Tag Archives: monochrome

// masterpiece //

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Your ghost wears me thin
as your hands trace my reflection
and I wait for you
to run your energy through my blood
until I’m overcome.
Stay quiet, my love, we’re not yet done.
Move through these ivory veils
and swallow the flavor of my screams.
I want to feel the claws of love
scratching at this haunted place
you’ve made
of me.

.

.

.

// wet //

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every move I make is deliberate and
exaggerated:
we can’t afford
mistakes.
I know you see through my x-ray body
and this
puts you
at ease.
I dip my liquid fingers deep
in crimson
paint
it drips to the floor –
maniacal waves relentless
in every
drop.
it stains my elbows and
my knees
rushes at your feet
as I sketch giant lusty images
on the ceiling.
I need you inside me
so that
I can
breathe
(forget everything they told you
to pray for,
angel,
the gods need us aching
like
this).
you read the tension in this
our silent vibrating communication with
an unhinged grace,
I watch your focus heavy
with animal eyes
as you absorb me
and
all
the
painted
figures
bleed.

.

.

.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// trouble //

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I am, even to myself, a strange and beautiful trouble.

Even in stark stillness I am a relentless expansion, a curiosity, a sin.

I am an indulgence, a soft and ripening ache.

I am a mystery, a wild collection of deranged contradictions to the things you want to see in yourself as you look at me.

I like to stroke a thing until it derails.

Pummel it to the ground and search its insides for clues.

I am the heady aftertaste of the way you are afraid to feel, and I feel deeply, probe hungrily, into those shadowy places you neglect, dismiss, judge, ignore, reject.

Your disturbance electrifies something in my bones, the oddity of you, the unlikelihood of any of this, wets and fills even the driest rivers, sends them rushing back from the dead through me.

I am not a problem. I do not need to be fixed or corrected.

This life – my life – is an ecstatic, rugged, savage territory and I feast upon it all.

Heaven and hell tangle within me, both are teachers, both are guides, both are Love.

Trouble is evolution is freedom is treasure. The most tragic of all are not those who struggle but those who concede.

.

.

.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// crush //

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Some days it comes upon you in crushing waves, you can’t hear it but you can feel the pressure pressing in your ears. The monstrous mounting curl of the push to birth your creative thing plunges you to the bottom of your own inner abyss.

Free fall.

Your hands are fierce but helplessly slow against the darkness all around.
Everything you try to touch becomes punishingly deep and quiet as black ice.

You don’t dare breathe.

This is the place, the sanctuary, the cave, the distance between the two of ‘you’ who try to exist in a world neither quite recognize, where neither quite belong.

This is the altar you lay naked on and trust the light will come. You keep your eyes closed and listen with your nerve endings. You open your mouth and find your breathing but it’s not the same kind.

Some days the Muse is a beautiful beast so powerful you can scarcely believe you let her in.
And on these days, when you surface again and tell no one, what’s done is done.

Be grateful.

.

.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// knots //

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all these knots inside
me
I need them
bite on them
admire them
offer them
to you with your
blue clay hands.
you
move your thumbs slow
down
my celestial chest
straight and narrow in
maddening designs
until I come
apart.
you have done this
with other creatures before
it takes no time
at all.
and one by one you
reveal to me the
kingdoms within kingdoms I keep.
you tell me I am
safe outside my skin,
that I am eternity in heat,
that I am an ancient geometric
grid
you must taste to
understand.
there is no
other way to remember
you have no
eyes.
and as you build your burning cities
in my heavenly
darkening mind
I am allowed to
watch.

.

