Sunday, November 7, 2010

lala, split ends, and the bakers dozen.

a lonely plastic bag dances through a labyrinth of heels, rushed speaking, and noise. scared the wind might die at any moment, not realising the streets are full of life to breath.

pavements embrace the glowing embers of half-smoked cigarettes, hugging the wrath of theirs sparks to it's cracks. call her queen of the train line, or dancer of the night, entertainer who will steal your heart, make you crawl on your belly to the light.

i don't know where we are going, there was a splash, a slash then a clawing against the linoleum. a moan, a guttural groan, a gutter throat, he cut his own throat. his skin like ivory.

the city air made its rounds that night, through the living room ruined curtains askew, and curled around bare toes, slamming the locked headlights licked windows and the wall behind the headboard; stroked the covers as if to aplogoise (but still manage to mutter, "you know what you were getting into")

everyone pretends to be something they are not, even before they can speak to lie, burning up the possibility of truth just like the shooting star this is Laura Baker in all her poetic masochism throwing up flames where ever she stands.

sorry if this was a little left of centre, but it was written for a girl, who stands there. it is her birthday soon and i wish her all the best.

lala, i love you.

yours in christ fox

1 comment:

  1. Your writing is so fantastic. Plus pictures of Patrick Wolf and The Craft. Beautiful.