beth motherfucking kirby.

b thang.

SHUTUP in my boudoir

8.3.16

the job part 4.

a yellow and amorphous pattern begins, unsure itself if it is light, breeze, or both.
a pattern of shrieks and chatters becomes louder as i become awake. my eyelids flutter open like the wings of waking birds. the world, from my cliff, is pale and infinite. everything is new, wet, energetic and keen from it's storm.
i make my way from the cliff's edge and dig my hands to the dirt. i notice berries and fallen bark, things scuttling in the collage of the forest floor. a colder, sharper air arrives: the leaves rustle and pique, my skin creates bumps and peaks - we all notice.
i move through the trees. singing green greets me. i am the light, the light is me. i feel my way along what i have built. cool stones against my body, rough and heavy.

the things that live are all awake. they call to each other as the light grows.

a bird flaps in the twigs above, sending specks of dust down to me. a gift. the bird glides to the forest's feet. the bird, delicate and simple. it carries something in it's sharp mouth. the bird, blinking it's glassy eyes, tilting it's velvet head, struggles with the thing.
the bird sees me watching. soon, the bird drops the thing. turning it's head sideways, it blinks at the thing, uncontrollably twitching and adjusting its head to see.
the thing is from before - the bird considers it still. the thing: parts of red flimsy translucence, folded pieces of metal, a small tube, a plastic wheel, a flint . this small, useless and trite fragment of all the things that were before. as i look at the thing, a thing that could have been used to create flames more stinging and vicious than the sun, it offends me. my stomach turns, i feel embarrassed, jarred to see it's contrived, broken body in my forest. it does not live. it never did.

i snatch the pieces of lighter from the floor, as the bird flees in skittish terror. filled with disgust i take the pieces of plastic in my fist and begin to climb. i grab at the stones i have placed, the walls that grew through me. my feet find places that they know are there. one hand pulls me skywards. i come to a floor, an opening; a gap in the bricks. i force my body in the tower, scraping my skin and corners against the skin and corners of the rock. i take the shattered thing, thrust it into the dark crevice i find at the end of my arm. i look behind me at the morning growing. i drop the ugly, unnatural shards from my dirty hand.

i listen to hear them finish their fall, but they never do.

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26.3.15

the job part three

and so it begins.
sky stretched above me a banner, a wide flat ribbon of orange. orange. orange in every way. sour and sweet, so wet and full.
once humming with light. bruised at the edges, now.
the things that live - they quiet. the portions of chirrup and rustle slow to a soft wall of nothingness. i feel the sound, i feel the light soften around me. a cocoon of darkness dropping from somewhere far, far above and far, far away suddenly to my feet. betwixt the parts of the floor, the darkness fills. thick and warm, so thick that i feel it nearly consumes me, drown me down to the floor.
nearly.
i can still feel the skin on my arm with my hand. hear my breath. feel the blink of an eye; the brush of my hair on my face.
i still see. i see now, as i saw before. the clear black of the sky studded by pinpricks so cool and clear i can taste them. cold and white.
the forest, before ablaze, sparkling to and fro, ha become something new. not jutting and jostling but one soft, swaying shape. slowly hissing in the breeze, a breathing creature below me.

sometimes, something shrieks. a smeared ember of a star; a voice in a tree.

i feel warmth. i feel a soupy heat around me. a blanket for the creatures; the plants and rocks and dirt and stones.
the joints of my body ache with use. the palms of my hand crisp and rough. my eyes swell with the dark, full of shiny blackness. i feel them stare in light they were not meant for.

for the first time, my knees bend and lower - my hands fall backwards, legs splay, back bends, feet adjust and all my body moves with my weight as if they are completing a dance i do not know. harmoniously, muscles stretch and contract, the joints of my skeleton, buried below wet purple flesh and blood, they move too. it happens all at once and then, here i lay. a sweet, deep ache of work spent settles, as if it too, must lie.

i feel twigs and moss move to accommodate my body. we are the same.
here, i rest. the sky and i - we are heavy in darkness together. the heat and the silence are too.
i too become the night.
it is me.

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1.4.13

I said goddamn.

Well, shit. Goddamn. I just don't know if this is the end.
Have I grown tired of this? Have the cons finally outweighed the pros? Can I no longer deal with your ineptitudes? Maybe I am sick of being one of the only thoughtful people I know. Or maybe I'm tired of not having sex. Maybe I'm just tired of you; or me. Tired of being bored. Bored of being tired.
I wasn't expecting any of this.
I said goddamn.

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14.9.12

salt.

i had forgotten our love.

not the worst of it. i hadn't forgotten how insular you were. hadn't forgotten how you could make me feel like so superfluous to your weird life. how you wanted to play games, pretending you weren't playing all along.

i had forgotten how highly you thought of me sometimes.
i had forgotten how you were so different. with one photo of a japanese toy dog you bought me, just so suddenly everything game back. now i've remembered one thing, i remember it all.

days in camden, days in covent garden, days spent with me waiting for you to wake up.
days turning to nights so quickly in the winter, as we nursed our comedowns, walked to the indian off license and bought shit, went back to bed. fucked all the time.
you never had any money.
i always missed my bus. i hated the journey back. i never showered, i felt like i shouldn't.
your tiny dark house full of tiny dark things.

you were such a mystery. everything was too hard, and looking back i was so...caught up in you. my mind whisked away by real love. never realising that you were so cold to me. i never understood you.
isn't it weird? i am a totally different person now. my life is so, so different. are you? have you changed?
i always swore that these things i'd remember with such clarity and i guess i do. i do remember it all, every second. but is it clear?
i remember like an old woman remembers the way things were - remembering facts, with a wistful smile. foggy, remembering emotions but not feeling them. what is the point of having emotions about such ancient history?
i've been there.
done that.
didn't get a fucking tshirt.

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8.3.16

the job part 4.

26.3.15

the job part three

1.4.13

I said goddamn.

14.9.12

salt.