.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// silence //

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your silence lives inside me
snakes around the tender parts
that hurt and beg,
that would crawl a thousand miles on holy water to
drown you underneath.
while i’m busy with carving sandcastles, hiding
from the sun and servicing the afternoon,
your silence pours hot ocean waves over my chest,
lights a cigarette and
spends the night.
it wets the cunning valleys of my body down
in streams, courses through my veins
as i imagine your
release.
my knees on the pavement, i’m praying for you
to remember my
eyes.
your silence watches me
tongues the carnal wreckage of my darkness
licks the burning pages, tears and
discards them.
undone by beautiful delusion,
i know what this looks like
and what it does to you.
a single butterfly moves its wings
inside a shot glass
between my teeth
on the other side
of the world.
my perversion of you is handfuls of
machine fingers measuring my neck
dressing and undressing me in animal skin
shed by the gods who walked a dying earth
alone
only
decades
ago,
i press my limbs against dreams with rose petals for
fists
gasping at the gasoline air you would feed me
but draw instead back in.
your silence it lives
inside me;
striking match after
match as
it speaks.

.

.

// kneel //

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the bend in the river
matches the way my
body turns away from itself without my
help.
when i write
i’m suspended somewhere between the life
they need me to live and
the death none of us will
escape.
inside i can feel the moons orbiting the planets and the
crushing energy of their cyclical motion excites me
everywhere.
i am the frenzy of the chaotic light and the nectar of the
infinite dark
i am the lion and the
lamb,
the altar and the sword.
i’m stretched in two, pricked by everything and awash in oblivion
trying desperately to worship
something intolerable
while begging
forgiveness from something i
don’t
understand.
in case you thought i was perfect
or a mess or
not trying hard enough
believe me, these things have difficult faces
that reach for me.
my mouth is a red velvet
confessional
of
words.
maybe i owe something i cannot
ever
recover
maybe we are all after something
we think and pray and hope is
release.
if i kneel before you
would you know
exactly
who you are?
life is not easy when
the air i need is your tattooed flesh
and suffocation is new life,
when i dream in the colored ribbons of madness
and this self-conscious world deflowers itself
for the gray.
the catastrophe of love is freedom
laced with
pain
and somehow we keep
on with
the
breathing.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// alone //

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Alone is an animal, hunting and slaughtered for meat.

Alone is a criminal, thieving and caught by knives at the throat.

Alone is a deity, breathing and death for five thousand years rising up through your rib cage, staring back at you in the mirror, speaking with newborn tongues.

Alone is poetry eating itself, becoming itself, words created and starved on the disrupted exposure of human bodies in full orgasm.

The words don’t need anything you don’t have but they won’t commune, they will not burn you, they will not pray for you, they will not bear succulent fruit for less than their worth.

Present yourself, bow into them, swim out to them beaten and blind and they will hold you like the fearless hands of God.

She will bow beneath you, reach inside your blood and offer you back to yourself.

Alone is worship at the bottom of every violent river only to recognize the fear as the maddening feel of wet caves dripping inside your mind; it is nights under a moonless sky begging forgiveness, begging entrance, begging release.

Alone is waking at the swell of dawn in the quiet rain, touching yourself with the ghost hands of another who knew you once more intimately than you now know yourself, and waits like a lion in sharp blades of tall grass for your return.

Alone is sacrament, alone is masochist, alone is ritual, alone is feet on the floorboards walking through seven painted doors down a vacant hall.

Alone is handcuffs and liberation, broken pianos playing themselves in the dark.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

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My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// continuum //

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It’s as though everyday I wake up already searching for something, yearning before my eyes even focus in the dusty light.
I’m already roaming forbidden halls, haunted by something that is centuries old and restless.
Quiet like a stare.
Something intimate and beautiful is out there and we are reaching for each other, we need to borrow again the skin we shared once.
A love, a tragedy, a treasure, a mistake. An exception to my useless rules.
A body, a touch of sensual mischief. A moonlit forest in my hungry chest.
Some days we meet right away and the desire is sated for a while. Some days we meet almost too late, in a final breath at sunset.
Some days are spent entirely in static suspense and divine frustration – agitated, unfulfilled, disturbed.
But there has never been a day in all my life that my insides were not alert for this thing. That I have not made my soul available to her with reverence and devotion.
Hopeful for some way to connect with this graceful, wandering spirit I seem to have had once but lost.
Life is a continuum.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// feast //

