Slurred words
and slowed movements
like water.
She’s a swift tide of
the lyrical.
and pale.
the graceful.
and stale.
And her fingers
lean from years of piano
fumble
to light the last cigarette.
She wants
a body
of fire.
Or just
a quick burst
of anything.
But she’ll settle for the smoke
pouring from her lips.
Floating.
And her eyes
match the twilight-
A subtle shift
from blue to grey.
Faded.
And she’s convinced
that if you tore her open
you’d find a drowning symphony.
December 23 1888:
Vincent Van Gogh takes a sharp edge against his head Successfully cutting off his ear.
On May 8 1889,
He admits himself into the Saint Paul de Mausole lunatic asylum.
It is here,
In the catacombs of his wax coated, pressed-to-package heart
Where his blood streams the will of his hand creating his most famous, and beautiful masterpieces.
My darling, you are not the dried up paint
Cracked off to flake into the air
Particle by particle
Being inhaled by those unworthy of your scent.
Don’t you ever feel like the symptoms of death-
The left over, missed nibbles of creation.
He ate yellow Paint
We eat yellow Paint
You are my yellow Paint.
The only reason my body has not fallen victim to toxins in my bloodstream
As he did
Is because
You have a direct biological correlation to my happiness
The fumes of paint mix and dance with the fumes of my despair
Organs made canvas
Premature shapes
Colors splattered
Product is you.
You don’t just coat my stomach with prosthetic beauty
You are the irises
You are MY irises
My darling,
I can see the starry view from my asylum window.
I am having my first out of body experience
That will not scar me physically as I shove my hand through the window
Just to try and touch the fire of night.
I look so,
Desperate.
Gasping for a single breath hoping I finally reach the passion
Every time I try to paint starry night it comes out as your face.
I carved it into my skin
Melted my flesh and bone
Molding myself into what beauty could be
But I am a 2D appreciating enthusiast.
I notice the fluorescent lights
pulsating
I think of your eyes and the way they retract and grow as you go from crying to
Discussing the way the flowers in your brain
Tickle the inside of your ears.
May whoever try to rip them from the pores of your skin
Rot in Hell.
Even I in all my idiocy know how
It feels to get lost in the
Tranquil trance of fragrance.
To be completely fine with disarray.
My darling,
You are my music.
I’m chugging gallons of paint closing my ears shut.
Whatever Van Gogh tried to silence
Will not infest my brain
Not while you remain a pesticide.
Not while you’re here.
Whispering. Humming. Kissing.
Breathing
The oxygen from your own plants
Giving me CPR
trying to clean out my lungs hoping my ears pop
But my hands stop you.
You’d make it too easy.
I want to make sure every word that falls into the cavern of my aching body
Leaves a seed that can only be watered by the paint that I feed on.
Insanity for a being.
Insanity for being.
I’ll admit myself.
The view is so nice here.
The view is so pretty here.
Self designed, molded by Pygmalion.
The view is so beautiful here.
July 29, 1890:
Van Gogh dies from two gunshot wounds to the chest from 2 days earlier.
The package, has been opened.
Somewhere between
The spaces of my fingers
And the regions of my heart that
You and I like to pretend do not exist
Are filled up by the emotions that
I never knew a person could possibly
Feel.
Give me a smile,
A nod of approval,
And I will give you
Anything you want.
A touch, a glance, a sign of encouragement
You are the unattainable dieting goal;
So insatiable, yet I know I must cut back.
Back away,
Somewhere off into the distant land of
Pretend
We used to know the things about each other
That most people would deny but
Let’s be honest – cutting the crap was always your style.
Without you,
I am a piece to a puzzle that will
Never be completed.
And without you,
I am always left
wanting more.
“Damn Mooses. Wait. Meese? No, but it’s definitely not Mooses. Moosen? Oh, what the hell am I doing? This is not a time for grammatically correct Meese.”
My increasingly nonsensical internal dialogue comes to an end as the moose thing glares at me. “Never again”, the words echo through my head as I assess my current situation. My torso, my arms, my thighs, they all ache with the gathered efforts required to climb my way up this damnable mountain, I can’t feel what raw skin hasn’t been scrapped off hands, my lungs burn, and my body is on it’s last legs. The thing continues it’s glare, it’s gaze that of a predator, hungry for a quick meal. I only have one way out.
