Tag Archives: style

// private lives //

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We are restless and unborn. We have been wounded by over exposure, the futile beg for love denied, maybe that’s why I clench my teeth so terribly at night that in dreams they split my gums and fall out in clumps. Such brutality, such crush, we are scattered little bugs, terrified of ugliness, we want to be beautiful and strange, want to be stroked to the dripping heat of heavy crippling pleasure and left to walk the streets alone. Daylight is the flash of a screen but I escape to the dark matter of my own haunted castle mind, my crumpled writer’s room, my wrought iron winter garden, listening in stillness for the linen voice of the ghost you hung to dry on the line. Where I can stand the thrust of the words, where limbs like curtains reach for me on the wind.

My messages caress you like candlelit passageways that open onto the tops of trees and spill my lucid thoughts out over a vacant listless sky, every star a headstone carved with the crude tools of their abbreviated lives. They call me crazy but I call it hopeful, for I believe you loved my bones before we met. Someplace inside you is where I come from and where I long to return, smooth and familiar is the way you taste like liquid metal knives and the crystal jewels of molten sex, a golden chalice erects in the healing hands of God. Love is religion like pavement glitter and nuclear dust clouds, a way to glorify the beginning of a thousand setting suns.

As I’m turning down the bed, your motionless face is rain sliding down the window of this house you occupy inside me. I wish you could trade my awful secrets for something better than I deserve, but lover, I will drink from you until the moons have turned themselves to snakes orbiting the delicate feet of angels if you would only look at me. Let them wonder about us, let them spin their every seductive bedtime story from the one we’re killing ourselves to write with our surrender. All that matters is this moment, everything else is fair disease. You and I are a single tragic blink, every second is eternity, every breath between us a fragile ritual. We have birthed each other, been raised from death into life after death.

We are fading and obedient bodies, thick volumes of handwritten history buried under lock and key, plunged in glossy wooden tombs to the bottom of the ocean. Instinctively, you know when I am wet and you dangle me there on the edge of my own pearlescent cliff, my mysterious gift, until the way I crave you becomes the quiet shatter of truth at the apex of desire. I can read the casual insanity behind your devotion as if through scars and blindness the code of your flesh will finally make sense of mine. Come and bow your head into my private madness, beloved, I am the tranquil depths you seek. Make me dangerous while everyone else is watching. We are as wild as we are high, painted figures in glass boxes wearing our scratches like diamonds, feathers, swords and star dust falling from our newborn eyes.

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// iron boxes //

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You reach for me but I am a void, I am a hellish collision of dying worlds inside. These cruel words hang me on the wall and leave me there, exposed, afraid, unraveling, alone.  And I’ve been writing, baby love, writing, writing, awful, awful, terrible writing, it ought to be a crime these unforgivable lines slashed in defiance against borrowed time, wretched incoherent manic overflow like bleeding an animal of poison, I’ve written one hundred journals in a mouthful of days, page after page, one more useless than the one before, stacking them, digging them, dragging them through the mud and the rage with me. Please don’t touch me anywhere, I am fever. My eyes finally adjusted to the darkness of this strange religion, where wings are clipped and spread at will.

Still as a cradle robbed of death, but for the smooth motion of the weapon in my hand, and the raking in my brain, and the slamming in my chest to the beat of city after city dropping to their weakened knees, I’ve kept on like the possessed searching for something. Moon rise, moon set, I have not aged since birth and I have never been so sure I’ve died too many times, I am only a pale reflection of myself, the blue fade of a forgotten lust for beautiful sins. The days have been rusted white cages, feathered ink, lace candy legs, something is dark and tethered inside me, darting its many faces in and out of the brush. Something nameless in me that I can’t seem to clutch, needs a love beyond anything the world can produce; a flower opens itself to an empty room.

And I am trying and I am failing, and this thing, this need that swallows itself into me – it is still waiting. All the world is wasted panting breath and me on the wall, and these words like ears on such abysmal pages, we are all waiting.

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// evidence of bodies //

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I don’t want your body, I want your secrets. I know the games you play and why you play them but you’re so lovely it makes my mind bleed. Even the dreams in me have dreams and yet I can’t manage to extract a single one. Of course, no one ever said love makes sense. I pour a glass of Merlot and my insides are a relentless penetrating bloom of thick red roses groping their thorny vines around the veins that push my blood toward a heart that knows no boundaries.

When the last sliver of daylight finally fades across the grass, I can feel the setting sun unbuttoning my inhibitions. The way you wait so patiently for me binds me with threaded ropes, framing erotic images that deepen my darkening mood. You want to touch me but I’m not where you thought I’d be; my mind is seductive but it’s always somewhere else.

