tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-103534282024-02-28T13:25:05.888-08:00spittle from me to you."drink three bottles of cheap red wine then post about it on the internet."katherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02296714723092819098noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10353428.post-1147486944256469042006-05-12T19:13:00.000-07:002006-05-12T19:22:24.256-07:00love letter, love letter...I'm not going to start by telling you how I've never felt this way about anyone before oh how I can't live without you total eclipse of the heart 80's power ballad hooo.<br /><br />I can live perfectly well without you, I did before I met you, and I know I will long after we eventually implode, as everyone with sense does eventually.<br /><br />I will tell you that I love you, but the value of my words fluctuates daily. But when I woke up last night without you, I had to fight the hollow, sinking feeling that replaced you. Half of it was my body aching for your long, sweaty back pressed against mine, but the rest was the awful feeling I often get that I will replace your back with another back of a faceless, nameless drunken fuck.<br /><br />I won't pen you songs of pink-eyed pigeons or jilted lovers, but I will realise at two seventeen a m on a wednesday morning that everytime, I will write you a valentine in blood. <br /><br />Maybe one day you will ask me to marry you, and I will say yes through lack of anything else to say.<br /><br />And then maybe one day after that we will move into that tiny apartment you know I have always wanted to live in, in that city I love to live in.<br /><br />And maybe I will give you two wonderful children, a boy and a girl - each dark haired and hazel eyed. And we will love them and raise them perfectly and live beautifully until I die of lung cancer and your prostate turns against you.<br /><br />Then maybe our children and their children in turn, will mourn us and hate us for fucking them up so much as all parents do.<br /><br /><br /><br />But then again, probably not.katherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02296714723092819098noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10353428.post-1147486065761082822006-05-12T18:56:00.000-07:002006-05-12T19:07:45.773-07:00did you knowthat some nights, I lie awake, enraptured in girlish, hot-lidded crush - just thinking about the brush of your black hair across my shoulder. Have you heard, all those familial miles away, my wordless, lust driven compulsion to imagine your coal ribbons melting in my bed.<br /><br />I have watched your scabby, hangnailed nicotine finger flick the end of that same cigarette a hundred times, and each time I want nothing more than to put that same crackled digit in my warm, wet mouth. Then I could taste the hundreds of groupies - the endless taste of tight teenage girl.I would taste all your years of smack, each one held in bitter cellular memory. Every broken promise and every one yet to be made. <br /><br />The way your bottom lip does that thing, you know the one I mean, won't let me forget you. I hope you are so very bored. The things I could give you, the things I would, sure must be more exciting than pushinf a double pram down the High Street or through B&Q on a sunday to buy coving for the newly redecorated front room.<br /><br />Don't you want to come into my red room, with all its hazy light and hazier morals. Don't you want to live again, instead of the sterile existance you find yourself in now. Have you forgotten what its like? I wonder sometimes if you've just burned yourself out. Maybe you just don't have it in you anymore to smack yourself out of your head and spend three days fucking girls you could probably get arrested for fucking.<br /><br />Maybe you are meant to be like you are now, and maybe I will finally realise that you are old older oldest, too old for me anyway.<br /><br />Its a shame you can't see what you're missing out on.katherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02296714723092819098noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10353428.post-1129939243482311162005-10-22T01:00:00.000-07:002005-10-21T17:00:43.490-07:00I'll watch you for hours after you fall asleep.Sometimes I can see your face change shape in the darkness. Like when I was a child and I thought that the pictures in my room came to life when the lights went out. Through that same trick of light I can almost see you change from your beautiful pure self into something wicked. Your full mouth, high brow, distending into some ugly misshapen mask. I can hardly recognise you sometimes, as I watch you for hours, the bones of your face shifting with the car lights from the street outside. The sick yellow glare of the streetlamp merely adds to the Hades effect. Sometimes I would drive a stake through your heart, but I fear you don’t have one.katherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02296714723092819098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10353428.post-1129763854705304372005-10-20T02:03:00.000-07:002005-10-19T16:17:34.706-07:00everyone i like is deadwhy the hell do cool, talented, most excellent dude people have to die horribly and before they should. i was watching totally bill hicks last night for the twelfty billionth time and for some reason this time it just fucking depressed me. that dude there.. that one with the brown teeth and the lung capacity of a two year old.. the only man who’s ever made me laugh so much i maybe peed a little bit… that dude has been dead for almost eleven years. that dude has been dead more than half my life. how thoroughly depressing is that.