My hand slowly reaches for my weapon, a desperate attempt not to startle the moose thing. It doesn’t work.
Caution is thrown to the wind as the moose charges, fangs bared, all seven nostrils flaring. I dive out of the way, and the moose plows straight through one of the walls of the already rickety wooden shack we’re fighting in, bringing new meaning to “architecturally questionable”. I unload 3 shots from my oversized revolver which all miss their mark due to the massive inaccuracy of a weapon this size.
The sound angers the moose further, adding to my already growing list of problems as it turns and charges again. My sword leaves its sheath and embeds itself in the Moose thing’s antlers with a dull thunk, just in time for the thing to toss its head, snapping the sword in two at the hilt. The Moose thing rears back before charging with renewed vigor and an new cutting edge embedded between its aggressively pointy antlers. I am going to ruin whoever designed my gear for this assignment.
Trapped between a Moose and a not so hard wooden shack wall, I opt to go through the wall rather than the moose. I drive what’s left of my sword through a brittle plank, then tug and yank with my entire upper body to try and get the damnable thing back out. I look over my shoulder, my vision shaky and blurred, my arms and shoulders burning from my continuous attempts to retrieve the shitty sword, and I see that my time’s up. The moose thing is practically on top of me, it’s 7 eyes now up to 14 as far as my vision is concerned.
I can either try and go through the wall with just my own weight, or I could use the moose’s force to help me through, If I can manage that without being impaled or otherwise maimed.
I hop and curl into a ball, twisting in the air so my feet meet the moose’s head. Time slows down as I kick with every ounce of energy left in my body, my heels shuddering with the impact, the force traveling through my body, jostling my bones violently, vibrating my jaw, the sounds reverberating throughout my head.
I feel something break as I get launched straight through the annoyingly sturdy shack wall, time still crawling past at a fraction of what it should be. A glorious sunrise hits me like a brick thrown at 60 miles an hour, my eyes unaccustomed to the dancing rays and deep purple-orange sky after such a long night. My body hits the ground, rolls, and is thrown into the air again, snow cascading in waves around me, shards and planks of what used to be the shed cutting through the waves like unassuming sharks thrown into the sky by some sadistic force. I bounce twice more, each time bringing less snow up with me and allowing for more light to refract brilliantly off the partially melted waves, if only for a fraction of a moment.
After a painfully long time, the world returns to normal. Well. As normal as a world with mutated predatory moosen is want to be. I start feeling the impact from the wall, from the ground, from the moose. It hurts. Bad. My ankle is broken, no doubt, I have at least three cracked ribs, a punctured lung if i’m unlucky, and a spine that’s seen better days, like that time Jill pushed me off the roof of her house and I landed on my neck. Good memories.
I slowly, very slowly, pick myself up off the ground, applying as little pressure as possible to my left arm and right ankle. It’s then that I see the blood.
A trail of it, little drizzles upon the snow, punctuated by craters and pools of the stuff, leading all the way to my right foot.
A river of blood is running from where I stand, the snow steaming and diluting the blood with clear, clean water. The coppery stench of it reaches my nostrils, nauseating and warm.
I double over, my body feeling the sharp, stinging pain of a wound that went straight through military grade combat boots, feeling the life drain out of it and into the snow. I don’t know how long I lie there, shaking, shuddering, before I realize what i’m doing. I realize i’m giving up. I’m letting my life flow away into the snow, to be used by some woodland creature. Maybe a moose.
Well screw meese.
I look around me, and assess my situation again. I’m lying on the cold, hard, snow covered rock of a mountaintop, ribs broken, ankle shattered, god knows what the hell happened to my arm, and i’m bleeding out while wondering why I haven’t been maimed to death by a demon moose.
I smile when I see why.
My right foot, while having been shattered and flayed a fair bit, broke the shitty sword a second time, and drove the fragments straight into the moose’s stupid shitty brain.
