[..] FOR THE GOOD TIMES, I WISH YOU FIVE MINUTES IN HEAVEN BEFORE THE DEVIL KNOWS YOU'RE DEAD.

@martyroshka,   writing partner(s) interaction only.

[..]    the womb rattles its pod, the moon discharges itself from the tree with nowhere to go. my landscape is a hand with no lines, the roads bunched to a knot, the knot myself, myself the rose you achieve.    this body, this ivory          &  my forest,  my funeral  &  this hill  &  this gleaming pile of corpses.   childless woman,  sylvia plath.   

 ♡

you cannot deny persistence,     would you gather your thoughts & fall in me, a carnage swan?    ‘  lydia.   ’ ..    such a morose beckon to you, the shy and nervous creature in me sits in the corner,    decaying.   philandering were we?     yet the immerse intensity could not subdue this    ..     levying a large hand to take,   to be stroked,   to lift you into near-departure,  just a bit closer. the large— enslabbed marble empty except us   ..   i was trying to court you through it’s history.    do you have the prosody for it?    these blood-run details & the disembodied voices of us  ..         

think of me this way,   of how i love to drape your body,   one-handed incline.  the sizeable organ-moan loiters a hardy strife.  (op.62  frühlingslied) glitches incredibly down here,  under the ducts & faucets of our fire.     (it does not) stop me from initiating you.        swallowing— drowning myself licked in red-gardenia ..     over the arm,    i dip exceedingly.      the ends of my mouth barely hover,    hands remain in-locked.  this is our lowering redowa,   our à deux temps.             ‘     i’m not going to drop you,         if that’s what you think..   ’

fever-dream,   static chords struck  &  echoed as barbiturate sensations ensconced her in the envelop of  (gilded)  cage-like arms.  

“    vladymir.     ”      pray tell,   confession;  an echo of his sentiment in the soft,   entranced lull of dulcet purrs.   i could stitch myself into your skin;   abide in a new abode of intermingled beings.    inches from the ground,  her feet are dangling,  relaxed to a pointe as her soft frame moulds against the bones of him   &  the length of her dress as it pools beyond her.  

i forget to breathe.   does he know?    subset,  subservient;   he lifts the ache in me.   he dips,   close,  an inch if-   eyes are wider,  doe-like in the swell of her chest.   “   i don’t think that.   ”      a vice-like grip of words,  tight,  stunted  &  breath-like in the murmur.   i am stifled often by nightmares,  by sycophant-men;   but you pull at me,  dig your greedy fingers in the sides  &  pry  (genuine).   the upward tilt of her nose lifts,  tips into his in the stolen moment;   tongue softened in her lips as they find his,  rose-petal scathe  &  wilful bloom in the mouthful of him.   a kiss,  lover-   

 ♡

i am plagued by a sense of estrangement , ⠀ from this body , ⠀ from this existence , ⠀ a phantom limb syndrome for a segment of myself i never knew was missing. ⠀ & ⠀ every prying eye takes notices of my missing piece , ⠀ too. ⠀ apathetically denominated epithets are defined through off - hand glances ⠀ & ⠀ gasps of offense at the ungodliness those closely acquainted with divinity from the expanse of splintered pews ⠀ & ⠀ clasped hands were entrusted with when amidst my repugnancy. ⠀ where options are weighed against the idea of self-subjection to a persistent wave of hostility ⠀ & ⠀ a peaceful solitude amongst sleeping lumber giants rooted deep in the dense floor , ⠀ i retreat to the woods instead.

i am drawn here like a whetted hunting blade from its coriaceous sheath , ⠀ vigilant ⠀ & ⠀ steadfast , ⠀ summoned forth from instinct scaling each vertebrae as it accompanies fastidious strides through the quiet wood. ⠀ i apply blind trust with every step across the graveyard of detritus left to decompose ⠀ & ⠀ provide necessary sustenance for the naked conifers ⠀ & ⠀ evergreens shed of their blanketing foliage , ⠀ proceeding deeper ⠀ & ⠀ deeper without the assurance of knowingness. ⠀ ingested certitude , ⠀ even a slivered ounce , ⠀ rivals natural digestion to bloom as an internal compass leading me north.

