Hey internets, I’ve just put up a new piece over at Inkposts. Get your faces over there and have a look while it’s still warm.
Big ups to The Rag Tree for nominating me. It’s nice to be noticed.
This is the way it goes.
Nominees should write a post that 1) links back to their nominator; 2) reveals seven things about themselves; and 3) nominates 15 more bloggers. They should also display the award’s logo on their blog.
The seven things
- I don’t like to use my real voice on here because I have no conceptual faith in it.
- I’m terrified of the man that definitely isn’t waiting under my bed to cut my Achilles tendon with a straight razor.
- I have an invisible backpack full of existential guilt that I carry everywhere I go.
- Most nights I dream in third person.
- In a previous life I believed in reincarnation.
- Every so often I fail to dance.
- When I grow up I want to be a lounge singer in a shitty dive bar that nobody’s ever heard of.
The nominees (in no particular order).
Thank you for your time.
Her hands move with a swift artfulness in the candle light. Gently roaming the plains of his skin,
The sun shines, its magnanimous warmth intercepted by a series of worldly filters.
across an expanse of back and softly around the set of his neck. He slips his hand around her waist,
Clouds and trees move in unison to stifle its glory. A lone ray breaks free of its shackles
urging her closer. Leaning into her arms, he lets his lips brush lightly against her earlobe,
and strikes down upon a solemn spider’s web, illustrating its ingenuity. The spider, a dark creature
up to and slowly around the contours of her neck, coming to rest against the press of her collarbone.
by nature, scrambles into hiding, abandoning the web it toiled so hard to design. Having had its fun,
In the flickering light of the candle, their hands find each other, fingers twining. Their lips meet,
the beam moves south, looking for fresh amusement, weaving in and out of jealous impediments.
slowly parting, tongues darting, pressing and probing. The mingled taste of milk and honey.
Sliding gracefully across the lawn, it prods the grass awake, photosynthetic breakfast in bed.
I’m telling Doug about this article I saw on Vice when he smacks his head. He says, ‘I get it now,’ and I know he wasn’t listening but I’m glad for him anyway, so I smile and shut up. Sometimes people need to talk. I roll another cigarette and look down the length of the mall, it’s quiet at this time of day and there’s nobody around. It’ll get crowded later. Doug looks at me expectantly and I realise he just asked me something, I have no idea what he said though, so I make something up.