Thursday, March 12, 2009

The Lost Art of Pickpocketing

by bitingmylip

She held the bag in her right hand. Gripped its black handles tightly. A glance at the soft black material, reassuringly heavy, and she allowed herself a brief smile as she thought of the items packed neatly inside.

The train doors opened with a beep and a whistle. She stepped onto the platform and looked left and right, in the way of the disoriented traveller looking for the exit from an unfamiliar place to an unknown one.

She allowed herself to be jostled by a large pale-skinned man wearing a black t-shirt who seemed eager to march ahead of the other disembarking passengers. She neatly sidestepped a couple that were in the process of removing a buggy, complete with child, from the train to the platform and walked with vague purpose towards the stairs. Her mind was already steps ahead of her feet, picturing where she would need to go when she emerged from the ticket barrier: which toilets would be best for the transformation and what she would need to remove from the well-packed bag she still gripped tightly in her right hand.

Her face calm, she reached the top of the stairs, where she presented her ticket and was ushered through the gates. Ahead of her, a middle-aged woman stopped and looked around the station, before heading to the large WH Smiths next to the furthest station exit. Noting the practised familiarity with which the woman identified her direction, she used the same slight head turn to ascertain where her favoured toilets were located. Shifting the bag to her left hand, she walked right, reaching in her pocket for the 20 pence coin she would need to gain entrance to the stations’ largest public toilets.

Having never been taught the art of transformation, it was only her own practice that assured her that busier was better. As it is pretty much impossible to guarantee that nobody can see you, even in the most tranquil and undisturbed of places, she favoured bustle, business, and too many people to count. A person can change into another in a crowd. It is much harder to do this in small groups. She imagined that CCTV cameras, when utilised in good time and by investigators who knew how to look, could in some cases give away her disguises, but as this would always happen too late for it to be of any benefit to anyone – if it happened at all – she didn’t worry unduly about the cameras she had learnt to spot within minutes of entering any new building.

In any case, she had never yet been spotted by anyone whilst she was going about her work. The general rush of travellers using the public toilets to relieve themselves, to beautify, to wash their faces and brush their teeth, to change their clothes, to pacify their children… it was very rare for anyone to notice that the woman emerging from a toilet cubicle near the wash basins seemed a different person entirely to the woman who had gone in. And if anyone did notice that the slim, tanned blonde with immaculate nails who had gone into the bathrooms did not appear to have vacated them, it was quickly forgotten as the swell of people pushed forward – on, on to life.

The thick-set redhead with ragged nails joined the throng, shifting her black bag from hand to hand as if it pained her, and made her way to the exit signposted ‘buses.’ On the street she looked around and, spotting the stop she wanted, raised her eyebrows and muttered “ah,” to herself as she hurried towards it.

At the bus stop a bony woman, pinched-pink with the cold, was putting her hand out to hail a bus. The redhead squinted at the number on the front and hurried a bit faster, slightly panting as she reached the stop. Next to the bony woman a couple wrestled a squalling toddler into his buggy. The child had a mini afro flecked with various golden hues and a look of intense irritation on his face. The redhead took her place behind the bony woman, allowed her to take her time getting on the bus, smiled at the couple with the buggy and asked, by way of inclining her head in the direction of the bus, whether they needed any help. The couple shook their heads and the woman smiled in thanks as her partner lifted the buggy single-handedly onto the bus’s lower deck. The plastic bags that hung over the buggy’s handles rustled as he set it down and turned to the conductor. The woman fussed over her child, pulled a small packet of sweets from her handbag and handed them to him, before the three of them made their way to the centre of the bus.

The redhead fumbled in the pockets of her black bag for some change with which to pay the bus driver. The lower deck was busy so she made her way up the stairs, the bus lurching forward before she reached the top. In the front set of seats, a man sat with i-pod headphones jammed into his ears, a bag between his feet, and a spare seat next to him. The top deck looked full so the redhead took a seat beside the man, listening to the tinny drum-beat coming from his headphones’ as she arranged herself and the black bag next to him.

She knew there were nine stops between the station and her destination. As the bus stopped and started up the road she counted each bus stop sign. At stop six she had to swing her legs to the right and pick up the black bag in order to let the man with the i-pod past. After he’d vacated his seat she slid into it and gazed out upon the street. The traffic was of the early afternoon variety – busy enough but not immovably so. At stop seven someone else sat next to her, a girl of about sixteen. She carried several plastic bags, which she stowed between her feet, and a shoulder bag from which she withdrew a book marked at page 68 with a folded-down corner.