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my ravishing predator, the
ghost of you
takes beautiful shape
and walks at my side
all
the days
since that day,
walks through me.
it is
collecting me
one piece at a time.
borrows my heart
bargains with my pale body
stabs
at my back and
forces its tongue
where it should not
be
but i don’t stop the
haunt:
go
deeper.
skeletons dressing in my
skin
they grope me at length
for a desperate
love
a web of moth nerves that
will
not
die
feeds on my mouth as their wings
slip
inside;
a feast where i feast
anything to keep
them agile
and me alive.
you move your grayish eyes
like handsome stacks of headstones,
turn them to look
at me as
i burst into flames.
fires consummate the curtains and race across the sky
i am at home
again
here.
ashes to ashes
your burning breath takes finally my lungs
and a brilliant carnal
darkness drops
over all
the
earth.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

Light Being: How to Amp Up Your Inner Radiance and Shine Without Fear

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After it was over, all I could see was light. All I could feel was light. All I could be was light.

She was pure love energy, radiant fascinating white, like staring directly into the center of a star without the sting. My eyes were closed.

I could make out just enough of her: the gentleness along the curve of her back as she knelt before me. The giant fluid outline of what could have been the perfect wings. Her hands held mine as my arms were spread open in meditation.

In one weightless, slender movement both of her thumbs slid down the length of the inside of my willing arms, elbow to wrist, opening me up. As the white of my skin parted into the white of her glow she poured cascades of endless light like tranquil liquid pools into me.

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The Art of Mindfulness: How to Slow a Rainstorm

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How to slow a rainstorm:

watch.

Watch the way the water falls.

Watch the way the raindrops catch on leaves,

and cling,

then slide

away.

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Love Troubles, Horse Races and Our Only Choice

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I don’t always wake up tremendously happy. Really. Not even.

The minute my eyes click open my mind speeds off in about five thousand directions, none of which are particularly blissful or peaceful or calm. It could quite honestly be described as unbridled madness.

In fact, it’s taken me a good deal of practice to be able to choose my mind resolutely enough to change the course of my mornings, my days and my entire life.

I used to figure (upon opening my eyes, I swear, no kidding) I had to battle up, get ready to make a thousand choices and decisions in order to quiet a mind that was tangled with a thousand rabid thoughts – one by one I’d try to stalk them, clutch them and kill them off.

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Feeding on Live Wires: Angels in the Real World

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Do you ever talk with angels?

WAIT.

Wait, hold up – if you aren’t sure how you want to answer that just yet, let me roll this out another way:

I have the weirdest thing for wires right now. As in: power lines. (Barbed wire, too, but that’s probably another conversation.)

I keep snapping pictures of them. I know it’s springtime and the thing to do would be to photograph flowers but for me, for some reason, it’s wires. They fascinate me.

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Crowding Out the Crowd: What If It’s All Been Done Before?

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As creatives, we dread the ominous feeling that whatever it is we want to do has already been done.

And – horror of horrors – that it’s all been done and done better than we could ever do it.

So let’s get right down to it, then, guys.  Let’s play this harrowing mind game all the way to its bitter end, shall we?

Here’s the truth:

If you are reading it, it’s been done.

If you can see it, hear it, taste it or touch it, it means someone brought it forward into existence already and it can now be experienced, held, by others.

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Naked On The Table: The Agony and The Ecstasy of Writing

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It happens. And it can cripple you either way.

When you find yourself in that rare and paralyzing and exquisite place where it’s scary to write and it’s scary to not write – maybe think about this.

We sit around and we mull over and we wallow in the waiting . . . to see if our creation will ever finally look us dead in the eye. To see if we’ll be okay, if we’ll ever become ready, if we’ll ever find the strength, the reasons, the angle, the answers, the perfect what-have-you.

To write.
To publish.
To show.
To invite.
To expose ourselves.
To lay naked on the table and not budge.

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To Be Seen Alone: A Brief Meditation on Art, Sex, Truth and Surprise

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Art delivers the truth out of us.

That’s why we fear it.

That’s why we crave it.

Something about the way creation has to come about that demands surrender, demands not just a letting go but a not-holding-back.

Something.

In that you are never alone when you are creating art. It’s not a thing you can pull off singly.

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