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I am hanging from a hook in the ceiling
like animal carcass.
I am splayed open, salted and tenderized.
My fatty bits sectioned off with bakers twine.
Red juices weep from my wounds.
Not blood, but the meat sweating
for better flavor.
A heavy palm comes down hard on my rump.
He lifts from the flank.
He samples the breast.
Hunger animates his body but he knows he must wait until the meat is ready.
He massages oils into the fibrous texture.
Working it in with the strong flat pads of his thumbs and fingers.
The meat is shivering.
The meat is shaking.
I’m told this is a chemical process.
Even once dead and removed from the body,
the meat dances on the table.
Due to the residual energy and nerve endings present in the tissue.
The flesh will twitch.
But it must be ready.
When it is ready he’ll carve it off in slabs,
and drop them into his mouth;
a mouse falling into the mouth of a snake
hanging by the tail.
He’ll glide the knife under the muscle
and it will slide down his throat
but it must be ready.
The meat is hanging but will not dry.
It drips
and drips
more juices.
The air is escaping.
The tendons are loosening.
He ties her off again and again.
Soon little lamb.
Soon.
- MEAT 2024
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Then what? Well, then you could swallow it, and it would all dissolve, see? And the moonbeams would shoot out of your fingers and your toes and the ends of your hair. Am I talking too much?
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“The Unbearable Lightness of Being”, 1988
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The early nights are confusing for the soul, but the forced retirement might do me some good. We went to a dance party. We were the youngest ones there and it was beautiful watching people a decade older than me find joy in nostalgia. I loved Anora. I miss New Jersey. I have been making Christmas ornaments by hand for my future family. I have been taking care of my mother. She has good days and bad. All of this in the few moments between the work and the work and the work. Confetti shot out of a Canon once the crowd already left the building. I feel as though it was all for nothing. It’s a dry, cold, itch. Maybe I’ll hide again until a tour when the sun comes back. Maybe I won’t make a sound. Maybe I’ll sleep. Maybe I’ll choose different this time with my restart to zero, my bonus life I pulled from a box. And pull from a box with a needle every 3 weeks. Maybe maybe maybe. Maybe I fixed everything so I could do this one thing again, without realizing that one thing was what needed fixing. I am tired and I forgot how to have fun. I complain too much and I should keep it to myself, I’ve been told a lot the past few weeks. But the thing is that I can’t. I have an unrelenting ache and a never ending whine that must crank out of me like a tornado siren in the dark. That’s what’s been wrong with me the entire time, couldn’t they see? I’ve always needed to be seen to exist. But now they don’t see me, and I’m still existing. Perhaps, problem solved. Regrettably.
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Threads of the Unseen
In crowded streets or open air, Where paths converge beyond our sight, A chance emerges, bold and rare, A quiet shift in morning light.
From distant ripples on the tide, To whispers caught in wind’s embrace, Life changes course, as if to guide Us down an unexpected trace.
Not bound by fate, nor held by plan, But woven softly, thread by thread, These moments breathe where lives began To shape the paths we’ve yet to tread.
--JS
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November night. Brief note to self: time to take myself in hand. To build into myself, to give myself backbone, however much I fail.
Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
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The Sound of Music (1965) dir. Robert Wise
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"God is Just a Pathetic White Guy"
God is but a face, drawn thin, A mask of power cloaked in sin, A fragile king, his name a shroud, Built to appease the fearful crowd.
In vaulted halls where sermons rise, They shape him with their alibis, Turn peace to stone, let kindness die, And weaponize the holy sky.
In robes they forged with righteous rage, They scrawl his wrath on every page, And bless each blow, each harsh decree, As if hate holds divinity.
They sing of love but silence choice, Distort his truth to drown our voice, Call judgment mercy, faith a cage, And dress their prejudice as sage.
Each word of solace turned askew, By minds that cannot bear what’s new— They shape their God, let hatred bloom, And cast compassion to its tomb.
If ever grace had roots or wings, It would not bind, nor wound with strings. A light beyond this callous guise Would blaze with life, not compromise.
In mythic tales and scripture’s lore, They find a god who asks for war, A brittle god of wrath and fear— Not one to hold our sorrows near.
Yet look beyond their righteous shield, Where mercy waits, where wounds are healed. Not in the church, nor temple’s chain, But in the love that knows no reign.
The true divine, if such can be, Breathes in the space where hearts are free— Not bound to creed or ancient lie, Nor made to please a hateful eye.
So cast off gods who guard and rule, Who twist the wise, confuse the fool. Look deeper still, beyond the lie, Where love survives, though gods may die.
#nocturnalrequiem#religious trauma#religion#poetry#poem#politics#spilled thoughts#spilled ink#spilled words
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Amy Winehouse photographed by Hedi Slimane
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need someone to match my freak and my unbearable romanticism
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Autumn shows us how beautiful it is to let things go. 🍁
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sitting in my dark room alone thinking what can i do with all this love inside of me
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“All the variety, all the charm, all the beauty of life is made up of light and shadow.”
-Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina
#film photography#quotes#dark romanticism#mine#nocturnalrequiem#crystals#leo tolstoy#art deco#luxury#dark shadows#chandelier#vintage#novel#classic literature
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