Using only the memory of your hands, you wrap me in crimson ribbons of delicious heat. The swift movement of your body sets me free to water midnight gardens of savage desire in beautiful rings around the moon. I’m ugly in ways only you can make an aphrodisiac as the twisted things I long for hang suspended from the ceiling, purple faces tongue the agony of my ecstatic soul. Everyone seems to think they know how your life will end up if you’d just sit still and listen but most try very hard not to understand anything that could make a difference.

Sliding past everyone else’s better judgment, I light three rows of candles and drop into a darkness that is not sleep. It’s more like a strange way of awakening in order to hold hands with death and own him before he owns me. We all worry about being invisible; that’s why we hide. I devour volumes of ancient spiritual texts and Bukowski, they seem to break me apart and deliver me back to who I am in a package I almost recognize. Deciphering their codes is the plot of every gutting love story ever written. The Tree of Knowledge and the Tree of Life grow like inverted mirror images, side by side. To be human is to have a grasp on neither.

I drip hot lavender oil into a steaming bath and sink in as I envision you with cake in your hands. I’m kneeling at your feet licking icing from a dozen silver spoons between your fingers; the sweet life is not always what it seems, but we do try. At the center of something more encompassing and brilliant than we can possibly fathom, everything is submerged. Right here. Everything is different and the same. Every safe choice should make us more and more afraid.

It’s warm underwater and even though I drown my head in thoughts of self-defeat to keep from slipping into the vacant sky where I might finally be free, I trust being alone more than I trust anything else. I don’t know if God is alone but I know this world is mass murder on painted screens that cover up the truth.

In my makeshift blackout room, spinning pins and needles on the windowsill of the universe, all I ever wanted was to make a spark that would catch the hills on fire.

It’s not hard to breathe in the dark, it’s just that you see so little of who you really are.

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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

// 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.

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// exposure //

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I want to violate you
spend lifetimes invading the sharp blades of the lightning
mind of you,
feel the snowy nights rising in the quiet undressed
shadow
of
you,
consume the last discarded scraps of the hopes
of
you,
reach for you in your pale moon skin
as you float away in a midnight ocean,
rupture the veins in the madness of your
beautiful crooked thought patterns as they
throb at your fingertips,
feed you word after word after word on every
page of my foolish
poetry
as the wolves lie in wait all around the
muscle, bone, and blood
of
you.
I want to
collect you, spread you wild the way storm clouds curl and rage
and divide themselves again and again
overtaking a desperate
desolate landscape, the thirst
for
you
reflected in my blue almond
desert eyes.
I want to capture you
captivate you;
make you feel
at home
inside this tiny
little rib
cage
that hangs in the creature of my
body
at the center of the
endless falling sky
of
you.

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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

Why A True Artist Has No Competition

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We walk a thin line.

Some days the line can feel sharp as a razor’s edge, in fact.

Like walking a tightrope in the sky, strung up across two high-rise buildings. (One might imagine. I mean, we’re artists not dare devils. Or are we?)

As artists and creative critters, we walk a line between love and ego with every piece we create.

If we dare to create the work we deeply want to create – the kind that screams to be let out but also scares the hell out of us for risk of exposing too much of our fragile selves – that line can cut like a hot knife down the center of our insides.

It’s a cut that can feel like it’s opening us and killing us at the same time.

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The Greatest Creative Advice for Artists. EVER.

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Being a fairly upbeat sort of person who shouts from the rooftops about how fucking phenomenal it is to be a beginner, I also tend to be the sort of person who gets herself into some shit.

And let me just tell you: I’m in it now, kids.

So deep am I in it, in fact, that I am writing this blog post from an undisclosed location and may or may not be wearing 3 day old (wait – what’s today?) sweatpants.

As of NOW it’s full on, full throttle, full frontal (well, except for the sweatpants).

I am neck-deep in the wild tidal throws of finishing my first book of poetry: Vein.

We’re so close now I can practically taste the textured pages brushing against my eager skin. (Ya damn right it’s a sexual relationship. If you think I’m not going to make mad passionate love to this book you have gravely underestimated the degree to which I have lost my filthy mind over this project).

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How to Love Yourself to Victory In Times of Great Struggle

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It kind of feels like a punishment instead of a help when you are in the midst of what seems like a major existential crisis and the only slim advice you get is “relax” or “it will all be okay” or “the universe has your back.”