When it came to stop nine, the girl slipped her finger between two pages and swung her own legs right so that the redhead had to step over her plastic bags as she made her way back to the stairs. The girl smiled apologetically as the redhead lurched, her black bag swinging violently from her fingers as the bus driver halted at her chosen bus stop. As she made her way down to the bottom deck and waited for the doors to open her thoughts were full of her destination.

As the doors swung open the redhead shifted the black bag to her left hand and glanced right as she stepped onto the pavement. She walked up the road with purpose, paying no heed to the passengers who were disembarking with her. She turned left, then left again, before spotting the shopping centre. Groups of teenagers stood outside the doors, two of them smoking, all of them talking. The redhead walked past couples and families, holding more plastic bags and pushing more buggies, as she walked into the mall. She knew where the best toilets in this place were. Up the escalator, near the food hall, in the Ladies’ with the biggest baby-changing facilities. Screaming children and hand dryers everywhere. She took her time changing so that when she emerged, a short brunette with a black bag that seemed too heavy for her frame, the harassed mothers who had been changing their children when she entered the cubicle had gone and those that had taken their place barely gave her a glance.

The brunette walked purposefully back down the escalator towards the mall’s double doors. Went immediately right upon vacating. Headed towards the main road, where she crossed at a pedestrian crossing and turned right. Up the main road, left again, then the first right into a large housing estate. Her house was in a small cul-de-sac, a seven-minute walk from the main road. She opened the front door and titled her head to absorb the familiar sounds of the house. The ticking of the clocks. The creak of the floorboards. Nobody else was home.

She walked up the stairs and into the master bedroom. Kicked off her shoes and pulled off her jumper. Hoisted the black bag onto the bed and opened it. From the bag’s main compartment she pulled three wallets, two mobile phones, a digital camera, a silver bracelet and a crumpled ten-pound note. Not a bad collection, she thought, turning the digital camera on. Photos of someone’s holiday, a young girl of about sixteen with her parents and what she presumed was a friend, or maybe a sister. The silver bracelet had a loose clasp and two charms attached to it. She flipped one of the phones open to see a screen-saver of a young man with a girl – one of those photos you take yourself at arms’ length. In one of the wallets she found a photo driving licence, giving the full name and address of the man she recollected single-handedly lifting his son’s buggy onto the bus.

It wasn’t long before she heard a car pull into the drive downstairs, felt the atmosphere of the house shift slightly. She packed up the things, unhurried, and put them back in the black bag, which she stowed on the top of the largest of the wardrobes. She heard the front door open and the noise of the children rushing in before his voice, pleasant, calling her name. “Are you in, Jen?”

She smiled and walked to the stairs. “Present and correct,” she said, as she descended to the hallway.

Saturday, February 28, 2009

Dead Famous - part three.

by bitingmylip

(Read part two here: Dead Famous - part two and part one here: Dead Famous - part three)

“I’m sorry Marissa,” she said, looking back at the see-through star. “Well, thank you so very much for granting us this interview. I’m sure you have been very busy in the past few months.

“Thank you,” Marissa said graciously. “Yes, rather a lot has gone on recently, as you know!”

“Of course,” Kate agreed. “And how are you feeling now?”

“Oh, I am feeling as well as can be expected,” Marissa answered. “There has been rather a lot to get used to, as I am sure your readers can imagine. But I have come to terms with my situation now and I feel ready to set the record straight.”

“You do?”

“Oh yes. After the unfortunate reports in other areas of the press. I want people to know that my current situation is most definitely not a publicity stunt of any kind.” Marissa frowned, her eyebrows suddenly starkly visible. “I would not choose to be like this. It is most inconvenient, and I am going to have to have rather a significant career change as I can obviously no longer pursue with my film career. So for people to suggest I have deliberately set this up is very upsetting.”

“I understand,” Kate said, with another glance at Marissa’s floating form. Marissa caught her eye.

“You can see, of course, you can vouch for the fact… the fact that I am here, and yet somehow not here.” Marissa’s voice had taken on a fierce edge and Kate caught the beginning of movement from Katerina’s corner, but Marissa composed herself quickly. “It is just rather upsetting, of course,” she said. Kate nodded and cleared her throat.

“So, how have you been taking care of yourself in recent months, Marissa?” Kate asked, hoping her phrasing wasn’t about to set off the PR.