these woodlands belong to hibernating colossuses. ⠀ the emergence of winter’s glacial grasp of the land is evidenced through the subsided leaves in pretty hues of ambers ⠀ & ⠀ cerise surrendering to the autumnal season , ⠀ proffering the path beneath my feet. ⠀ may the brumal sun provide me with a defense against the cold ahead , ⠀ even if only mild. ⠀ this percussional heart is a hummingbird fluttering wildly beneath a tender thoracic cage beguiles the senses , ⠀ consciousness preoccupied basking in surrounding beauty.  my russet eyes are wide ⠀ & ⠀ awake , ⠀ but her presence appears as if out of a dream. ⠀ she is a forest fire , ⠀ mystifying in crimson against the dawn of winter. ⠀ & ⠀ when she speaks , ⠀ this innominate sensation stowed with an abundance of undeserved faith becomes realized.

her smile provokes features to crease softly even from the solemnest of hearts. ⠀ 〝 ⠀ you have a keen eye. ⠀ i’ve only just arrived here yesterday morning. ⠀ 〟 ⠀ & ⠀ yet , ⠀ the haunting banshee howls of disapprobation follow like a bad omen wherever i go. ⠀ but here , ⠀ even accompanied by nature’s white noise ,  all i hear is her. ⠀ for the first time , ⠀ i feel at peace. ⠀ 〝 ⠀ ellis murphy. ⠀ it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance , ⠀ miss martin. ⠀ 〟

i am afforded little benevolence.  the looking-glass of youth,   beauty  &  a widow of an unkind man of strange circumstance.   canvassed cervix;  a painted woman in her thirties;  i am older,   archaic by the ossein  &  that they do not see  (the red of me is greying aguey in the roots).   they seem familiar.  often,  she views people as pendulum wakes of an inevitable;  the upturn of the clepsydra,  ichorous  &  salinated by youthful measures.   they debased her of this thought.  she was curious.  

“    ellis murphy,  it’s a pleasure to meet you.  ”    dimpled cherubim,  seraphic in the alabaster unfurl of her taut  &  wintered hubris.   she seldom had people to converse without adorning the mourn of black garments  &  perhaps that made her a sinner in a rural township of religious rhetoric  (a shame in the least).  “    i know you’re new.  i know everyone.  ”   this was not a difficult feat.   “  the other women of this town are bored,  idle gossips  &  would have certainly set their teeth into you sooner.   [..]    you seem yet unbitten.   ”    joviality colours the low,  raspy deluge of her tone.

“  i’d like to extend a formal welcome.  would you like to join me for dinner tonight?  i don’t often have guests,  it would be nice to cook for somebody besides myself.   ”     bare throated,  a wilderness in her is not destitute of full-bodied flavours;   tart aromas of black cherry  &  analeptic vanilla. “  i’m a great cook.  an abysmal housewife i was told,  but always a great cook. it’s getting colder now,  you look like you’d be better for a beef stew.  ”

the nights are lasting, now.  the wards are fuller.   i am attended by acetylene,  a white camellia;  glowing  &  flush on flush with rapturous passing as sullen lights of foreboding   (suicidal as white godiva;  into passive nocturnal reds,  the stasis of lethe induced darkness).    the flesh of her is a glamour.  the warm invitation of a boreal host.  it is not evil,  but the sacrosanct is met with the effacing runes that score her body an indignant trap  &  maw of excoriated souls.  your fate is the same.  

take back your rib,  eve cries.   i didn’t want it.  i never did.  it is weighing me down.  

i don’t use her as an fc but these expressions will still remain very lydia.

hello everyone! as some of you know, i was fired from my job a couple of weeks ago.. while i do get some money in form of an unemployment benefit, it's sadly not enough and barely covers my rent [if it does at all]. I'm short 250 euro for next month's rent and only have a little left in my bank account. the other day my mother had to pay for my groceries because i couldn't even afford to buy food for myself and i would really like to pay her back.. which is around another additional 50 euro.

i hate to do this but i'm in a bit of need of money and really could use some help. every reblog to this post or possible donation to my PayPal is greatly appreciated but i also would love to give something in return and decided to open up my commission blog (@avery-makes) should any of you be interested in my work!

take back your rib,  eve cries.   i didn’t want it.  i never did.  it is weighing me down.  

