Repressed Desires Grow Bitter on the Tongue

If you let them ink you to their liking, turn you into what they believe you should be, they will rip my heart out of your chest and watch us scream… Bare your teeth, my Love. Tell them the dark, dark, dark spot in your mind (the one normalcy can’t touch without dying or falling or changing for the better) belongs to me. Remind them that in ink, I am tenderness and terror.

You can lie to them. But between you and me, Love, and the wild wonders my flesh knows of your bones, masks will not stand true. I can still feel you (whispering old wants, weaving new stories) in me. Silence is not a natural environment for love or lust. I can’t delight in us, if you won’t talk to me—

scream your want into my skin, repressed desires grow bitter on the tongue.

the visual poetry

the wee notes…
– I borrowed a partial phrase from my favorite quote, out of The Thirteenth Tale, by Diane Setterfield: “Silence is not a natural environment for stories. They need words. Without them they grow pale, sicken and die. And then they haunt you.” Seriously, they do you… with chainsaws… and mad ravens.
– linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

Battling to Birth Wild Balance

“What matters in life is not what happens to you but what you remember and how you remember it [to tell the tale].” ~ Gabriel García Márquez


My bit of the North revealed its skull hollow on a mad Tuesday. Mandibles dropped for cover, tongues lashed out in outrage, and no less than 1,001 fists (per nanosecond) pumped towards the heavens in despair—dark clouds and powerful men with darker souls gave exactly zero fucks. But… worry not, my Ink Warrior, today’s babies sharpen their teeth on the neckbone of injustice.

I art my words strange,
fill my tales with blood and feels.
My poetry howls
of love and other demons
battling to birth wild balance.


the wee notes…
– If Death had not felt the need for the best of storytellers, my dearest Gabo would’ve turned 91 today. He has been gone for almost 4 years. To celebrate his amazing life, I chose 4 of his quotes, crafted them into a blackout poem, expanded the poem into a tanka, and grew it into the tanka prose you’ve just read. Also, the fourth line of the tanka is the title of one of Márquez’s novels. Feliz cumpleaños, mi Gabo, your words will always live in needed tales.
– I apologize to those of you who were expecting the next bit of “In a Normal (probably-pre-apocalyptic) Reality”. I’ll post it next Tuesday. I just couldn’t skip my Gabo on the anniversary of his birth.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.