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The Coquette's Revival
 
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Below are the 13 most recent journal entries recorded in coraltongue's LiveJournal:

Friday, May 19th, 2006
5:44 pm
her canyon, her scar (edited version #1)
her canyon, her scar

the land lies her legs wide open. shes lied there so long she does not even remember what it feels like to have legs anymore. she is all eyes and thoughts and a sweaty upper lip. she says nothing. her throat is achy. her heart is restless. the sky heats on her heats on her heats on her like anger but worse. she is no longer the pretty baby of the earth, but now a severed cracked woman with a canyon between her legs. a deep canyon that can't even feel the stars at night, the vauge existance of others or the ones that prick and search, the vultures and coyotes. she is nothing anymore, just barely holding herself. tied down. she is land. grounded in herself, pain all pain all pain. she grips hard into herself and is angry so long, that the anger seems like nothing to her now. she sweats and the heat moistens her upper lip. she says nothing, nothing. she stopped thinking about something saving her eons ago.

{need a transition here}

thunderheads clasp and shout and scatter sheets of blue wet grey wet on her. something inside her cervix quickens she feels the rising pulse of the ariloas running. streaming. suddenly her toes tingle. she has toes! she has feet! and ankles! legs! and words that kick and scream and thunder clasps above and the hot sky is raining is blasting her hotness away. her legs start moving she runs she runs faster, she opens herself up and screams and shouts to the sky the whole earth inside her, a river of words like a poem pants out of her canyon, a pantoum, her deep red canyon now glistens with wet. she is a river inside her, a river rolling out of her a river heating steaming streaming, breaking away. clouds clear and her fears of awakness evaporate. steam from her eyelids, the ancient past of her traumas she's hidden (carried?), now cleansed. the theoretical baby of her existance has been birthed. her scar is wide open now, a clean scar. she is proud of it.
5:13 pm
her canyon, her scar
the land lies her legs wide open. shes lied there so long she does not even remember what it feels like to have legs. she is all eyes and thoughts and a sweaty upper lip. she says nothing. the sky heats on her heats on her heats on her like anger but worse. she is no longer the pretty baby of the earth, but now a severed cracked woman with a canyon between her legggs. a deep canyon that can't even feel the stars at night, the vauge existance of others or the ones that prick and search, the vultures and coyotes. she is nothing anymore, just barely holding herself there. she grips hard into herself and is angry so long, that the anger seems like nothing to her now. she sweats and the heat moistens her upper lip. she says nothing, nothing. thunderheads clasp and shout and scatter sheets of blue wet grey wet on her. something inside her cervix quickens she feels the rising pulse of the ariloas running. suddenly her toes tingle. she has toes! she has feet! and ankles! and words that kick and scream and thunder clasps above and the hot sky is raining is blasting her hotness away. her legs start moving she runs she runs faster, she opens herself up and screams and shouts to the sky the whole earth inside her, a river of words like a poem pants out of her canyon, her deep red canyon now glistens with wet. she is a river inside her, a river rolling out of her a river heating steaming breaking away. clouds clear and her fears of awakness evaporate. steam from her eyelids, the ancient past of her traumas she's hidden, now cleansed. the theoretical baby of her existance has been birthed. her scar is wide open now, a clean scar. she is proud of it.
5:11 pm
the men i've vultured upon seem like
nothing not even pieces of a tattered dress.
i am all sweaty from the desert and hiking and craving my lover. there is nothing like the scent of sky and sagebrush and juniper. the rain culls like angry roman gods swearing in portugese, angry
firey words
and the heat evaporates steams off,
my memories exist no longer.
5:03 pm
canyon, like a scar (thread)
canyon, like a scar
along the thin river thunder heads
deep grey and cerulean blue like a dream, a magician's dream
a dream where the earth unfolded herself to the sky but the sun
was jelous and struck her, wanting the moon and the stars all to herself
as if the heat wasn't enough. so the earth the wounded earth crawled up like a baby, fetus blazing in hot agony
oh pain
and a magician, a person a person dreamed up like a bird that never flew but still shed a wing
....
ugh this is not it.
....
canyon, like a scar
unfolds herself near the river
as i walk with my lover sweaty in my thighs
the high desert like nothing i've never seen before, ponderosas bruised by lightening but still they stand like women i've known, a woman i've been.
with my lover i've lain in beauty underneath stars and ceilings and awareness.
we rename rivers and rocks and mountains. the names are never as beautiful as they should be so we rename them.
it is all we can do.
no fucking or laughing or crying or existance or any other trite human action can justify a scar in the land like that.
i only know how it feels, as my vaginas' been ripped to pieces in the past, but now
i rename it at last
like the sky and all elsewhere.
wherever you look you will see me watching
and a vulture circles, overhead.
Thursday, May 11th, 2006
6:57 pm
fucking depression
words strapped to my back muscles aching and ancient this depression is not wisthstanding anything anyone any measure it is silent and it is fighting me down down damnit i'm down maytae, fucking a, i need a break1 come on brain.
Thursday, April 6th, 2006
2:08 pm
dog dead and ignored when alive his bulging eyes crying feed me love damnit.
jelous of the new puppy the even newer puppy he could not take it anymore.
i understand. i moved 3,000 miles away so that i don't have to understand. my dog died.
and i am far away.