 ♡

what  else  to  do,    but  sit  on  the  broad  shoulders  of  a  man  who  carries  the  world?    this,    the  thinking  of  the  past  and  all  its  unpleasantries.    it  makes  a  bed  of  alpha’s  heart,    relishes  in  the  depth  and  the  breadth  but  moreso  in  its  cavernous  pain.    why,    with  all  that  pain,    it  isn’t  any  wonder  that  there  is  room  enough  for  ache.    for  lashes  across  arteries,    hypertension  in  the  form  of  bowl  overturned  with  filled  grief.    it  splashes  his  lungs  these  days,    asthmatic  of  youth.

[  somewhere,    across  the  atlantic,    the  moon  breathes.    she  rebuilds.    she  rebrands.    most  of  all,    she  lives.    they  don’t  know  it  yet,    but  relief  can  taste  of  guilt,    too.    they  will  learn.    ]

❝  wow.    another  banshee?    that’s–  i  bet  that  feels  good.    i  mean,    uh.    you  know,    that  you’re  not–  ❞  alone.    he  worries  terribly  that  she  has  been  alone.    a  foretelling,    that  even  he  (  fallen  from  the  sun  )  might  have  instincts  like  that  of  an  animal  yet,    if  only  where  lydia  is  concerned.    scott  does  not  remember  the  last  time  he  felt  the  wolf  under  his  skin  hiss  in  protest  of  him,    but  it  makes  him  nervous.    about  as  nervous  as  she  does.

a  gaggle  of  teenagers  hollering  an  old  nineties  tune  rush  down  the  street  some  yards  behind  them.    scott  can  smell  their  excitement  and  it  is  enough,    for  at  least  a  moment,    to  distract  him.    when  he  has  leashed  himself,    and  his  control,    once  more,    he  turns  those  earth  -  tilled  eyes  back  and  frowns.    ❝  go  with  you?    but  if  you  found  her  already–  ❞  he  looks  sweetly  lost.    still,    the  downward  tilt  of  a  crooked  mouth  flicks  up  before  it  can  finely  line  his  cheeks  and  he  shrugs  conspiratorially.    ❝  i,    uh,    guess  if  you’re  looking  for  some  company.  .  .    ❞  he  doesn’t  know  if  she  really  means  to  invite  him.    but  how  could  he  ever  say  no?    when  has  he  really  ever?

“  i don’t know if good is the word i’d use.  we aren’t really pack types.  ”   the archetype of the hedonist woman;  hardly stung,  a tongue to the thorn of guilt;  existing in the singular,  co-existing  (hardly),  corporeal as a souls surrender.  

my lies to you are gossamer-thin.  this path is treacherous,  it concedes the hopeful nocturnes of latent good nature or good,  at all.   some things exist as neither but must die all the same.  you’re full of mercy   (..]    i’m brim with guilt;   to offer a kind of mercy,  a freedom  &  consequence of action.  it’s synonymous,   she reconciles it where it feels the same;  down to the bone.  the hesitance of her words are why she wants him to go with her.

“  this isn’t going to be sharing baby pictures  &  family trivia,  ”     i knew where she was because of what she’s done.  do people who can’t be saved exist in your world?  her thoughts are swimming with playing god or desperation.  with power like that,  it’s all the same;  this is pervading sickness  &  how to stop it.  

“  i need you to come with me.  ”   she knows how to say it,   the way her voice softens in her full mouth to a lilting husk  &  her expression careens to something sombre;   confronting the two-fold of morality  &  mortality,   but unwavering.   the cup of her cupids bow is brim with apprehension as morbid conclusion.   with fingers snaked in curls, a hiss reprieves.

Lacrimosa, 2020 | Nicola Samori Oil on onyx and Trani stone

@obouros​:  BRUSH OR WORK A COMB THROUGH MY MUSES HAIR  (HE,  TO LYDIA).  

the steam still lifts of her skin in the cold catchment of the bedrooms air.  they seemed to exchange in each others presence with ease,  as if passively religious of the other  &  settled into routine.  in her dressing gown,  absolved in the flesh  &  fragrant sweet;  legs swung across the bottom of the bed  & dangle inches off the ground. the bristles stiffen in the matt of her damp hair.  how many times have you cut your hair because of this?  it doesn’t matter,  to chastise herself did not undo it.  there will be another time the same as this. “  i can’t brush my hair.   ”    how does one confess to the unclean?  that is how you feel yourself  &  you will viciously rip it apart (a scolding of your pretence).