<br /><br />fuck it, i’m going to listen to some jeff buckley.<br /><br /><br />(I love you goat boy, you shaggy ol’ thing.)katherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02296714723092819098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10353428.post-1129763756471184872005-10-19T16:10:00.000-07:002005-10-19T16:15:56.480-07:00when my father diedWhen my father died, I was six. He didn’t die right away, and he didn’t die with dignity. He was torn and cut away from my heart in tiny poisoned pieces. Bright severed strings of flesh that once connected us now lay against my sides like jellyfish tentacles, and every touch leaves a welt that won’t stop hurting. Sometimes they hurt so much I think I’m dying. And sometimes I think I’d like to die but it’s never quite enough to kill. <br /><br />He was like a lover who left me. Blasting me in two for no identifiable reason and with no apology. Like an acid burn that doesn’t hurt at first contact I carried on thinking I was okay. Blinked and touched and smiled and fucked my way through a thousand other fathers, every one never quite living up to the original. Every one was just slightly wrong. None of them were him, but I’d keep looking. <br /><br />Some times I think I’ll just never get over you.katherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02296714723092819098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10353428.post-1122967433925694012005-08-02T00:22:00.000-07:002005-08-02T00:24:36.430-07:00love it.you can tell<br />from the scars on my arms<br />and cracks in my hips<br />and the dents in my car<br />and the blisters on my lips<br />that i'm not the carefullest of girls<br /><br />you can tell<br />from the glass on the floor<br />and the strings that're breaking<br />and i keep on breaking more<br />and it looks like i am shaking<br />but it's just the temperature<br />and then again<br />if it were any colder i could disengage<br />if i were any older i could act my age<br />but i dont think that youd believe me<br />it's<br />not<br />the<br />way<br />i'm<br />meant<br />to<br />be<br />it's just the way the operation made me<br /><br />and you can tell<br />from the state of my room<br />that they let me out too soon<br />and the pills that i ate<br />came a couple years too late<br />and ive got some issues to work through<br />there i go again<br />pretending to be you<br />make-believing<br />that i have a soul beneath the surface<br />trying to convince you<br />it was accidentally on purpose<br /><br />i am not so serious<br />this passion is a plagiarism<br />i might join your century<br />but only on a rare occasion<br />i was taken out<br />before the labor pains set in and now<br />behold the world's worst accident<br />i am the girl anachronism<br /><br />and you can tell<br />by the red in my eyes<br />and the bruises on my thighs<br />and the knots in my hair<br />and the bathtub full of flies<br />that i'm not right now at all<br />there i go again<br />pretending that i'll fall<br />don't call the doctors<br />cause they've seen it all before<br />they'll say just<br />let<br />her<br />crash<br />and<br />burn<br />she'll learn<br />the attention just encourages her<br /><br />and you can tell<br />from the full-body cast<br />that i'm sorry that i asked<br />though you did everything you could<br />(like any decent person would)<br />but i might be catching so don't touch<br />you'll start believeing youre immune to gravity and stuff<br />don't get me wet<br />because the bandages will all come off<br /><br />and you can tell<br />from the smoke at the stake<br />that the current state is critical<br />well it is the little things, for instance:<br />in the time it takes to break it she can make up ten excuses:<br />please excuse her for the day, its just the way the medication makes her...