milkandtar

[milkandtar]

Entry

I have a scream stuck to the roof of my mouth. There are two sets of teeth in its cavity, and My unblinking eyes are waiting to unleash it. Rashes have begun to form as a halo around my lips, connecting the way to my hands through shaking pores and raised hair. I dance in a creature's light spinning softly over our bodies and the ground is impossibly hard, cementum sprouting from earth's belly and it is carrying my bruised feet.

Seeing You through the crowd, your face stuck in a position as to not twitch nor lie I see the back of You and your face is facing the pulp walls and you strike a nerve which elicits my mighty roar internal bleeding feeding my skin with oxygen my pores expand and I pounce forward chasing that backside with sharp nails and a shrill voice vibrating in me

I must have you see what you had me lose the sorrow I spill onto dried asphalt can never be collected I'm fumbling losing grip and begging you to let me devour You just like You did me, in a way, I have a place for you inside my rib, just behind my right ear, give me what is my right and I'll carry your power like Inertia, encapsulating it from harm's way.

[milkandtar]

Tactical Map of a Mountain Transferred onto a Body

Tactical map of a mountain transferred onto a body Soft flesh substitutes the solid rock and loose (now transient), dead things glued onto a person that otherwise can’t connect— a shuttle roaring through space with a programmed route devastating the landscape, camouflaged for best access When standing on generations of colonial ideas regarding nature, how do you interact with it sustainably let alone conserve it? I have sunk so deep into the idea world, systems and performance, I can’t stay grounded in my own body so the only thing I can make sense of are the familiar shapes of rooms and corridors. Between nature and body there is a dissonance.  (we who created the dichotomy of nature and culture, we who murder and pillage and mine) The questions ”what is natural” keeps chasing its tail.

[milkandtar]

You

I can feel You behind me draped over scapulae and shoulders just by my right ear Your face is ever changing and malicious though what I fear the most is the back, how can a spine look so ill willed I buried You behind my rib cage I let You in I let you loose and now we share the same posture the same crackling muscle knots— what have you done to me?

[milkandtar]

The imp

The imp was shaking underneath the floorboards, snickering quietly. It had been lacking a master for a long time, but over the decades it had discovered that the craving for direction and domination simply could just not be met. In other words— it had gone rogue, and now it was sitting on cold soil and listening; waiting.

You never did sense its presence, occupied with your own misfortune to notice the dragging sounds during nighttime. Something was trudging along down there, inside the fundament, digging out paths and hollowing out the structure you had built and believed to stand so fast, so secure.

I am the imp. I am the mischievous smile in your bathroom mirror, I am the itch on your back you can’t scratch. Let me in, and I’ll teach you to treasure wickedness and malevolence. Then let me out, and I’ll show you how to find pleasure in agony, and power in pain. We wouldn’t hurt us, not really, although direction needs resolution and resolution comes with a cost. It’s nothing we can’t afford though, what do we have to lose? There’s someone else on your back anyhow, it’s feeding off of you, and I know you find eroticism in cannibalism. Leave me in charge, and I’ll wedge myself between you two, I know fun.

I won’t let you in, imp. I remember your features crackling under my skin. The gaze of a pair of eyes with two sets of planes, the red glowing under my whites. Sharp eyelashes poking my retinae threatening to cut through. It was during a mundane routine, on public transport waiting to arrive. Between green and grey flashes I saw me, and then you, your expression taunting and I remembering losing all compassion for myself. The cost you speak of, I still have it archived on my body, littered over my right shoulder in small white lines. Documented in photographs showing purple shadows and numb limbs. You sound fun, I want to be impish after all, but I can’t let you take charge troll, you make me pixelate and dissolve. 

You’re walking on creaking wood, wishing for other rooms to occupy. It’s cold and lonely. Consumption keep you occupied and accompanied, switching between sipping hot coffee, buying books you won’t have the energy to read, taking long hot showers in the dark, watching porn, wolfing down whatever you can find to eat. Sensations and rewards to keep you disconnected.     The thermostat is whirring quietly, but the warm air is not enough to defrost the stiff limbs. You live rather isolated, the way of life here keeps one apart better than any distance could manage; there is a house some kilometer away. The lights are on, and you wonder about the neighbour you don’t know. Wonder if they’re watching your lights too, your skin prickle. Wood creaking again. Something is stirring underneath your feet, but you are not aware. 

[milkandtar]

Don’t fret, keep your gaze out of focus and your mind static, and you won’t have to be afraid.

If you crack your stiff joints and shift interest to the outside world, disappear in the crowd. The highly pleasant events, people isolating your body in a state of amicableness, here you can’t think, if you keep on talking. If your eyes would hurt from staring at screens, close them and put on some music. Writing of the material world sullies the wonderful abstract descriptions of the troubled mind, but when that is what you fear, turn to solid. What flows out of your speakers infects your mind, controls the atmosphere where your thoughts operate.  We do not have the tools. Tools to control the thoughts, that is what we tell ourselves, and what we believe. So we fear. We are afraid. And we keep on running, relying on instant gratifications and highs. I sound like my mother.  I believe this, this is what I tell myself. I know that my mind is for me to explore, that it can’t hurt me, but when I brace myself to put down the computer, I freeze. Tense up, keep that level of tenseness, and then I continue doing whatever I did on the screen.

[milkandtar]

untitled#1

How can we make time pass? The kind we are not privy to, where you float in white milk and breathe shallowly, where the skin prickles and the throat tightens and the body aches, Give it time they say, but the hands have stopped ticking So how do I make time pass? Dreams take up space, but do not create motion. The heartbeat that counts seconds is quiet and the eyelids- dried out

[milkandtar]

A draft from my diary

The sweat dampens underneath my jacket and I am rushing onwards all too fast in an all too angry gait. In April the heat is carefully placed like a lid over one’s head, climate not ridiculously warm though persistent. And the rage. Loneliness and anger trickling down my limbs revealing my state of mind and personified in a rigid expression, my grip around the wooden legs over my shoulders tighten. I have left friends behind me, or rather stumbled over myself ushering them to leave me, the foot is pushed into my chest and it hurts all the while I soar the street between Street X and Y. A path that I often walk, the same path I the night before danced away on but today I am rough and unforgiving and the hate exudes from my dry pores like thick, black tar, sluggish and smelly. Over my head the trees are shyly blossoming and around me strolls other, more at peace, creatures.

[milkandtar]

Correcting a Wrong

The sense of self that is absent when one presses their forehead against the mirror,  body permanently askew. Nothing longer feels right and you want to destroy the source of emotion.

so start with the skin

Then unravel every blood vessel, vein and artery, bit of bowel and bone. Spread it out in front of yourself and like a pussel rearrange them into the right composition and motive. How it was meant to be; correcting a wrong.