She is a Meat-Eating Carousel
children love riding them i am part of the game too
but i’m trying to be a bit more civil
i have a megalodon jaw but i only ever touch potato
we are devices that rotate like the hands of a clock
its face only as wide as earth i wonder if i will live long enough
the suicide spiral from the springs at the back
i’ve been trying to find out how to climb the ladder
so we can sit on the mantel together we could evoke memories
our legs swinging alms smoking spirits
the arms of clocks sirens the inevitable screwing
of the smoke from the wings of planes
heavy breathing can shatter domes
i need to outlive the inside sometimes i’m afraid of sleep
of the blades that will stop in their machine
the stylus can only span one disc ostinato when i wake up
to report my dreams at 3 am
i always see her you took her instead of me
i am sick of being locked up in wardrobes
when you say you’ve clicked to shut me up in purses
what wouldn’t i do for appreciation i tried to be her
if i spent hours sticking on dark eyelashes my legs like paralleling
pedipalps deflecting light adjusting mirrors
this hall of weddings i wish i could marry someone i barely knew
but faces behind veils remind me of how children like to play
and high shoes i think of the way cowboys stand
their thumbs dressed in stockings i have tried to be hard
to look beautiful but this is a corridor not even an aisle
and clocks are so distracting
sometimes i could swear i hear my mom’s voice.
calling my name. i see my small bare feet walking on the pavement contained
in a young full skin. she didn’t laugh
very much. sometimes i think i may be schizophrenic.
i see shadows of her when I’m alone, i can smell her skin.
she is stuck somewhere. i can’t imagine
my mother being soft and telling me i’m pure
enough to die. i’m surprised she liked flowers.
there is a type of loneliness you cannot fill
with coitus or money. sometimes i wish i still feared hell.
my child is not like my mother. giving is the opposite of dying.
there is no solid loss when a mother who could not love you dies.
i have nothing to grieve. these flowers are fetishes—black;
with searching stems, caged in vases packed with glittery rocks.
i was not a child for very long. if only i could speak
to you. with my body—the way i am.
if only we didn’t have bodies. this is beyond money.
this is beyond the bedrooms we die in.
sometimes mothers become mere matter. less effective
at attunement than paintings. paintings feel
with their loudness and softness, lines and shadings.
they take the time to learn how thick the paint dries and in which parts they have knots
and holes. pieces of art stir something softer than any human is capable.
they take hours to show me how there was once a birth—
why there was fragmentation. of layers and corners removed by surgeons.
surgeons cut in theatres because it is acceptable to have an undeveloped conscience
under the bright light. they cannot explain to you what they don’t understand
themselves. paintings are the exposition of your phaneron. i can attempt to see
what happened to you. i can see you are trying to understand
what happened to me. i have been covered in what you misconstrue
as an example of moral integrity. like a cunningly wrapped
gift. i despise nothing more than gifts. or money. or bodily transactions.
A Conversation with Survival
she shuffles under the lamp light. shadows
as thick as hell fire—sickly as the day light
of the moon. the glow of the lamp is rinsed thinner
than the winded leaves that prevent me from looking.
a fan—a blind; made from human fingers—i strip
back their sharp nails to find their eyes.
these tongues that speak in wet languages—appetites
without food become perverse like my lust roiled with guilt
every time i think of you. the rock bares its past—
how their needles are shaved off finer than the tip
of anything. i have spent hours burning
them on the stove to prevent the carriage of disease.
i desquamate my ancestry to stay alive
long enough to spell out one word i pray you will learn to read.
Annie Blake is an Australian writer, thinker and researcher. She is a wife and mother of five children. Her main interests include psychoanalysis, metaphysics and metacognition. She is currently interested in arthouse writing which explores the surreal nature and symbolic meanings of unconscious material through nocturnal and diurnal dreams and fantasies. Her writing is a dialogue between unconscious material and conscious thoughts and synchronicity. You can visit her on annieblakethegatherer.blogspot.com.au and https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100009445206990.