<br /><br />i dont necessarily believe there is a cure for this<br />so i might join your century but only as a doubtful guest<br />i was too precarious removed as a caesarian<br />behold the worlds worst accident<br />I AM THE GIRL ANACHRONISM<br /><br /> <br /><br />copyright 2002 amanda palmerkatherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02296714723092819098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10353428.post-1121555046781498302005-07-16T16:03:00.000-07:002005-07-16T16:04:06.786-07:00come with me.I will take your little hand away from your mouth. Wrap it in mine and I will open the door and lead you out. Into the cherry blossom garden of this tiny cottage in this tiny village. Down past the vegetable patch where you think the rabbit lives. Through the grass so manicured by that small foreign man whose name I have never cared to learn. We will move slowly as you’ve only just started to walk. You’re not quite sure where your feet end. I should be proud of you, your little powerhouse muscles propelling you forward of your own accord but all I can think is hurry up hurry up your father will be home soon I should have started this sooner. <br /><br />We will pass the play house he has had built for you. In years to come the two of you will probably have it knocked down as I know you will never use it. The frill curtains will remind you of the delicate white flowers on the tips of all the branches surrounding us today, and you will think of me and hate me. <br /><br />Your tiny jam paw is hot and moist in mine, grasping and desperate. I will never let anyone ever know that on some level, the feel of it sickens me. I feel like you are devouring me, drawing me under in your unselfconscious, unconditional need. From the first moment you were laid onto me. That very second with your high pitch scream and mucous covered body with me half alive and bleeding to death I felt a wave of revulsion at the sight of you. Looking at the doughy indistinguishable faces of the nurses, with their sycophantic expressions and mouths forming words I couldn’t hear all I wanted them to do was take you far away from me.<br /><br />We will go to the old cherry tree at the bottom of our English garden. It has taken us a long time to get here. I should have carried you but my hands are full carrying the things I need. You try to climb up on the swing that hangs from the thick branch and for the thousandth time I stop you because you would fall off and hurt yourself. At times I have wondered what would happen if I just let you fall. <br /><br />I will give you your favourite toy. The elephant your father brought back from India. It is missing one beady eye and is looking frayed already yet you have only had him for a few months. The powerful destructive force that you are astounds me sometimes. You sit at the thick base of the tree and become absorbed for a precious few moments. I don’t want you to watch me, although I know you won’t understand. I don’t want some hack psychiatrist to pry repressed childhood memories from you many years from now. They always blame the mother anyway.<br /><br />I’m trying to picture the next few moments. All I can seem to picture is you at your wedding. Your English rose bride swathed in white next to you and your father standing solid behind you. I wonder if you will be embarrassed at my absence. If you will look to your new wife’s family and wonder how their nuclear normality survived. Will you flush hot-faced at a simple question from an orbiting relative? I hope you won’t be sad and I hope no one mentions me. I hope your father finds someone else to be his. I hope you find a way to put me out of your mind. It would be better if I were just forgotten.katherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02296714723092819098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10353428.post-1113861693554187812005-04-18T23:01:00.000-07:002005-04-18T15:01:33.556-07:00ideal life.it starts in the morning. i am asleep in bed. the room is all white linen and bright white light. the bed is low to the floor and there is a floor to ceiling window on the left hand side. i wake up slowly and stretch. my toes brush against the legs of the man in the bed with me. he lies on his front buried in the sheets, black hair poking out.<br /><br />i get up quietly and put on some clothes, no shoes. the plain wood floorboards are hot under the sunlight. i make my way down the first flight of stairs. out the front door. its early and it is Sunday , everyone with half a brain is still in bed recovering. on the corner is the tiny shop that smells eternally of curry and parsley. <br /><br />one Sunday guardian, twenty camel lights and two oranges later i am back at my door. it’s neon blue, something i thought would be cool at the time, but everyone hates. bah.<br /><br />in my living room, there are bookshelves reaching up the high ceilings. a dark grand piano with more books on it. i haven’t played years, but he insisted it come with him when he moved in. piles and piles of notebooks on the desk next to it, covered in my weird black chicken scratch that no one can read. half a dozen black pens and various ink stains that will never come out of the wood.<br /><br />i sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the long white couch. there is a ritual to reading the Sunday papers you know. i take every section out and lay them on the right, fanned out like a deck of cards. the ashtray goes on top of them, then the oranges. i have to spread the paper out like a small boy from the 50s with a comic, as i’ve never been able to do that foldy broadsheet professional bollocks.