he is silent as he moved behind her  & pried the comb delicately from her hand that was still a loose-wrought fist at her shoulder.  the movements of his fingers as he begins to deftly pry apart the matting of her hair barely stung in the strain of her scalp.    fingertips pin the radicle to prevent the flinching uproot as her hair inevitably snaps;  it is fewer than to cut it all  &  will mask itself among the aphotic sea of red.  it is not all like this.  she did not view herself as unkempt,  so as she brushed   (..]     she would waiver & the midst of it would knot together.  it was easy to hide,  but months in the making,  your hair is a cluster  &  snaps bristles of attempted retribution.

you have poignant, compromising moments of self care. you bathed.  you changed linens. you brushed your teeth semi regularly  (to say, her gums bled less now).   it was enough to get by.  it was enough to feel together. it was enough to pretend.

he asks if he’s hurting you.  your vision is blurred by tears as they drip soundlessly,  brackish of the lips  &  petrichor into the open palms in your lap.  this is a relinquish of power.  he does not toy with it,  he does not hold it above her nor does he efface her  &  she is guarded by him,  not of him  (calyx of the woman). “   no,  you’re not.  ”      a strain in the welling of your throat;  these moments are not the ones she shared so readily & the shame of this sinks into her muscles like ache.  

is this our love language?   i am beholden to you as no guise,  no figure  & the confidence that sloughs away to the matted roots of a wintered tree.   she doesn’t know how long she sits with his spindle-like fingers  &  the comb working to repent the damage of forgotten self-care. as he finished,  discreetly discarding the rend of hair,  his legs met either side of her own as she leant back into his enveloping arms,  head turning to kiss the contented hands that had made the poultice of a raw  &  tender confessional.

“   do you want me to brush your hair?   ”    soft spoken saccharine,  a half-murmur into his knuckles.  leaning her cheek against them,  her fingers follow the details of his palms  &  pray in a quietude of sweetness.

 ♡

he’d admire her enriched   ,modiste in the uneven measure of his overcoat.  it was ridiculous   ,disheveled to the fit. somehow able to fit it to herself   ,a model to his mode. he was convinced she could make anything look sexy   ,desirable. even his too worn attire.  it’s seen blood  &the figments of hell. the fabric runs thin with the dread of his circadian acts.  it’s been dirtied by the hands of clingy women    ,zealotted by wine colored lipstay &discolored with iniquities by an ungodly amount. (and what other carnage stayed hem-vaulted.)

a compliments ruse fractured by context of the face- the trepidation in lydia’s hands became the abrupt curdle to vladymir’s short lived bliss. (as joy to me is a clotted artery.)   “what’s wrong with you?” there was gore of the throat   ,reciprocation of astute metal from a compliments tribute. he does mimic the faintness with sitting to her side  ,adjusting  &though she swatted at him.  he does keep a hand shoulder perched  to nurse.  his eyebrow heavies with this obscene confusion..

that was the face of manslaughter. though attractive to him yet   ,arousing to feat it still does catch a breath in his throat.  (and would likely bring someone else into cardiac arrest.) hearing the way that voice bellowed out of the very ground of her (the inside of her stomach.)  like something of a devil chortling   ,and dancing and playing with her entrails as if some inner body violinist created an instrumental out of internal bleeding.. &effusion.. 

a sound as beautiful as a gull gurgling from eupnea. he’s eye level instigating  ,fondly induced his fingers itch at the heart of her shoulder.  intimae to touch & feel (she is a lukewarm lake of blood.)   & there is something e minor accolading his ears    ,vibrating with it’s familiar lure.   they rested almost simultaneous to pious theatre.  (worship to their woman with their ongoing orgasms.)   it was his favored bit     ,but some paleness that smothered her stole him from syndicate.

there’s a pernicious laugh from ridicule where she found herself in an uncomfortable posture. that which he feasted on. he strokes her cheek with  satirized wry.  “you poor thing..     don’t combust on me. ”

have you seen someone’s being rend from itself?    hypoxic vessel of bilious distortion  &  threnetic of the sidhe.  in the empire of another;  you are shrunken,  dehydrated  &  aware of the runic bones that temper your soul  (crack the sternum,   skein-like viscera;   cadavers of the seamless,  animated  &  lively as deception could perceive).  the strings pulled at her,   the seething marionette.  revile of the self,  of the cardinal first sin;  sarcoline mildews  &  skeletal-like recompense.   i could leave a taste in your mouth  (unknown).  how starved are you?  could you turn on me?     rip the pithy carcass of the engorged pomegranate,  rivulets of sweet  &  portent seeds that burst in grit incisors  (definition behind a nomenclature for us). 

