streetcamera17

I keep thinking about burying myself in your embrace, my face in your hair. And while I regret the fact that we both seem to be too much of damaged, quietly broken cowards to even talk about that night when we so naturally, seamlessly, gravitated towards each other, seeking warmth and comfort underneath the covers - using our sleep-pliant bodies to protect each other from the night - I am glad that it happened at all. Because to know that it is not a thing of fiction to actually feel like that in someone's arms… I am afraid you will never know how much of a gift it was that you unwittingly gave me. Still, I would give near anything for

I've always been greedy when it comes to touch, to tactile sensations. Taking it all in for the sheer experience of luxuriating in them and letting it fill the gaps between my parted fingers. Like when I run my hands over the smoothness of varnished wood, tip-tapping, knocking, drumming, listening intently for the multitude of subtleties encoded in the atomic make up of every surface. Or the reassuring firmness of a pen when I grip it in confidence, wrist loose and hand flying in exploration across a page. And the difference that has from the tremors that run through my edges when I am holding on to it like a lifeline. Same with

i. There is not yet enough drink to change the night but still, hands and mouths explore past all edges of propriety; perfume faded on wrists and fingers in dark hair - helpless or hungry with desire, neither of you can say when it all feels too much like drowning. ii. The morning remembers the flash of teeth and cardinal red heat; silk unwound across skin - it wakes your soft-strung spine, "Again?" iii. You find yourself thinking of prism fractures cracking straight through the centre of jewels, a mad spillage of light and colour; lungs racing for air, she tells you she thought of violins, a violent thunder of perfect music. iv.

One by one The lights have extinguished, flickered and rallied against their last filaments till it has come to this. You stand in the last room filled with light within a house overcome by darkness and quiet. All the ghosts and its other occupants too lie sleeping where the darkness has caught them Before all this: 'Help me.' You begged when you tried again and again to relight the candles, change the broken bulbs - keep the lights from going out, the dark from creeping in. But they simply stared back at you dead-eyed and held immobile by their own pain. Maybe someday, they will reawaken and breathe new rhythms never to remain in one

In the absence of stars on moonless nights, turn your sights to the distant skyline; There you will find life still gently teeming, histories quantum-flickering. There are still those proofs of light, promises of life hiding within the tiny windows dotting every building. The bridges drape themselves between the city and sky like slumbering dragons, Cars and lorries and cabs flicker from point to point against the gloom - irate faerie men and women erupting in some mad morse code; How they make the city sing! In the shadow corners, pickpockets and beggars wait hungry, they will take you if they could, eager bones set like vio

a hotel with a thousand rooms; where bats beat against cavernous walls of stone, dipping and soaring through the blackest air: that is where you will find me. below the visible armour of flesh and old scars and rictus-smiles; throat stained with the fingerprints of the old, the death-clutch of the haunted; there is the alchemy of stormlight and rough poetry - veined hands and bare toes clutching the ground beastwise. the legacy of ink and punk and pollution. where I am with nought but my own will, my actions led by only of my will; there i unfold, there i am not a lie nor have no need to lie. where my eyes do not hide their burn

There is a language of savagery and violence, a coldness icy enough to slice flesh living behind my tongue and I ache to use it every time. But I've long learned that who we are is who we chose to be, not what our darker natures dictate. I have been hurt countless times in countless ways Been forced to hide, been forced to pretend that I'm something I'm not Until I've have had no other path but to do become this terribly lonely brutal thing - unrecognizable in the mirror, in the reflections of your eyes. And for that my words have claws, They have the bright, unyielding edge of pain, of damage and venom at the ready like a snake pois

I want you to imagine something for me. Imagine being in a place where you're constantly being watched. Where there is always a face in front of you; watching, judging, controlling, prying, "making you feel safe", "wanting to protect you", familiar loving faces, arguing voices, voices speaking over yours because your own is merely a child's voice - meaningless, wrong, worthless. Imagine living in a home where you're constantly being put in your place. Imagine being surrounded by people who want to make you "right". Imagine knowing that there is a whole other world out there; beyond the faces, beyond the walls, beyond the stale, stagnant, ai

In summer, the sun comes through the windows, and we sweep soft, hungry mouths over the paths of each other's bodies, taking into ourselves the shadows the light cannot banish. In winter, the bite of harsh Boreas snaps against the panes, and we sink pliant into skin-warmed duvets. There is only heat and our own gravities seamlessly encasing us against the crackling frost of the quieting world. In spring, mirrors and bright edges throw jewel-flaws on every surface, and we draw out thrumming operas from every arch and curl of our bones throwing even the too-tame pigeons into a frenzy. In autumn, there's fire and chill coalescing into a qu

She is a child of tough poetry and swagger, a multitude of languages in her eyes; broken and old and remade into something new, something truer than the ones given to her at birth. When she stood still, you could see her own portmanteau words thrumming about her shoulders like mad butterflies. My beautiful, dangerous girl; She's heard every cruel word said against her: slut, freak, abberation, useless, crazy, Wrong. But she leaves them behind her everytime. There is defiance and bravery and sheer will imbued in every line of her hands, every burning vein. A creature of blood and fearsome heart and unbent spine, she treads the ruin of sha