<br /><br />oranges and cigarettes and current affairs. then i hear him get out of bed up on the third floor. he’ll be standing at the mirror on the dresser right now. convinced he looks like an old man more and more every day. we drank an obscene amount of red wine last night so he probably looks worse than he should. <br /><br />ive got half an orange in one hand and crush the last of my cigarette out with the other. he gets to the front room. he wears a white shirt, open. the one with the massive collar that i mock him so for. skinny spiders legs that he hates and i love.<br /><br />he collapses into the couch and stretches his foot out to tickle my exposed back with his toes. i look back at him over my shoulder, orange still in hand.katherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02296714723092819098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10353428.post-1113861628540305532005-04-05T20:43:00.000-07:002005-04-18T15:00:28.543-07:00To My Famous Lover’s WifeWhat does it feel like to know that I am in love with your husband? Better yet, that he is in love with me? That same man who dressed you in white and laid a rose on your mouth when he took your virginity on your wedding night? He told me about that once, with the air of someone embarrassed by the excesses and naiveté of youth. Told me as I dragged my nails across that tattoo on his right arm. Dragged on a cigarette. I do believe I laughed at your clichéd teenage attempt at romanticism.<br /><br />How long have you known about me now? Have you held onto this secret nugget of doubt for months, hoping that your overactive imagination and stagnated social skills have created this all in your overtired mind? How long have you been collecting little clues here and there? A hushed midnight phone call here, a missed appointment there. It all adds up eventually. You should have acted sooner you know, he really thought you had no idea. He gave you less credit than even I did. By waiting though, you do realise that you’ve given him enough time to become totally unable to live without me. Who could blame him?<br /><br />How do you come to terms with the fact that he is now naked and pale with his one leg escaping the sharp white cotton edge of my bed, as if he were at home in your familial nest. As if any minute now one of your gross little sticky brats will come in, and ruin my idea. Disgusting little children, I am glad I will never have to see them. Little jam paws and no discipline. Raised by one who thinks nannies are the height of parenting. How proud you must be. I imagine they’ll grow up to be fantastically awful people. Your son will womanise, drive a poor man’s sports car and snort cheap cocaine in an awful London club with a D-List celebrity. Your daughter a half naked tit model with a bad nose job and a gleam in her eye. Can you not just see it now!<br /><br />Do you ever just sit and watch him. I guess you don’t have the time for that anymore. Have you ever drawn the same conclusion about that contrast of his black hair against the sheets, in that it is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Long alien limbed, I find it infinitely amusing how his legs are too long for my wonderful bed. Doesn’t he have the most amazing wrists! How can you not have spent hours taking in every fucking part of him in fractal detail. I acknowledge my own urge to run my tongue across every inch of his skin. Get down on my knees and inspect every hair, every cut and wrinkle on him.<br /><br />Did you ever sit across him, silhouetted in bright London window, in nothing but your favourite high heels, and trace the shape of his eyes in thick black kohl. Rolled dice around your mouth ringed with wet wanton red. Did he ever chase you under tables and over chairs all to do simply awful things to you. Got you wound up so tight the sweat on the small of your back felt like lead, and that there was a fist slowly twisting in your stomach. It must have been years since you felt that way. When did you last kiss him on the mouth. When did you last come? Have you ever lifted that heavy gold cross from his chest with strong white pearls of teeth, and watched him watch your mouth around that most holy false relic aware of every second of your lips on that metal.<br /><br />I’ll bet you think I’m lying. That no man would touch me the way they do you. You being the pretty one. The fancy one. The centre of attention one. Thinking that there are no angles and hipbones and legs draped over back of chairs in my world. Just because no one fawns over me and takes my picture with wet white lighting. You probably don’t even know, that I know about the way his eyebrow arches when he gets embarrassed. Do you think I’ve never witnessed the way his bottom lip turns out like that when he smokes a cigarette? <br /><br />You must think about me a lot. Where did he meet me. When did he first fuck me. Fuck me. Does your mind even let you use words like fuck? You probably call it making love or something equally as stale. I bet you’ve never been FUCKED in your whole life. Maybe that one time, the only time you were drunk, and even then you probably don’t remember much except swearing never to drink wine again the next morning. You probably wonder how I am so young, yet have a mind like