When you die the asphalt will let out a cry
14th February 2010When you hear it crinkle, walk down the road with a face like a summer moon. Stop and look right before crossing the street. Let the waft of strangers’ scent intrude you. Inhale last night’s rabid sex and curry to remind you that the second person isn’t so bad, you. They are crinkle-cracked and slain, but so you are. A handful of hurts like a monsoon of petals: say hello to them, say no to them: wrap you up in clear plastic and you say a prayer for lust. When you hear the double-headed helix, over-dramatize. Make noises with your mouth, suck-pumping out the air.
15th February 2010 at 11:14 am
A nice sense of control throughout this one. This is my favourite part - ‘A handful of hurts like a monsoon of petals: say hello to them, say no to them: wrap you up in clear plastic and you say a prayer for lust.’. Great title too. And well timed amid all the plastic wrapped romance.
15th February 2010 at 8:10 pm
Jem: I like where your mind went with that line, v-day, which is not where my mind was at all. There IS something controlled about my writing lately, too, you’re right. Interesting. Your sharing observations help me. Thank you.
16th February 2010 at 11:20 am
Your writing lately has been controlled, but it’s also been like the almost-familiar tone of a song, changing with tempo and popping at appropriate crescendos. When I think of writing that is art, I think of this. This is like words wrapped up together, cellophane wrapped sorta, and left in tidy boxes. It’s less storytelling and more like a canvas, and I really can’t stop looking at it.
How do you do this, Ani? How do you make me feel in paragraphs.
16th February 2010 at 8:15 pm
Emma, don’t be such a sweetheart. Seriously though, you’re onto something. Sometimes I feel incapable of telling an actual story being so much more involved with the melody. It’s a general failing and I go in cycles as to whether I care.