Here i thought i was invincible
i could do it again I could do it at midnight
haven’t you heard I’ve got tricks up my sleeve
come here sell me passion fruit
teach me to reap what i sow instead.
Come here whisper guidelines for me to follow
in the fold of my empty stomach
ill bother you at 3AM when the last hummingbird
lays its self to sleep
I’ll make it worth your while.
I’m not dead yet
haven’t you heard I’ve got tricks up these sleeves
take me to the Yorkshire pond
where your mother laid your brother to rest
his corpse is still fresh to me
maybe we can make him healthy again
he’s got a scar above his right eye socket.
I’ve got too many to count
we’re even.
Let him walk free he’s seen what I’ve seen
Haven’t you heard he’s got tricks up his sleeve?
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I love how people, these "great artists" who make trucks of money for themselves only, intent to calling something out thats coming whether they say it or not, patting themselves on the back for being original.., then find faces to suit their needs, and forget the faces have souls too.
I'm very very tired, haven't slept much, , but i've been reading the signs and the symbols and being called back to recess just heard that trumpet last night. i i've been visited and listening. it's a many layered thing, pulling all the strings and making balance ring. I don't even know to trust you, I don't know what I'm doing, I'm scared of being plagiarized, I don't have a home of my own nor the time to build up from the bottom with html codes and DNS and all that zombie shit.i dont have the capitol.
yeah yeah you're preaching to the choir girl, let me tell you lovers don't uncover they cover it all up let's see you take it off get your rocks off. THE PROBLEM WITH POSING IS IT MAKES YOU SQUIRM. ALL THOSE SECRETIONS. ALL THAT CLAY AND PLASTER AND ALL THE TEXTURES. AND IM STANDING STARK FOR SOME DUDE TO RECREATE ME IN 36 HOURS. 36 HOURS TO ENCOMPASS EVERYTHING. replacing you with a more metaphysical presence. That being, the absence of STUFF. it's hollow on the inside, he's got an open anatomy book nearby and a few sketches of the spine like that'll change anything, like that'll fill me. He's studying Goldfinger finding the great trocantor, scapula, ligaments but in the end its just a piece of rock without a liver without no filling no viens.
Yeah I took a break last night got in a pumping room got too pumped to stumble back home tail between my legs had enough of hands on my face twisting my nipples out of my chest had enough of salivating men and girls, girls, girls. What do you know, someone did me for the novel suddenly im some collector's item, got hours to draw bones and feet and light shapes suddenly atmosphere. So stand naked in front of a mirror and burn your bodies that you despise so you can rid yourselves of your humiliation and chauvinism don't fucking look at me like im some kind of commodity.
Now I'll wash up with kerosene, bathe in saline. I can hear the ladies' hearts beat between their legs and stand to attention, I can't feel them on me, in me. You know you gotta figure out your own anatomy, you’re ripe for harvesting, virgin cells to penetrate, too premature to permeate what they can’t elucidate. Thank you for defiling me ladies and gents. Language is pure as binary and your bodies have this way of trying to enlighten mine. Saying watch your health girl, like they now my feeding patterns like they know my predatorial impulses.
I should've seen the plane nosediving completely, selfishness is no virtue. I should've given in to desire. I should've switched the two to a three, I'm just flesh to give away, born-again before teething. An impression to embed a crevice, dent in the ballroom of my collarbone housing masked dancers gliding and cracking the curved bony edge of the floor.
*Note from Project Pen: we edit submissions when required. In this instance we declined to edit, because we felt errors in syntax and grammar reflected the spirit and meaning of the piece. What do you think?
A story by Izzy Afyouni.
Read previous work from Izzy Afyouni here.
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"I am but a ghost of the shore lost in you", Oil on Canvas, 150cm x 100.
You are insufferable. A metaphystical being out of bounds. Incapable of a quick reply and unable to answer me coherently. Apt at metamorphisis. Capable of osmosis. Able to travel through sound waves with a penchant for fission. Inhuman. Unreal. Lost, dazed. Tossed and displaced (you or me? It is unclear) floating and sinking, adapting to the rise and flow.
With unearthly fine lines you alone debunked the theory of displacement. Agumenta derived from bamboo encased in skin. A talented mixologist, cooking up deadly concoctions wordlessly, your audience of one thirsts.
You drug her with silence. You watch it disintegrate the Timber slowly. You relish the faceless figures you relish the taste. Speak now, do not linger. I’ve waited longer than this but this time the wait is excruciating. My needle rests, the cork is in place, they remain untouched, unprovoked but a word from you will set everything in motion.
I want to speak to the women here I want to taste them almost as much as I want my needle to penetrate your porcelain skin, but I cannot, will not so I write, write, write, shred, shred, shred, and maybe some sense will come of all this.
Words become fire, become smoke, smoke rises and falls i breathe it in it leaves me i don’t want to hold it within me I don’t want to hold you inside I want you out of sight out of mind because my nose is in a perpetual state of agony, clogged with the scent of your breath on my bed, I remember catching you smelling my pillows breathing me in for once relishing the taste of me: i am syrup, i am water, i am thicker than snow i smell of clay and i sweat lavender.
Do you not seek freedom or justice do you seek solitude i do not know i do not care i only care for the betel nut that rots my teeth, i hope i get disease of the mouth so that all sound is sucked out of me. I hope i never get to speak another word.
I do not forget, do I forgive?
How womanly of me, but i am no lady. I recognize within you all the decadent narcissism, all the unsavory musings that led you to strike.
Still I crave your insolence, your undeserved sense of importance, your arrogance. My walk mirrors the curve of your waist and when I think of you I am instantly dismantled, reduced to only the sum of my physical parts. If only I was made of malleable metal then I could hammer myself into shape.
I try to focus on your lesser qualities, hoping they will leave a bad taste in my mouth, the wonder maddens me, all the questions I could have asked, the ones that gnaw on me now.
Do you not seek freedom? Your diligence baffles me, you are a symbol of submission, do you solicit my attention? Am I glued to you, bound to your horrible hasty decisions? I hope you grow old and wise in days. Oh god please don’t come back I don’t know if I can control myself.
Story & art work by Izzy Afyouni
Check out Izzy's previous stories on project pen here.