mine. You never thought children could be so very devious. Stealing him like that. Stealing! I think the fact you thought he was yours in the first place was the root of your problems my dear. No one owns anything. <br /><br />There was probably a time he would write songs about you. Sad songs about love, happy songs about your death. Now he just wishes you’d go away and stop bothering him. I’d hate to be that resented. It must come as a shock. Once a cheater always a cheater I hear you shout! Of course he will do the same to me one day, the only difference being I do not care. I love him right now, or for the next five minutes. You don’t see me walking down an isle and sacrificing my hips to give him children though, do you? I am the fix for now until the next young high breasted sharp eyed chain smoking writer-girl comes along. The difference between you and I is that I, never trusted your husband. He is deceitful and suspicious and everything that is good in the world.<br /><br />He asked me today if I hate you. I had to pause for a long while before admitting that I don’t give enough thought about you, to hate you. At the most, I wonder how you became so bitter. But then, I look at you from the outside. Who knows, you may have been just like me years ago, before the bitter bitch shell smacked down over you. You may have laughed and drank red wine till it made your teeth black, and smoked a million roll ups on after another until your fingers never quite get their color back. You maybe snorted a thousand different drugs and stayed up for three days straight discussing Camus and Dorothy Parker with people you do not know. Perhaps you’ve slept with boys and girls and everyone in between after so many parties and after so much gin that you stopped counting after the first embarrassing milestone. So much excess that you feel like a parody of yourself. Then again, perhaps not.<br /><br />You may not have lived, but at least you’re still thin.<br /><br />I don’t really feel bad about you two. I definitely don’t feel sorry for your children. Maybe that makes me a fucking bitch, but the way I see it, the further they are away from me the better. Of course I find it amusing to hear about him coming home to you, being the doting father. Bringing gifts back from the business tour with tales of hardship and rock and roll. Of course I missed you. I love you. I love you. Do you feel sick to see him touch your daughter’s hair like that. Ask your son about his new gadget toy. Act interested and loving. Do you not just see him every goddamn second screwing someone else? Can you not see his face twisted and sweating, those dark brows heading south, mouth formed into another’s name? Don’t you see his lip at my breast, hand and mouth devouring more than either could alone. <br /><br />If I were you I wouldn’t be able to stand it. I would want to scream at him, tear at his eyes with my Korean manicured nails. How dare he do this after all I’ve DONE for him. Your beautiful children, your beautiful home, everything you’ve built together. What will people think. Your brother is going to kill him. Your sister will cry for you, tell you he’s a rotten bastard fuckwit, but all the while, some secret part of her will be burning white with bitter happiness. You always got the best things you know. <br /><br /><br />Like they say, it’s always the quiet ones you should look out for.katherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02296714723092819098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10353428.post-1113861568100401662005-03-09T14:50:00.000-08:002005-04-18T14:59:28.103-07:00when i was 15, i used to write really wierd porn.It's dark in this room. Leather smells and sweat smells. Clean though, pure and real. Nothing of depravity, surely? I'm sure he can smell it. Smell that tingle, that, visceral itch that needs to be scratched...rubbed red and raw.<br /><br />He stands in the half light I've allowed to be cast here, in this room. His face half shadow, half light. Strange nose shape and lip shape. Shadow playing along the line of his lower lip. Somwhere inside me, i want to bite it. Hard. Enough to see blood, his life on my mouth. In my mouth. <br /><br />But my eyes are drawn instead to the doorway, where another man stands. This one taller, less sure of himself. Not sure why he agreed to come. Wondering what is wrong with his friend, standing here in my room. His hair is long, falling over his thin frame. He has thoght about this for a long while, but never thought he'd be here. I find nothing in his nervousness. He feels skittish and frightened. He doesn't know me. I will therefore allow him to watch.<br /><br />I gesture to the couch, for this thin, frightened man. He will not feel me tonight. I imagine he likes the idea more than the reality anyway. I watch him take a seat, long limbs folding beneath him. His hands fidget, and I imagine he would like a cigarette. He will not be allowed one.<br /><br />Eyes back now to this strange man. Strange feelings and strange beatuy from him. Mix of torrents of rages and emotions. I could sift through them, pick him to the bone. Crawl inside his body and know him from the inside. <br /><br />But not tonight.