The snarl of the zipper was all the love she needed for the time being. Copper monsters with claws made of penis. There's a fairy tale in every inch of skin. Rapunzels with ladders of hair begging to be saved. Witches with their chocolate architects. To tempt the hungry.
She wanted to be swallowed by the wolf, but he had already eaten.
The croak of afterward like a crippled frog. Listlessly bartering for flies it doesn't even want.
There were trolls at the backdoor as she coutned the passing headlights. Turtles in their moral races drawing sneakers on anyone's god. The were beds that never came. Stale effigies ironed from the ripe meat of partial orgrams. Poorly intimating the life we shared with it. A beggar's wishing well. Collecting interest on every secret.
There were so many choices.
There were none.
Wednesday
2/21/2007 12:35:00 AM
If the words you shape are only from a very small part of you, and one can love that small part with an intensity not known to man, then imagine what one can do, to the whole.
A witch and a fingernail clipping, can be the equation of love (your post inspired the line, I'll admit to that).
Anyhow, I think I'm frightening, as do you.
'There were so many choices.
There were none.'
Excuse my indulgence and pretentiousness, but in these two simple, but weighty as solar systems, sentences you have summed up one of the basic tenets of what I try to communicate in my writing. I don't believe much in fate and I believe less in freedom of choice - we don't make choices - our choices make our choices and in turn make us. We are hurtling, not controlling. There is no fate - we fall down, 'choose?' to stand up, 'choose?' to limp? 'choose?' to see a doctor - ad infinitum - no choice, just and only tumbling.
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