I cannot emphasise the passion with which I detest the very existence of meese at this moment. No, really. Fuck meese.
With a sense of relief, I reach into my coat, and pull out the school mandated emergency beacon, a bulky rectangular device, just big enough to be uncomfortable in a pocket. I will kiss whichever brilliant moron made me take it with me when I get back.
My arm burning with the effort, I weekly flip open the reinforced steel-plate cover on the front of the device, and with all the force I can draw from my aching body, I slam my fist into the big red button underneath. It’s the most satisfying thing i’ve ever felt.
I tear off my boot and gingerly wrap my mangled foot in a tourniquet, before crawling over to the moose and propping my head up on its warm belly.
I start drifting into a comfortable sleep, my body slowly waning itself off adrenaline as a last thought passes through my head before I pass into peaceful blackness.
Fuck Meese.
The sun drizzled into the sea–
a meeting like butterfly kisses.
Soaked in gold,
you curled your fingers into mine
and we wandered into the sky.
And I remembered when
Apollo stole turquoise from the swell
to craft your aster eyes
And promised me
a life like Spanish guitar
and raspberries.
I’ll smear them on my lips
So I can taste like summertime.
And I’ll let my heels char by the stars.
Or maybe, I’ll fall into your soul
And find
Unkempt hair and dandelions.
I love you.
Atleast, I think, I could.
Now, Sleep won’t follow, so
I walk on words.
The moon carves into my chest.
I’m nothing, but hummingbirds.
I feel like 2:00 am
Crumbling into morning,
Laughing at all the tragedy that makes you cry.
Light leaks in through the blinds.
The stale and yellowing map sighs.
The universe swells in the gap between your teeth.
And I believe in feeling.
Like cigarette burns and crimson.
Like fuck yes, I’m conscious.
Like atoms dripping from your aster eyes.
I used to dance on tombstones.
Now, I’m almost alive.
The sun drizzled into the sea–
a meeting like butterfly kisses.
Soaked in gold,
you curled your fingers into mine
and we wandered into the sky.
And I remembered when
Apollo stole turquoise from the swell
to craft your aster eyes
And promised me
a life like Spanish guitar
and raspberries.
I’ll smear them on my lips
So I can taste like summertime.
And I’ll let my heels char by the stars.
Or maybe, I’ll fall into your soul
And find
Unkempt hair and dandelions.
I love you.
Atleast, I think, I could.
Now, Sleep won’t follow, so
I walk on words.
The moon carves into my chest.
I’m nothing, but hummingbirds.
I feel like 2:00 am
Crumbling into morning,
Laughing at all the tragedy that makes you cry.
Light leaks in through the blinds.
The stale and yellowing map sighs.
The universe swells in the gap between your teeth.
And I believe in feeling.
Like cigarette burns and crimson.
Like fuck yes, I’m conscious.
Like atoms dripping from your aster eyes.
I used to dance on tombstones.
Now, I’m almost alive.
The sun drizzled into the sea–
a meeting like butterfly kisses.
Soaked in gold,
you curled your fingers into mine
and we wandered into the sky.
And I remembered when
Apollo stole turquoise from the swell
to craft your aster eyes
And promised me
a life like Spanish guitar
and raspberries.
I’ll smear them on my lips
So I can taste like summertime.
And I’ll let my heels char by the stars.
Or maybe, I’ll fall into your soul
And find
Unkempt hair and dandelions.
I love you.
Atleast, I think, I could.
Now, Sleep won’t follow, so
I walk on words.
The moon carves into my chest.
I’m nothing, but hummingbirds.
I feel like 2:00 am
Crumbling into morning,
Laughing at all the tragedy that makes you cry.
Light leaks in through the blinds.
The stale and yellowing map sighs.
The universe swells in the gap between your teeth.
And I believe in feeling.
Like cigarette burns and crimson.
Like fuck yes, I’m conscious.
Like atoms dripping from your aster eyes.
I used to dance on tombstones.
Now, I’m almost alive.
My siblings and I have the habit of breathing heavily.
We inhale the dirt, the foliage, the pebbles in the moor with a single exhale,
(never mind the pesky case of asthma that we all seem to share)
and exhale the North wind, the starry night and the cloudless summer sky.