<br /><br />I know what he wants. He knows I can give it to him. His eyes flicker over to the chair. He's heard of this, undoubtedly from many hushed whispers, word of mouth, urban legend perhaps. I tell him to sit. I do not tell him to get comfortable.<br /><br />He is sitting now. In the chair that leans back far enough to make him feel uncomfortable. Far enough to put him on edge, make him balance himself, tense and rigid. His legs slightly splayed, feet pushing at the floor. I tell him to close his eyes. He is not to open them. He obliges.<br /><br />My fingers trail over the metal lying on the table, close to the chair. He can hear my fingernails clicking softly over each blade. I can see he is getting hard now. I'll soon fix that.<br /><br />I take the blindfold, and wrap it tightly around his eyes. His head is fixed to the head of the chair now. Neck tilted upwards, his adams apple jutting out and deliciously exposed. <br /><br />My hand moves to his shirt buttons now. I go to undo them, but no...a better idea. Click, click again as hand and nails reach for the ornate knife. A present from a travelling lover. Carved handle and razorblade. Swift movement, and the blde remove the unsightly plastic buttons. My hand rests on his chest now. A slight scar runs just under my thumb. I wonder who gave it to him. Perhaps the thin man? I look over to him, but his expression is frozen.<br /><br />Seeing him there, neck pushed unnaturaly up to the celing, hands gripping the armrests hard enough to let me know he's nervous as fuck..something about it makes me want to touch him. Feel his body with my body. Before I know it, I am on top of him. Legs either side of his prostrate body. I feel his hard on strain tighter against his pants as I brush against him. He knows how close he is to my pussy. He knows how close and how fucking far.<br /><br />He is even more beautiful from here. I look again at the thin man. Wonder what he thinks of me, in this new position. I wonder if he's ever watched his friend fuck a girl. I wonder if he's ever fucked this strange man. I'm sure he'd want to.<br /><br />I lean forward, watching this man's chest rise and fall. Shallow breath. Nervous breath. I lay my head against his chest. Face sideways against skin. Hush...strange beauty. I hold you like a bird in my hand. I want him to be calm before I start.<br /><br />Click clicking of my nails again on these blades. He hears it. The thin man hears it. Back and forth. Deciding.... <br /><br />First tho...I want to hear him. Hear his raspy voice come from that distended neck. Want to hear him tell me that he wants it. I know he does. I just need to hear the words.<br /><br />I've chosen now. Razorblade. Simplicity and beauty. Bent handle, jacknife almost. Cold metal. <br /><br />I lay in on his chest. Skin prickling at the sensation...cold again against warm flesh. He knows what it is. That is why he is here. I lean forward again. This time I am close to his ear. My lips brush against the soft pink as I whisper to him<br /><br />-Tell me what you want.<br /><br />He falters, he is unsure at the sound of my voice. Unsure what to say. <br /><br />- Tell me you want it.<br /><br />Another beat before, quietly, a small noise from somewhere deep in the back of his throat.<br /><br />- I want it.<br /><br />It's not good enough. I want him to fucking scream it. I look over again to his friend. His face betrays his arousal, his darkened eyes, tense body. Maybe he would like to be in this chair? Maybe next time he will be.<br /><br />My hands work into the hair at the back of his head. I turn him to face his friend. Lips on his ear again. My eyes locked on the thin man. I see eyeliner rings his eyes. My eyes are like the steel of the blade as I say<br /><br />- Say it loud enough for your friend to hear.<br /><br />My free hand picks up the blade, pressing it lightly into the skin of his chest.<br /><br />- Say it.<br /><br />Again, that quite faltered voice from him.<br /><br />- I want it.<br /><br />Still no good. Pressure on the blade now. A bead of blood on its sharpest point.<br /><br />- I want it.<br /><br />His voice cracks a little this time. Harder on the blade. Another bead joins the first. Not quite a pool...but we shall see. I lean even closer now. I can see the tiny hairs inside the pink shell of his ear. I hiss into him:<br /><br />- I want him to hear you.<br /><br />I punctuate the "hear" with the movement of the blade. Downwards just enough to cut him. Open him a little.<br /><br />He cries out. That's more like it. Scratchy smoking voice, breaking a little. I sit back, watch the blood from the shallow cut run off the left side of his chest. <br /><br />The thin man is still watching us. His eyes flitting from the blade in my hand, down to his friends chest, back to my eyes. His same cold eyes. Filled with denial of pleasure. Filled with lust and sex and death and art. I will see him again, I imagine.