think he is right. The lady and her alleged human-skin-wearing-dementor must love each other deeply. Why else would she ever wear fabric that screams her true feelings into the world, regardless of how despicable said feelings might be?

His own show of love isn’t far behind. After a team of ornithologists explained to him that humanity tweets loudest when horrors threaten an innocent soul, he created a caring camp where he isolates children from parents. This isn’t done out of cruelty, of course. He cares hugely. He only wants to study the adults’ emotions at their rawest, in order to mimic their behaviors and become more humane for love.

Many people—especially those who find it hard to breathe through the happiness-sucking fog that follows the couple around—care very much about this issue. And they, too, are wearing truth-telling jackets.

image borrowed from Pearl Jam

 

posted by Magaly’s Muse

This is the work of a make-believe being who suspects someone got drunk and burned the barrier between news, reality, and politics. Names, characters, jackets, events, places, incidents… are either the products of said being’s imaginative whims or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events or persons (living or dead, undead, thought to be undead, or known to be inhuman) is purely coincidental. Well… except the dementors. The dementors are real. Damn you, Dolores!

 

Midnight Sun

I poured the sun
out of your squared bottle,
and drank it in circles.

I freed the sun
from your monochromes,
washed it in rainbows,
ran its rays down my spine,
bathed my hips and thighs in heat…

I loved the sun at the witching hour.
It was hot,
hot and summer-sweet on my tongue.

 

This was an accidental photo. I’ve no idea what it might be. But the moment I saw it, I knew it was meant for my Summer Solstice post.

Linked to Hedgewitch’s Friday 55 and the Imaginary Garden.