“Oh, I have been looked after well whilst I have been recuperating, of course. There are so many fabulous doctors and nurses who worked with me to help me come to terms with things, and of course I have been subject to many examinations now that I am being termed a ‘medical miracle.’ But I have found time to sneak off to my own favourite spa, where the dear people there spent hours sourcing treatments that are suitable for me. Everyone has been very kind. I would not be here without the support of my wonderful family and friends, and the fans who have written to me and emailed with their messages of support – I have had a terrible few months, but in many ways I feel truly blessed.”

Marissa’s gushing would go down well with Alright!’s senior editorial team but Kate’s mind kept returning to the question she was unable to ask. Had Marissa – as some of the more salacious tabloids were suggesting – done some sort of deal with the devil to keep her on earth? And if so, what on earth did the devil look like?

“What treatments did you have?” she asked instead, and Marissa smiled her blood-red smile before explaining how she was now unable to have her favourite massage, as she could not be touched, but that she had been shown how to massage her own feet and given lots of products that were very good for her newly translucent skin. “They’re much like the treatments they give to Albino people,” Marissa said. “Of course, I have to apply them myself, but I am getting used to it.” She smiled bravely.

As the interview progressed, Kate learnt that Marissa had been sent “lots of lovely clothes from some lovely people” that were “just marvellous” with her skin tone and that her new look didn’t seem to have put off her male admirers. “I thought it would be difficult with men, as I can’t be touched,” she said, as if admitting a great sin. “But I have had several men propose to me recently. They seem willing to admire me from afar.”

“Have you taken any of them up on their offers?” Kate asked. Marissa gave her peal of laughter again.

“Oh no,” she said. “I need to get used to myself before I allow a man to become used to me!”

After half an hour, Katerina gave a significant cough and Marissa turned her head to look at her. She was still elegant in profile, Kate thought, although her earrings did not match her outfit. Kate wondered if they were the ones she had been wearing when she had…

“It seems I am out of time,” Marissa said, rising – literally – from her perch. “So unless there is anything else…”

“I am sorry Marissa, of course you must go,” Kate said, clearing her throat. “But I must just ask” – a quick glance at Katerina, who looked ready to sprint – “how did it feel? What happened afterwards? Did you go anywhere when you died? Did you really die? Did you see anyone? Why have you come back when so many other people die and don’t come back, not even as ghosts? Is that what you are, a ghost?”

The questions were pouring from Kate’s mouth. She could not stop them. Katerina was trying, though, at the first “How…” she had been standing in front of Kate with a look of sheer ferocity.

“Did you do a deal with the devil? Or with God maybe?”

“MISS PEARSON! WE INSIST YOU STOP AT ONCE!” Katerina was shouting. Kate could hear doors slamming somewhere behind or beneath her but behind Katerina, Marissa’s translucent face had a wild look that made Kate bold enough to keep shouting her questions.

“Are you dead? Are you dead? Why are you here, if you’re dead?”

Security guards were entering the room. Kate was aware of two burly men beside her, but she didn’t stop looking at Marissa. Marissa was looking straight back at Kate, a sneer on her otherwise pearly perfect face.

As Kate felt herself being led, quite gently, from the room, the air seemed to grow icy still as Marissa gave her last publically recorded words.

“You’re right,” she said. “If I was dead, I wouldn’t be here. But I am.”

Then she turned fully and walked through the wall behind her.

In the lift, one of the security guards looked at Kate sternly.

“You shouldn’t have asked her all those questions,” he said.

“I know. But I couldn’t help it. Why her?”

“Cos she did some deal. With the devil. Got to be. And it must be a bloody harsh one, cos don’t think many people can have done it before.”

“Maybe,” Kate said, weakly. She was thinking about how to explain this to her boss.

“Not maybe,” the other security guard said quietly. Kate looked at him.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“It’s her,” he said.


“That other one. Bit foreign. Spends all her time with the ghost woman. Harasses the receptionists. Feeds her. Everything.”

“That’s not the devil,” Kate sighed. “That’s just her PR.”

“No,” the security guard said. The lift pinged as it reached the ground floor. He and his colleague walked her to the front door. Opened it. Looked around the seemingly deserted lobby before leaning down to whisper in Kate’s ear…

“She ate her soul,” he said, and his voice was so hot that Kate jumped and rubbed her ear. He smiled, looking slightly manic. Kate looked at the other security guard, trying to make sense of her current situation, but the other one was staring vacantly at the receptionist who appeared to be lying prostrate on the desk. Kate shook her head.