<br /><br />Lean forward again. I like to feel the heat from my breath reflected back onto me by his skin. I like being close to him as I open him, scratch by scratch. I like to hear him tell me, again and again.<br /><br />- Do you want it?<br /><br />Again my voice. Syrupy and thick, cigarettes and alcohol, my voice screams, cigarettes and alcohol and tortured men in my room...<br /><br />He nods. But he knows I like to hear his voice. His voice, his scream, echoes around the insides of my head, reverberates against my teeth when I'm alone..<br /><br />Again the blade presses into his skin. This time just at the base of his neck. Right at the front, in that little hollow. I'd like to see his blood pool in that hollow. He knows I'd never hurt him that much tho. He knows I love him. It's just all fucked up. That's all.<br /><br />His voice comes loud now. Sure.<br /><br />-Yes<br /><br />He hisses out the ssssss....I'm pressing into him as he says it. This will be a big cut now. I'm drawing down to his navel in me head....shallow and painful and beautiful.<br /> <br />I'm watching the thin man now, as I'm drawing this blade over the skin. He cries out again, as I don't give up. My other hand moves down ahead of the blade, down past his navel, over the belt, down to brush his hard on. He shivers as I simultaneously rub and draw the blade down, down, further.<br /><br />I reach his navel. That little line of hair running down to his groin. Paralelled by the line I've just created....I've heard it, that line, called the "lovers trail", but that doesn't some close to describing the eroticism of it. I want to lick it...run my tounge along its length...but that would reveal more of me than I desire. I bend, back arching, ass thrusting into the air..I never bend for anyone like this. I am to open...down there before him. I kiss him.katherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02296714723092819098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10353428.post-1109293354492713312005-02-18T15:36:00.000-08:002005-02-24T17:02:34.493-08:00why bother with talent, when you can be a hack for free.when i grow up i want to be a talentless hack. if this means i have to write for the nme then so be it. it is, in the words of elton john, a sack ehr ree fahhyce i am more than willing to make. <br /><br />i'm not sure that i will be able to fit my tongue up pete doherty's herpes infested ring along with all the other slavering wet whores, but i'll adapt. i'm metrosexual or some other made up buzznoun2004 like that.<br /><br />and i'm sure that you can get the op on the nhs nowadays.<br /><br />(by the op i of course mean the surgical operation i will require to remove my dignity, cancerous little rapscallion that it is. like non-hodgkin's lymphoma that little fucker just seems to get everywhere. hopefully i won't contract that proper bitchin' superbug and die before my dreams come to fruition. that would just plain suck.)<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />now excuse me i am going to go listen to some fleetwood mac and pretend that in the next life i will be totally cool.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />ps. classic rock is called so because it is classic and it <span style="font-style:italic;">rocks.</span>katherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02296714723092819098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10353428.post-1107317553037673662005-01-30T19:35:00.000-08:002005-02-01T20:12:33.036-08:00gratuitious shagging to ween is not as bad as you think it would be.<img src=http://images-eu.amazon.com/images/P/B000024GKA.02.LZZZZZZZ.jpg>
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<br />i had a boyfriend once who loved ween and they might be giants. and devo. and slint. he loved them a whole lot.
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<br />we would spend days in bed, stoned as bitches or shrooming like hell while he played the same five goddamn cd's because he was too fucked (oh snap!) to get up and change them and i couldn't work his matchsticks and folded up bits of paper cd changer. cheap bastard spending all your money on drugs and not on an ipod you call yourself a hipster.
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<br />i have to admit after about the seventh time round, ween on shrooms actually starts to make sense. you start to find a religious core to it and you want to be a part of that core cause you think you can find enlightenment there so you start listening really hard and you end up giving yourself a listening-really-hard headache.
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<br />man, i wanna do some shrooms now. i'd be all like dude i'm having a very serious relationship with this wall what are you doing? and you'd be like oh i am in texas and there are some horses out of the window you should come see this one of them is an apaloosa. and then i'd be all no i need some time with my wall, do you know about the complexities of this woodchip they are telling me that they've loved me since i walked into the room.
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<br />and so on.
