god is busy with ghosts and grime

Processed with VSCO with c1 presetWhat world to which you do not belong
What barren place, what days are these
What awful thing has laid you down
Betwixt this bed alone, you sleep

In a room of ghosts and grime and sin
With no bedding to curl against your chest
To comfort skin and heart and head
Or find reprieve, remember this:

This world to which you do not belong
Is not of you or Her or He
But a world of them, the scribbled lines
of man and man, now man-machine

What of your bed amidst their house
Do you make it, leave it, invite them in?
Or do you tie the sheets and fashion means
To hang your life, go whispering

Along the corridors where they tried to kiss you
Beneath the beams of others gone
Below the words of men who missed you
And missed the most, your unborn son

What now, what world (you’re standing yet –
You’ve left the bed and room and curse)
“What will you have me do this time
What good is left, what use of verse?”

And yonder still, the One you seek
Forever held in suspension there
Just beyond and just ahead
The endless walk to God knows where

But now the ghosts and grime are yours
Not all have seen that bathroom floor,
Fewer still, been strapped to beds;
Freed their limbs and asked for more

Folly! You live; you’re safe and sound
And most of ghosts have long since left
This talk of lover and beloved, how,
When Aleppo burns, lovers bereft

Of beloved, once in bone and flesh
Oh God (for what is God but wonder)
In what world does hell come breathing thus?
Who tears such limbs and hearts asunder?

But this is mine (you speak of light)
And that is theirs, by karma dealt
If this were true (you once were them)
You’d fall to the floor with all you felt

And further into darkness go,
With mimicry of the darkest yet,
To give all that you could and all that you are
To pray in a place where light had left

Throw glitter, glitter at every bent
Hold lightly prayers for beloved thine
You ask for more but don’t malign
A God who’s busy with ghosts and grime.

chelsea wolfe – halfsleeper

All the parts of me that lived inside
Are drowning in the sea of waking life
They don’t know their colours don’t belong on the outside
They don’t know their colours don’t belong

Til they’re spread across the open road
Til they’re spread across the asphalt on the open road
Til they’re streaming in the wind like cassette tape or jellyfish
Long dark veins and records playing memories

All the things we yell don’t mean a thing
When we’re spinning out of darkened meadow wind
When we’re flying like we’re Mary’s angels through the shattered glass
When we find that tall dark shadow waiting there with outstretched hands
He has given me a dress of red and you a skin of gray
We’ll be twisting here for hours ’til the light will bring us day

And we’re spread across the open road
And we’re spread across the asphalt on the open road
And we’re streaming in the wind like cassette tape or jellyfish
Long dark veins and records playing memories

“leaving is not…”

“Leaving is not enough. You must stay gone. Train your heart like a dog. Change the locks even on the house he’s never visited. You lucky, lucky girl. You have an apartment just your size. A bathtub full of tea. A heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid. Don’t wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes, your problems are papier mache puppets you made or bought because the vendor at the market was so compelling you just had to have them. You had to have him. And you did. And now you pull down the bridge between your houses, you make him call before he visits, you take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. Make the first bottle you consume in this place a relic. Place it on whatever altar you fashion with a knife and five cranberries. Don’t lose too much weight. Stupid girls are always trying to disappear as revenge. And you are not stupid. You loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street.”

— Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell

les parcae



las parcas 1 and 3                                                                                                             bromoil transfer on paper (1930)

from a triptych by Spanish photographer Joaquim Pla Janini (1879 – 1970) based on Les Parcae (the Fates).