Current Mood: depressed
Thursday, March 9th, 2006
12:01 pm
snow falls and hits pavement and turns to nothing it's like these words
across lines they scream, and nothing touches my eardrum
i am too far apart from my past to care
there is something endearing here, in this new repose with
the new revolving faces meeting me jeering me to excitement the
same music playing but it only sounds different, it is
who i am today that
changes everything.
Wednesday, March 8th, 2006
1:40 pm
like cream and like rain
my heart the filter
bleeding through like wet paper these words
of encouragement knowing i have points
for needles to hit, like acupunture on the stars little
marks or blood the memeories that still live on
connect me to the stars connect me to the boy who hit hard and hurt even harder connect
me to the camera and the little girl in front of it connect me to my sister my brothers my mother my father connect
me to the hard side the sadness lulling in hallways like a disaster some ghost once fled connect me to
the inscription on a wrist of a poet who tried to cut herself from this world
to the patient in a mental hospital in georgia who was so harmed she was not empty though connect me to the big sky i never saw in new mexico an eyefull of midnight in my tempest of a past to the tempetous bed unmade and dirty where so many feelings lay laid down put my heart out on the hopechest it is still beating it is processing being distended being whole again connect me to the nitty gritty of heart break of a soul scathing the surface so thick and so thin like cream and like rain. like cream and like rain.
Thursday, December 22nd, 2005
12:38 pm
here
she found my name
name among ashes name around the ring of the moon my last
words to her like bloody feathers falling
on wind
here i am miss
here i am not her anymore but here
here i am
Sunday, December 18th, 2005
11:25 am
mother
guilt over the same veins
her eyes her hair (my eyes my)
tree across the lake whipping wind of wounded words
worlds apart sun on my face as she is expiring
to sleep to sleep to lie
in vain all our lives like valour is a drug only the dreamers take
only the ones who take off everything can be nude bones again come grip
the absinthe of reality of rearmoring minds to sail
across the frozen tundra and into the sun the sun
i shun it all past resent tense tense ties i love i lie i love
i lie to those i love to keep them inconsquential rose hips
the dried fruit a memory a tarried piece of cloth a folkwork a peace tie
a lonley fork in the overgrown road
a humbling a tumbling
down.
11:21 am
bad poem, whoohoww
tundra in my lakes of you curdles of our last kiss hang like frozen saliva isicle wispy moss
i dream of you still, frequently
and wake by another
a sinew of man and skin and hair and tangled passion a man
who loves the deliquincies in me and my breasts
a man who kisses my back while i'm pretending to sleep
in fisty awakeness aware, not dreaming
not dreaming of anything
consequential
just your ghost your dead babies our gulf
of oblivion.
Thursday, December 15th, 2005
12:54 pm
war tis of thee
all bets are off and my dress is still on
i can still taste the bitter blod of her menstrual washings and the copper film of last year's lies
oh the bloody beated boy i wished on
the curtseyed coquette bitch i once was
the friend who died the friend who lied all chances it was not me?
when i think of where i've been the taste on my mouth weakens like milk
and i spoil myself senseless in slavery's grasp of fine threads, thick beds and bitter rouge.
i fancy myself a warrior these days, in a quilted mess of a coat. my hair tangeled like bluebeards' pussy, with my banshee moaning of "make ,love, not..."
war is not writing
war is not writing
war is not writing
and writing is
war
12:47 pm
all bets are off, but my dress is still on
rusty crinolines trashing the silence i will not quell myself into this hairless porcupine no more
my strippers daze and lighted ways of follying my desires have wizened an old woman out of me
where red wine is the equilavent of sex that i never have and old friends boast of me like i'm dead; that girl that used to love dancing
oh! my fingers flit about on this cankerous set of strones, like feet that have pedalled to far up the mountain where have my manners taken me? writing only emails and grocery lists but no poetry well fuck that! i've started this journal as a protest to a certain lusterours star so that she'll write me, but maybe that is only a smaill conquest.
maybe i just need to write- again.
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