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<br />katherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02296714723092819098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10353428.post-1106691910666757472005-01-25T22:24:00.000-08:002005-01-25T14:25:10.666-08:00i have tuna stuck in my teeth and no i don’t mean in the lezzer way. <p class="MsoNormal">i have been eating tinned tuna straight out of the tin while enduring a blinding post student night hangover. i have makeup smeared into parts of my face i didn’t even know i had and my legs are covered in unexplainable bruises. and i wonder why i’m single.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> katherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02296714723092819098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10353428.post-1106690223456627612005-01-24T13:53:00.000-08:002005-01-25T15:05:51.146-08:00the last time i worked as a phone sex operator it ruined my life. <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v435/canispitonyourmouth/phone-sex.jpg"><p><p>18 years old and i didn’t want to get a real job. i was far too busy being either drunk or hungover to work in an office, and had a feeling that if i ever took a bar job i’d end up drinking the stock. so when my good friend alex, a veteran sex shop and evil business worker, told me i gave good voice, the answer seemed neon flashing dollar-sign obvious. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">so jenny, the buxom 18 year old redhead from oxford who’s turn ons included candlelit baths, lacy underthings, sleepovers with my of course nubile and often naked girl friends, and having the sex of the butt was born. but of course.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">however, i’ve never been a talker. when i am in my den of iniquity, committing carnal sins with any number of people, i have never been known to express the worshipping of my counterpart’s cock, for example. i’m not the kind of girl who’ll shout a list of ten-step instructions on how to get me off. it’s just not my bag.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">so i entered my new profession with just the tiniest amount of trepidation. my pay was based on how long i could keep mr. a. nonymous on the line and not shooting his sad little gravy brown trickle of a load to the sultry sounds of my voice. no pressure. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">day one, i sat in my room with a bottle of dutch courage and some of the finest cigarettes money could buy. dialled the number of my reputable employer and logged into the system. hello there is the phone ok i have to pick it up and get some disgusting little piggly wiggly dicked little man up lets try not to get sick while i’m doing it alright?
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<br />“hiiii… i’m jenny and i’m so wet waiting for youuuu”. breathy voice: check. checking of inhibitions at the door: check. total lack of self respect and a latent sense of nausea: ch-eck.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">it wasn’t all that bad really. for the most part my clientele were completely silent, bar that pathetic little escape of breath, well known by all you ninja silent wankers out there. i’d be having a great time, running off a string of filth from my most rosebud mouth while painting my nails or balancing my chequebook. in the six months i worked there i was never more fucking organised in my life. i, or shall i say jenny, was very popular, especially with what seemed like men of a certain age. which is a nice thought really isn’t it. one loveley gentleman even offered to pay me “one hundred english pounds” for a used; underline, pair of my unmentionables. as tempting as i am sure you agree that is, i politely refused. besides, it was against company policy despite the fact that money would have come in handy but i'm not bitter or anything oh no.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">enter my then boyfriend, who shall be referred to hereafter only as G. now G was a nice boy. he was nice looking, had a nice job, nice family. he was just. so. damn. nice. i shouldn’t have a nice boyfriend. i’m not a nice girl. i drink too much and i smoke too much and all the musicians i like have died from massive drug overdoses while having orgies with 15 year olds or something.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">in my experience nice boys generally don't like it when their lovely trying to be girly girlfriend who they introduced to their parents not last weekend shouts out.. things.. in bed. things that would perhaps be more fitting coming from the mouth of a six foot pre op transexual hooker at four in the morning. things that, due to her recent employment, their girlfriend has become more comfortable and also more prone to saying.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">there is no silence in the world like the silence that follows a verbing of a noun. like a noun of a noun inside my noun. what an adjecive noun. i'm going to verb your noun so hard you'll think i'm your mother.</p>katherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02296714723092819098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10353428.post-1106524555336170152005-01-23T23:53:00.000-08:002005-01-23T16:27:11.820-08:00who is she?she is katherine.
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<br />she is twenty.
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<br />she lives in england.
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<br />she is an alcoholic.
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<br />she is an artist.
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<br />she is soon going to be a law school drop out.
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<br />she is nerdly.
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<br />she has an unholy lust for nick cave.
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<br />she hasn't taken the christmas lights down yet.
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<br />she has managed to go all her life without having a weblog, but has now succumb to its whore like charms.
<br />katherine.http://www.blogger.com/profile/02296714723092819098noreply@blogger.com0