“  hecate never left a thing to chance.  ”    stentorian inflection of the words,  bigger than her   &  echoing in the costal cartilage of this chapel.  the flesh,  the heart  &  hands of the archetypal chaos-mother.     here,  she was weak  &  human-akin  (debased)  than she had ever been.  sanguinary;  the altar charged itself of violent currents,  headlong into galaxial divinities  &  destitute constellations of cosmic bodies.  it gave way to ritualistic sacrifice  &  arterial, aphotic blood-letting. 

“    sit with me?   ”      they ask.    they  (multitudes).   how many times have you heard that?     dying as estranged to the self   /   it is what i am;  in the thighs,  permeable ego death.   i seek power as consummation.  i will not choke on the seeds.   a hand,  it envelopes his own that glissades her cheek  &  touches it inward of the softened jaw.  it was as if to pray,  a hand to claim  &  eyes that flit upward of creationist,  apostle vision.  it is how a man such of himself would want a woman such as her to look at him;  from beneath him,  doe-eyed  &  ripe in the mouth   (liar,  lock-jawed with contrition).  

“   let me invite you.  ”    thighs parted on the cold wood of the pew,  delicately manicured hand extended for him to take  &  met,  still,  with unwavering eye contact,  watchful lips loosely abiding her tongue;  concluded of spilled satin  &  uncovered inner thighs.   the cold defined her.  

witch,  woman,  widow.    all comparative sins of the time.  milk flesh curdled to them as the sun’s arc shortens over her diminished gardens.  she does not wear her mourning,  anymore.  flesh prickled,   wine-skin in the cold  &  clamouring at the pinched flesh of her corset.   

we toil in frenzied somatic being,   syncopate flesh that can only find sparing closure with the crescendo of the other to an amber husk.  an inch,  a separation by skin makes despair of us all.   who could love you,  as i do?    we find each other again  &  again   (fools,  destiny;  synonyms of both).   what is this,  if not belonging?     i cannot hide from you.   it has gone on too long.   we will always know of you   &   i.   the proof will be your body  &  my hands the shade of a savage harvest.   

redivivus woman  &  xyresic from the mouth;    she envelopes herself in the shawl,  shivering in the threnetic air of the wilderness beset them both.  the woman’s raw hands grasp at her forearms as she shudders its price,   full-bodied   &   still,  her bones let-out.   i will be palatable,  she thought,   as no poultice of her psyche.   should she be made that way?   or retain her acrimony as sloe fruits in season come  &  tower-crowned mother of the rotten grain   (humoured by demeter  &  the avenging dead),  the silent lemures;  in fear with dripping ambrosial fingers.  she salivates at the thought. 

cerise tresses unkempt of her curled plait  &  remake her jaw an espalier.   dew -  stained seraphim,    in orchids abloom  &  ascian as being,   oblation - like as the scent of starlit roses.    she smiles.      “   i don’t think i’ve seen you around,  before.   i’d like to introduce myself,   “    with the cloying rasp,   the sun invited into them, the backdrop of sycamores, calyx  &  white chapel pinnacles of apricity.    “   i’m lydia martin.    &  you are?   ”

wife

husband

after everything we’ve been through,   i believe you.    the blood drips her cupids bow,   a metallic aftertaste saturating  &  souring her mouth.  is my mind deceiving me?     i am falling apart in increments,  divisible.   the folded tissue is pinned under her bloodied nose as she tilts her head,  sniffing as eyes unfocused ahead of her in disassociation with the enveloping smell of petrichor  &   sound of rain.    the night outside was clear  &  relative of silence. she turns her attention to allison,  emerald eyes defined by the lilac swathe of sleeplessness beneath them  &  anxiously picked mouth turning into a smile.

“  so,  it’s the weekend.  maybe we should just watch trash movies  &  eat chinese food?  my mom’s away.  a conference for blah something or blah other.  so you’re welcome to stay the whole weekend.  ”     a flat,  nonchalant tone lilts her raspy timbre  (it gives way to please stay,  i don’t want to be alone).   ​

©Philomena Famulok

mixed media, 2019