It feels like you’re bloody (bloody, tho?) doomed, in a way, when you’re bombarded with these disjointed pop-spiritual messages that sound as though all you have to do is simply fit in to an angel-cookie-cut-out version of the higher truth or plug-in to some secret code for self-love that everybody else seems to have figured out but you.

One of the things I rail against is being told how it is, how it has to be, how it’s always been. I’m not interested in being force-fed (or force feeding anyone else, frankly) a slew of complicated systems or beliefs or rules. I want, desire and actively seek out a spiritual connection that works.

That’s why when I delve into spiritual (and creative) study / reading / practice / action, I consciously try to be sure I approach with a mindset of willing openness, of loving curiosity, of a strange sort of reverent playfulness.

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Why Creative Freedom May Be Holding You Back

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There is something an artist does bravely, without asking and without being told.

There is no instruction manual on how to do this thing right or how to ensure it is “successful” by the world’s standards.

And yet just doing this one thing is reason enough for an artist to call himself a success.

It is the reason she does her most soulful, moving and beautiful creative work.

It’s happening now all across the world. You might be doing it.

In fact, I KNOW most of you are doing it (and doing it damn well, by the way, lovers, bravo).

What is this elusive thing the artist dares to do?

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How to Get the Love You Desire (Fast & Easy)

We have to do more.

Right? I mean, what we’ve done isn’t enough.

Right? Because we’re still lost and confused and aren’t exactly sure what we’re doing or should do next (quite possibly it’s chocolate, though, whatever the fuck it is).

On some existential level (and to sort of box up our random idiotic cravings and shove them under the proverbial bed) we simmer all this vague “needing” to do the “more” down to “needing more love.”

We seek for love.

Don’t we?

We look for love in everything – we want love from our family, our dog, our kids, our killer abs, our boy/girl/friend’s killer abs, our talent, our blog, our followers, our art, our sex, our fantasies, our work, our homes, our partner, our vibrator, our new haircut (no, you look so cute tho, seriously).

But love isn’t any of those things (okay, maybe we’re on the fence about the vibrator but let’s try to focus, kids).

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How Deep Is Your Love? The Art & Struggle of Surrender

We don’t want to give it all up.

As sexy as it sounds to surrender ourselves, we’re terrified of what it would mean to actually do it completely.

As lovely as it rolls across the mind to say we will surrender, we don’t often (ever?) intend to give up the struggle and inhabit the peace of mind we say we want.

It’s just not that easy.

What if I invited you to consider that this poem . . .

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How to MAJORLY Build Your Self-Confidence by Doing This ONE Badass Thing

Right, so we’ll get to building your sexy ass confidence in just a second, good friend.

First tho, here’s a fun trick to try if you’d like to test your creative confidence; publish a blog post about erotica, get everybody all seduced and lathered up, and then come back a week later and publish another blog post.

About anything.

About anything else.

Post about something else – after riffing about touching and stroking and fingering – and expect anyone to give a shit about what could possibly come after all that goodness.

I hear you. I know. But never fear, my love. I’ve got you. I am not afraid.

I have something even hotter to talk about this week, if you can possibly fathom that (I realize a blogger with any sense at all would be concerned about deliberately stacking this kind of dangerous pyramid scheme of expectations but nobody’s here to play it safe, I sincerely hope).

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Erotica: Finding Pleasure in the Essential Art of Touch

Fair warning, lovers: This one will be very different from the others. (Are you reading this at the office, by the way? Because you might not want to be reading this at the office. But then again, maybe you really do.)

Consistency is divine but so is disruption. So is surprise.

This post is not about how to’s or fixing or changing anything. It’s about feeling.

Feeling. Everything.

Feeling, it seems to me, is a precious and increasingly scarce form of artistry. People are numbed out all over the damn place trying to avoid feelings of pain but also, in more cases than we seem to realize, trying to avoid feelings of good honest organic pleasure (because, you know, the guilt and the guilt and the guilt and everything – and then there’s the guilt).

Odd things, we.

Maybe it’s better (more accurate? more tragic?) to say that avoiding our feelings has become a twisted art form in itself.

Somehow, in these overcharged, overstimulating, hyper-sexed times, we end up numb and ashamed when all we really crave is to be touched and awakened.

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3 Ways to Start Doing the Work You REALLY Want To Do

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Allison Marie for glorybegin.com

A weird thing happens to otherwise normal people when we attempt to level with each other about work.

People seem to act like if they were to start doing the work they truly loved, other people will think they are colossally selfish / stupid / immature and begin throwing themselves out of seven story buildings or lighting themselves on fire in protest.

