Tag Archives: prose

// pretty little deaths //

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There are secrets within me, secrets I keep alive but quiet like moth wings fluttering around my heart for protection as they eat away at my insides. The things I would die for, lay down my inhibitions for, the desires I beg for relief from even as I fiend for the struggle to fulfill them. When I grow brave – then again maybe I’m not even brave, maybe I’m just worn down by a world that abuses itself – I look at them.

Most people won’t become writers, not because they can’t find the words. There will always be words. But because they won’t look. They won’t look within themselves for fear of descending into a place where words dissolve the breath and feelings tear the curtains down from the ceiling of their heaviest sins, jet black bedroom eyes cringing in the daylight; where emotions run like hunted nymphs, naked through a thick forest of forbidden needs.

I look at other writers, too – the true artists, the ones who slide like elegant snakes beneath your chemical skin right before their poisonous spikes dig into your bones, the ones who wet you down with lust and inject you mad with a rage you never knew you carried all this time but find suddenly scorching up your limbs. I watch the words they use until I find the ones they didn’t, those are the words that matter most. The ones they hide from you to keep for themselves.

I’ve always wanted more. So often I can sense when people are holding their most useful, gutting stuff back. It’s the way watching a heavy storm rolling in makes me want to undress. It’s in my nature, something primordial lives in me and reaches out to find itself in others but there’s nothing there to clutch. People are gone. There’s a pressure rising in the air between their two faces and I just want to be there when the heavens finally break.

Feeling the mounting crush of the hoards of people who have nothing to say, a comforting sadness walks alongside me like a shadow, rising in the snow on the moon orbiting my cosmic thoughts. Wherever it is we come from, whatever it is we think we’re made of, part of us will always be lost.

Even after all this time I still think of you and the way we never understood each other. I didn’t want to tell you that I didn’t want to understand you. I wanted to maul you to pieces and take only your most infuriating bits with me. We fall in love like savages and paint our nails like a strip tease. We fall on our knees for the beautiful pain and the thrill of a few fingers in a gaping mouth, blood pulsing against blood. I could reach inside your chest even now, lace my fingers and pull my own heart out from your body.

I’ve done it before and you’d always thank me with those kisses at the end of your most punishing, adoring letters. I can do it again just as sure as I’m doing it now. Everything we’ve ever done, dust to cradle to grave to resurrection, is written down and hanging in the gaps between every moment you occupy with the things you know don’t matter as much as love once did.

I wish I didn’t still crave your cigarettes. But I guess in places beyond the years we spend hiding, we all still crave what we’re told we shouldn’t. Smoke and mirrors, flesh of my flesh, bone of thy bone, reflections of the same side of silence.

On the street, every person is a distant galaxy hurling itself backwards and dead bird feathers continue dripping in the rain. In daydreams, I touch you with everything I have as broken wings fall around us everywhere.

And no one writes anything anymore.

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~ 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

// misfit //

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We live in a world that treats the quiet ones like misfits, mutants, outcasts, freaks. Most people talk because they don’t have any idea what to say. Don’t disgrace the words by spilling them before they’ve impregnated you, been a heavy ridiculous burden inside the pulsing womb that is the mad torture of your own mind, grown into monsters with seven heads and screaming, until you are disturbed enough to feel them like thick vines tracking around your spine.

So often the world mistakes silence for ignorance, weakness, powerlessness, thoughtlessness, carelessness. But silence is how I write, how I grow rich, how I build my own bones and breed my own skin. The magic of the artist lies in the soundless, in the molten fluid pools of her willing and complete submission to the fullness of her every delicate experience.

How often to speak is to destroy the stimulus, to ruin the provocative overwhelm. The only hope I have of continuing to work is to remain alert, open to all of it. That everyday I may push further upon the unfolding of my own expanse.

There are infinite glorious worlds of pleasure and agony in my cup of silence.

And as they all misunderstand, I stay still and wait patiently like the wild hidden in the blood of the animal. I am quiet like an elegant death even as I watch you with the electricity of my entire being. I listen with my whole body as you speak. Like a thousand knives gutting the heavens are the beautiful invisible tremors I channel through me.

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~ 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, gratitude, and mad affection. x

// break //

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Some days punish and stimulate like cascades of warm rain sliding in hot crystal streams over bare summer skin. Like a lover’s willing mouth open, plush and ready, locked in a room you can’t find, in a building with walls that mirror each other.

Some days you are the artist and her muse, in a strange and masterful chaos you become the one you seek to observe: an illicit object, a distorted galaxy, a rotating world of tempt and threat, undressing.

I have felt Love on me like hands so crushingly gentle they shatter and collect me with every handsome, brutal intrusion; so commanding that even as I am falling apart, I am falling back together.

I have seen myself as beautiful even as I am drowning in self-abuse and self-sabotage. Something bigger than suffering exists. It watches without exhaust, it waits for millennia without tire or question.

Something so infinitely vast that it can cradle any amount of suffering and love all of it, as if nothing exists that is not Its own.

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// nude //

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Take my nimble eager hands, lead me down the darkened halls of your mad and thickening fantasy. Show me on this body that I’m the crime of a past lover’s unrest and the keeper of codes long buried under shipwrecks at the soundless bottom of an ancient sea.

Tug at the edges and refuse to stop. Drape the concrete midnight sun and snake your expert hands around my wrists, offer me everything. Spread my imagination wide as starless navy skies, pierce my soul with the beautiful sting of a dying winter.

Creation is the way we close our eyes, new life is danger in my bones fully drawn. I have risen from the clutch of a thousand graves, I have been bled of my mistakes by the shadow of streetlamps on pavements in the splitting rain.

The sharp blades of light on your chest remind me how many times I’ve shattered to be rebuilt like this. Spill your mess onto me; I will cleanse you, feed you, wrap you in the searing fires you had been ashamed to touch.

Spin the moons in my mind with your gravity, rake your fingers steady across my desire as I drop my defenses down.

Make me surrender all the words I no longer need as you suspend my ragged breath between your teeth. Bring me to your secret, sacred room and turn the key.

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// 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.

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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

// 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.

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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

// watch //

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Writers are spooky creatures. We concern ourselves too often with every sinister, seductive, tragic thing, pin our skin to brutal sensations and wait.

Watch.

We seem to imagine there’s a puzzle inside of us that fits into the puzzle inside of everything. Such arrogance, such faith. Everyone is a clue. Every touch is annihilation. Every face is the possibility of salvation or the grave.

Writers are demons, gods, angels, train tracks, machines, tricksters, mobsters, bombs, wristwatches, lovers, strippers, criminals, skyscrapers, bugs.

But then maybe we’re all writers.

Maybe everyone is just terrified they’ll run out of words.

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