Our lungs must take up at least 83% of our bodies,
stratocumulus clouds and bunches of hydrangeas were pressed up against
our tracheas and primary bronchi.
When my sister speaks,
it’s with rays of sunshine peeking between her teeth.
She tends to talk rather loudly,
but I attribute that to her trying to be heard over the chirping of North African black birds.
Her knees are as knobby as a giraffe’s and her eyes are as clear as a doe’s.
However, she walks with the gait of a lioness,
and would rather inhale your fear then exhale defeat.
I have two brothers,
both are thin and gangly with limbs like birch wood branches or
a new born gazelle with awkward limbs and an ambition that could rival
that of a bird learning to master the air underneath its wings.
The older one breathes slowly and deeply.
He would inhale a scarab beetle as carefully as he would a baleen whale.
His exhales would spread across West African deserts and European tundras,
kissing nightingales and billy goats to sleep.
He doesn’t know of frantic cries nor hyperventilating,
his lungs are made of the same stuff as the mountains in South America.
The younger one is reminiscent of a rabbit,
young and small and rapid.
He breathes in lilypads and peonies and sparks of ember.
He breathes in harried words and furrowed brows and nervous feet.
He breathes in flicking tails and hurricanes and lightning bolts.
He exhales the rushing waves of the Pacific ocean.
My lungs are weak and I can only breathe in as much as I can imagine.
Sometimes, my mind is too large for my lungs.
I’ve got daisies and marshes and valleys and wombats and thunderstorms in mind.
I’m ready to exhale Atlantis, Paradise lost and the Second Coming.
Let me a breathe a little heavier.
snowflakes
or something like
i
c
i
c
l
e
s
Drip down my arms, clinging to my veins,
Like it’s only a matter of time before they melt away.
In a place where time doesn’t exist,
In a world where reality doesn’t conform,
We can be whomever we want.
Once upon a time,
I was the ice queen, but you were the fire-breathing dragon
Frozen walls melted, its blocks floating into
happy little puddles of Sunlight
before my very eyes.
You can be the Unicorn; I’ll be the Fairy.
Let the Wicked Witch say what She wants,
But we will always write
Our own fairy tale.
Before you read this article, if you have a problem with feminism (equality of the sexes), then you should probably just leave.
If you keep up with the feminist movement on any forms of social media, you’ve probably heard of the men who denounce the activism in the community by redirecting the issue on the challenges men face in society. Now, I’d like to make clear that their issues do exist. As a feminist, I clearly don’t hate men- as I identify as one- and I benefit from feminism as well. (All genders do). However, anti-feminist movements usually spend so much more time telling us why feminism is the root of all evil than they do helping the men that are discriminated against in society.
The movement I’m referring to is, of course, “Meninism”.
Meninism started as a patriarchal joke on twitter that was backed by a few problematic white boys. They eventually started growing a fanbase and shortly afterwards and turned into a serious movement.
When looking into the foreign world of meninism, it seems their main goal is to completely disregard the patriarchy while perpetuating inequality of the sexes. They also like to complain about issues that may or may not effect them- without actually doing anything about it. Meninists have attempted to re-invent the wheel as they ignore the positive effects feminism has on all genders. This metaphorical wheel, of course, is extremely bumpy.
Meninism’s main issues seem to be body-positivity in men and the unjust expectations of “masculinity”. Both of which are extremely valid points. However, meninism segregates those who could be fighting patriarchal notions (those of which are the source of sexism) alongside each other. Feminism aims to promote equality of the sexes, which is why it benefits other genders as well as women- the oppressed gender.
When meninists come along and turn the issue on themselves (which they will inevitably do), they are removing the focus from the issues that matter increasingly to oppressed women. Meninism would be a wonderful movement if they actually worked towards equality for all genders- the main point they attempt to make, since they immediately equate feminism with misandry.
Meninism as a movement should be rejected on its face because of its misogynistic roots and innate dismissal of structural violence towards women. Remember that feminism is a movement for equality, and distracting from that hurts yourself and others. Misandristic feminism is not feminism, and
Inkling 