“I’d get out if I were you,” the receptionist shouted, and Kate noticed that her head was hanging over the side of the desk nearest to the doors whilst her feet danced on the smooth wooden desk, seemingly independent from her body. Kate gaped at the scene, looked back at the security guards, rubbed her ear again and gasped in pain as she felt the blister that had formed on her earlobe. The security guard who had hissed in her ear smiled as wisps of smoke escaped from his lips.

Kate didn’t need telling twice. Pushing the door further open she ran down the polished hotel steps, tripping and slipping as she tried not to hear the high pitched squealing from somewhere behind her. As she ran down the street she called Alright!’s Art Director, scrambling frantically through her phone book for the right number with trembling fingers. Answerphone.

“Damn,” Kate said, slowing to a walk as she reached the main road. The message tone beeped.

“Listen, Anton, DON’T GO to the photoshoot with Marissa tomorrow. It’s not worth it. She really is dead. A ghost. Devil. She’s with the devil. No no…”

Kate gasped for breath and tried to arrange her thoughts.

“…plus she won’t photograph well at all, she’s translucent. She looks orange but translucent. At the same time. It’s not classy enough for us. Call me back…”

Only when her heart had stopped hammering and her breathing slowed did Kate realise she could still hear the high pitched squealing.

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Saturday, January 31, 2009

Dead Famous: part two.

by bitingmylip

(Read part one here: )

Six days and only one further rearrangement later, Kate was waiting in The Grand Hotel’s lobby for the ghostly Marissa. She had been told by the front desk that Marissa’s senior PR Officer Katerina Vishky would be with her “imminently.” Kate was anxious. The word “imminently” sounded particularly ominous.

By the time Katerina eventually scurried into the lobby, all clip-clopping heels and efficiently swishing ponytail, Kate had sunk herself into a green chair so large with cushions that she struggled to get back up in order to shake Katerina’s hand. Flustered, she had to haul herself out of the large chair with a hand that scrabbled uselessly along the velvet-covered armrest. Katerina had perfectly plucked eyebrows and looked mildly irritated by Kate’s presence.

“Kate Pearson?” she asked. Her tones were clipped, her accent impossible to place.
“Yes, that’s right,” Kate said, regaining her composure to match Katerina’s tone.
“Marissa is almost ready for you in her suite upstairs. I’d just like to run through a few things, if I may.”
“Of course.”

“There are one or two things Marissa would prefer not to discuss. I am sure you will appreciate this is a difficult time and there a few sensitive issues surrounding the months since her accident.” Katerina spoke as if she was delivering a monologue. “Please do not ask Marissa for specific details of her accident, her injuries, or her subsequent resurrection,” she said.

Kate had not met Katerina before but she was familiar with this process. She had wondered if Marissa’s PR specifications would have changed since her resurrection, as it seemed she must call it. But the key conceit behind Marissa’s rules remained the same. Do not ask questions that may elicit interesting answers.

Satisfied Kate had been fully briefed, Katerina treated Kate to a curt smile. “Thank you for your understanding. Alright! has shown such sympathy to Marissa. It is much appreciated.”

Kate smiled graciously. “Well, we thank Marissa for granting us this interview. Our readers are always so interested in hearing what she has to say.”

“Yes indeed.” Katerina smiled her tight smile again. “Now, I am sure you are aware, the photoshoot is to take place tomorrow, at the studio of our choice.”

“I think so,” Kate said, pleasantly. “I understand that with the, uh, special circumstances Marissa requires, our Art Director should have been in touch with you directly…?”

Katerina nodded curtly. “Yes, that’s correct. We elected to have it tomorrow to allow Marissa plenty of rest between these appointments.”

With that, she turned towards the ornate staircase, indicating that Kate should follow. Katerina did not say anything further as they made their way towards Marissa’s suite. Only when she reached the door did she fix Kate with a look. “Thank you for bearing in mind this is a sensitive time for Marissa,” she said, quietly, before turning into the room with an impressive flick of the ponytail. Kate followed her into a large and beautifully furnished room, sitting on the hard-backed chair with green-and-gold cushioning that Katerina indicated.

“Please wait there while I see if Marissa is ready,” Katerina said in her clipped voice, before making her way across the room and knocking quietly on an adjoining door. Kate made herself comfortable.