We act like if we want to be artists we’ll need to prove we’re “allowed” by only doing what we long to do as a “nice hobby” or in a damp cellar by dank (dank?) candlelight where no one has to see us in all our crazy.

We seem to think that if we were to work on something that we totally dig, this may simultaneously cause our families to implode, our lovers to walk out, our children to disown us, our very physical security to be threatened by some invisible bully.

We think we don’t deserve it. We think they can’t handle it. We think it has to be a big fucking deal and we’ll need to ceremonially trade in everything we’ve earned in our entire lives up to this point in exchange for the right to pursue our creative passions.

But you know what actually happens to us and to other people when we finally dare to start working on our dream?

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How to Find Your Authentic Voice

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Hello, gorgeous – would you come closer for a sec?  Sssshhh come come come closer closer closer . . . I have a secret to tell you.

Oh. Yes. ;)

Actually, I have 43 secrets. (*politely checks wrist where watch would be if anyone wore watches anymore now that Fitbits are apparently every sick thing in an ever-expanding arsenal of sick digital things all diligently calculating a million new ways to remind me that I haven’t done enough today*)

Don’t sweat it though, babe, these secrets are fast and they are powerful if you listen tight.

You see, secret friend, I have been secretly working up to this secret blog post, secretly, over the past secret six weeks.

In secret.

As in: drenched and soaked and sealed and locked in secret. Total sexy punk wizardry; total ninja stealth warrior hidden in plain sight.

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Dear Ego, You Seductive Bastard

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I will always be a problem for you.

Because I will always get back up.

And I will get stronger every time.

I will always choose love over and over again.

But you never count on this do you, baby?

Even after all the times we’ve gone around and around.

I will always forgive myself.

I will always forgive you.

I will always forgive them.

I will always pay attention.

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How to Make Love Out Loud

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I’m not asking you to disassemble your life.

I’m not asking you to live on the street or give your last dime to charity or replace your dark roast coffee with decaf (in fact, if decaf coffee is ever mentioned on this blog again: someone else is writing this blog).

I’m not asking you to somehow figure out a way to make up for what you didn’t do or could have done or should have done or should be doing now.

I’m not asking you to change houses or partners or jobs or religions or toothpaste.

But I am asking you.

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One True Thing

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You’ll either find this to be the toughest or the easiest thing in the world to do.

If things get brilliantly bizarre – which they totally might so, I beg of you, please don’t rule that crazy goodness out – you’ll find it to be both at the same time.

There’s a lot of noise right now about resolutions and this new year being the most “fucktabulous” or whatever the latest punchy catch word is but experience has proven that until the year actually ends itself, there’s no sure way to tell what in the confetti is about to drop.

A proper year takes its grand old time undressing and I don’t know about you but I can’t wait that long to see if when I turn around my life in retrospect had been fuckalicious. I mean, who could possibly predict how many other fucksational ways we’ll have come up with to use curse words on kitschy cocktail napkins by then ( . . . wait for it . . . ).

But there is something that could rock your world right this minute even if the rest of the year falls to hell in a fiery hand basket. Continue reading

{Podcast} 3 Ways to Bring On the Hardcore Love We Need Right Now

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Some of what I talk about in this final podcast episode for the year was hard to say.  Hard to admit and yet at the same time, hard to hold in.

People don’t talk about some of this stuff and I think that’s a mistake. We need to be real in order to be love.  And heaven knows we need the love to shine bigger and brighter than ever these days.

My humble intention with this episode was to remind us all of three empowering things:

#1 Our authentic connection to the love within is the single most important gift we have. I offer a specific way for us to get back to that love space right now.  And sustain it.

#2 We all lose our way.  (I did.)  We can always, always, always come back.  (I’m here.)

#3 It’s time to majorly detox from the negative energy that does not serve our highest selves.  I share in blissful, bloody detail exactly how I’m going to be doing this over the next two weeks. :)

Ready, babes?  Cool, here we go.  Listen in and let me know what you think:

 

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How to Write Like Sex and Dance on a Pinhead

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You think you know a person, right. And then she pulls some random shit like this on you.

What is happening right now. You’d like to know. I bet.

You think you know yourself.

You think you know all there is to know inside what you already know and then you got comfortable there.

I’d like to disrupt you for a second, babe, if that’s cool. Because while you are warm and snuggled there in the chaise lounge corner of your punchy Ikea Nockeby sectional, your mind is getting dull and your face is pulling sunken and your beautiful, beautiful wild spirit is growing stupid-restless.

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