And then, there she was. Kate had read previous interviewer’s effusive ramblings about how she ‘glided’ across the floor; well, if that had been a result of her elegance, it was more difficult to tell now, being as Marissa now glided in a very literal sense. Kate couldn’t tell if she had any feet. She seemed to be propelled forwards by something other than her own legs. Maybe angels were holding her up. Kate scribbled this thought in her own ineligible version of shorthand.

Marissa avoided the large, squashy, comfortable sofa and instead perched herself on a wooden stall that had been conveniently placed away from the window. This meant no light or background colour interfered with her skin tone because, as Kate noted, where before she had been golden-skinned, she was now almost translucent. This seemed to be the only visible difference: Marissa’s clothes were still luxurious and clearly designer. Kate recorded said clothing faithfully, in the manner of women’s magazine writers everywhere: “Wearing dark jeans and a black figure-hugging Prada wrap-around top, even in death, Marissa looked the picture of sophistication…” Kate wondered if ‘wearing’ was the right verb – was it possible for a ghost to wear clothes? She had a sneaking suspicion that if Marissa stood in direct sunlight, the paleness of her skin would make her almost invisible and her clothes would look as if they were floating. Perhaps this was why she had avoided the dark green sofa. Looking at her now, Kate noticed she wasn’t really sitting on the stool – she was sort of assuming the position of sitting but appeared to be holding herself in a manner that looked distinctly uncomfortable although, Kate assumed, there was probably no such thing as uncomfortable for a ghost. As her flesh and blood PA whispered something in Marissa’s almost see-through ear, Kate saw her lose her position for a moment, and she seemed to dip lower onto the stool – no, through the stool, it looked like. But being a consummate professional, Marissa regained her composure immediately and righted herself at once. She turned to Kate with a smile, her lips devil-red and quite off-putting.

“Now, a proper hello,” she said in a deeply calm voice. “I do apologise for not shaking your hand. It’s rather difficult… well, let’s just say it’s hard to keep a grip on things.”

“Erm, that’s OK,” said Kate. “Would you like a glass of water or something?”

Immediately Kate new she had said something amiss. Katerina frowned from her corner of the room, but the lady herself just gave off a peal of laughter – it was literally a peal, Kate thought, it sounded like a hundred of your highest pitched church bells ringing at once – and shook her head. “No, thank you,” she said. “Well, at least I don’t need sustenance now. That’s one of the benefits of being dead. You definitely retain your figure!”

Kate smiled back, weakly, feeling clumsy and far too alive to be in the same room as such a vision of pale, ghostly elegance. She shut her eyes briefly in a bid to gather her thoughts. When she opened them Marissa was looking at her, a beatific smile upon her face. Kate glanced down at her notepad as she gathered her thoughts.

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Wednesday, March 12, 2008


by itchingmyknee

stale smoke hangs
like a beaded curtain
in a sex shop doorway

all Black Peter's children
blaspheming like fallen Catholics

poisoning their pretty bellies
with glittering tipples
and slippery nipples

beneath the baleful eye of the disco ball.

Monday, February 18, 2008

Dead Famous

By bitingmylip

Kate Jackson hung up the phone with a sigh, the relentless rattle of Marissa Malfunction’s senior PR officer still ringing in her ears. A colleague nearby glanced over and cocked her head sympathetically. “That sounded like a difficult one,” she said. Kate nodded. “Bloody PRs. God, never try and interview a dead celebrity. They’re even more difficult to pin down than the live ones.” The colleague laughed as Kate shook her head ruefully and went to change the date for her meeting with Marissa (plus PR) for the sixth time that week.

Marissa Malfunction, formerly the beautiful blonde star of such films as Jack-Of-All-Trades and Can’t You See I’m Dancing?, now a ghost but still a class A celeb, was proving as elusive as befits the recently departed. Kate had only managed to get an interview in the first place because Marissa’s ex-fiance had ‘revealed’ to Who Cares! Magazine that Marissa’s ghostly reappearance following the tragic skiing accident that had supposedly killed her was nothing more than a publicity stunt. “Marissa thinks she’s so invincible she can even cheat death,” Jackson Aeroplane had been quoted as saying. “But the only thing Marissa’s ever cheated is the entire male population of the UK!”

In retaliation, Marissa had released a statement telling of her “supreme sadness” at Jackson’s inability to accept her amazing new look. Magazines across the globe had scrambled to secure an exclusive, offering Marissa disgusting sums of money to share the gruesome details of her accident and the incredible story of her resurrection. Having offered the most disgusting sum, Kate’s employers at Alright! Magazine had secured this most impressive of tell-all tales and as Showbiz Editor the story fell to Kate to organise.

Her editors seemed to think Kate would be incredibly grateful for this opportunity. Instead, she was rather irritated by it. Any excitement she had felt at the thought of interviewing a dead person had vanished when her questions had been vetoed by her editor (“you can’t ask her what it felt like to die! And please don’t ask anything about the afterlife. Stick to the usual. Fashion, sex, money and addictions.” This was Kate’s brief.) And then, of course, she had been given the runaround by Marissa and her super-efficient, super-evasive PR team. This was not unusual in the world of glossy celeb magazines but even in life Marissa had been one of Alright!’s more problematic interviewees. In death she was proving even more difficult.

Still, she had another date – and a location this time, which was promising. As she typed the name of the hotel lounge Marissa’s PR had suggested as a meeting place into her Outlook diary, Kate allowed herself to think ahead to the interview. After so much toing and froing, the thought that she might actually have to meet this woman – this ghost – hadn’t really entered Kate’s mind. But as she considered the fact that she was less than a week away (hopefully) from meeting a proper dead person, she shuddered. Difficult starlets, sly PRs, drug-addled rock stars who seemed to think all female journalists were only journalists because they wanted to shag drug-addled rock stars – these were the sorts of people Kate was used to dealing with. Ghosts and zombies had never been her thing.

She just hoped Marissa would still photograph well, being a ghost and all.

To be continued...

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Wednesday, January 09, 2008

Hello. It's 2008. Or is that 1998?

by itchingmyknee

I’ve got an incredible sense of déjà vu. Like I’ve been here before.

I think part of the problem might be that I’ve recently discovered a whole bunch of writing and poetry from various phases in my life. Different things going on, different men hanging around, plagued by different issues…

But somehow, it’s all starting to feel like the same shit, over and over. The same things going on. The same men, in different incarnations. Well, except perhaps one. I'm beginning to think that someone’s wished a plague on my house.

I know that part of the problem was waking up to Magic FM every day. They have exactly the same playlist on shuffle in the morning. Whatever time I set my alarm, I invariable wake to Medley & Warnes “(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life.”

I now despise that song.

I have now switched radio stations. Sometimes I even mix it up and play a CD while I get dressed. It needs to be something gentle though. Nina Simone. Billie Holiday. Zero 7. I tried “Fight for your right to party”/Beastie Boys yesterday. My bones were still trembling when I arrived at work.

Ah yes. Work. What to do about that? My job is grand, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve become a parasite on the flesh of humanity. I go through the motions. I hand in my work. But I don’t create anything beautiful, or useful, or soul-shakingly fabulous. And I spend all my money on going out and getting leathered. Oh, and the occasional purchase of shoes/dress/bikini and such like.

Now I know what all the adults were going on about when I was a kid. About having a purpose. Feeling like you are truly contributing something. Strangely enough, I’ve avoided this sense of aimlessness for so long because I was in love. And loving someone always feels like such a perfect purpose.

So. Here’s to a new year. 200-and fucking-8.
And here are my resolutions.

1.) Moving in with my wonderful friend/s
2.) Writing spectacular things for SACK (Stories and Collective Knowledge – email me if you want to join)
3.) Making that film. The short where one person manipulates another like a puppet, but it looks totally off-the-cuff and eerie. Would totally work as a music video. Note to self.
4.) Writing fewer diary entries on this fucking thing, and more real stories (see no. 2)
5.) And finally: Ditching the déjà vu.
Doing different things. Convincing the one man who's unlike the rest that he wants to be with me. And avoiding issues like the plague.

Friday, January 04, 2008


by itchingmyknee

A rattlesnake can’t fall in love
Her kisses are pernicious
Her suitors never suit her scales
Although they taste delicious

Her flickering tongue makes out his face
Coils clenching in muscled bands
Helpless to resist her cruel embrace
He’s prone as her jaws expand

He slides his way along her throat
If it hurts him, she can’t tell
She should have removed his overcoat
Though he goes down quite well

Sated, the serpent mourns the waste
Her dread anguiform soul is damned
She shakes her rattle in distaste
And draws ‘s’s in the sand.

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