|"To be trusted is a greater compliment than to be loved."|
- George MacDonald
loss preventionshe's an old lover, though more of an inconvenience. i don't enjoy her calls. my father yells at me when she comes in through the basement door at three am. she shows up at my store sometimes. no longer am i civil with her, but it's almost as if she enjoys that. she always flirts at my snarling attempts to get her to leave. she'll beckon me close, and point out a dress we got in shipment last week. i tell her i don't wear dresses anymore.herbodyismycoffin
"that's a shame," she says, "because you would've loved it last year."
she likes watching me get ready to leave the house. when i get out of the shower, her chin is on my shoulder, her voice a low purr. "your face is so feminine." i put on a shirt. "nice tits." i brush my teeth. "you have such shapely hips."
i am not a violent person, but i imagine her face beneath the boots i wear to the pharmacy. her vocal chords are in my hand.
and when she really feels like pissing me off, she'll own the words of strangers who don't know better. "excuse
aquamanmy heart is inherbodyismycoffin
the bag of chocolate
on your desk -
take the rest,
i don't mind.
in a grungy
basement in yarmouth,
my laugh coats smoke
plumes that cling
to the walls,
i only mock the names
of towns on the way
to the airport because
they take me farther
your cat will rise
without either of us
in the bed - the sun
will yawn and roll
across the tapestry
and if the next time
you hold my hand,
indents folding over
my knuckles -
know that those
are the nights i spent
couldn't be real.
as long as it's okay with youguitar lilting as i lookherbodyismycoffin
through the branches at
the eye of god,
indie crooner strikes a
i hope my hummingbird heart,
beating fast into your skin,
doesn't disturb your
desire for slumber.
i want to rest
inside lung lost smoke
wisps trailing into
ashes dead on my wrist.
i want to slip into
the bottom of the sea green
glass of water on the desk.
birds idly warbling
at the belly of the sky,
indie crooner loses his voice.
boys will be boysi was thirteen when my healthherbodyismycoffin
teacher shrugged and said: "it
happens" in regards to rape.
he was a gym coach with a coffee
mug that read "world's best dad."
they gave me the one-in-three
statistic on a business card
during the half hour we talked about
sexual assault in class.
that number has become a top-heavy
fraction, though not top-heavy
the way boys like to hear of.
and i have learned that absolutely
no man will bend at the knees,
fold the way i have been told
to fold - for i have a flower
between my legs, and he has a snake.
i was taught to be lusted after
for my innocence, only to be tattooed
as guilty by a trial of my peers
in my high school lunch room.
my heart howls at the moon of knowing
i've had my phone number removed from
the contacts of those who loved me
before they dared to remove my rapist's.
the world may forever know me as impure
without looking at the hands of the boy
who touched me, without realizing that
they have dirt caked on their glasses.
and my war cries can
Magpie On The GallowsCliveBarker
Written by: CliveBarker
Magpie on the Gallows
High above my head,
Tell me truly, maggot–pie,
Is my lover dead?
When he went away to war,
To me eternal love he swore
Tell me truly, bird of gloom,
Where his bed and what his doom?
From the gallows hear the magpie screech:
From now on your lover’s out of reach.
In a bed of mud he died
Soldiers slept at either side,
He has never been faithless dear,
And never will be now, I fear.
Magpie on the Gallows
Feathered white and black,
My brother went a–hunting
Will he not come back?
He was tall and he was strong,
Face was fair and limb was long.
Tell me truly, maggot–pie,
Did he live or did he die?
From the gallows hear the magpie scream
Now your brother is left alone to dream.
There’s no need for you to fret
He’s still fair to look at yet,
He lay in the snow to doze,
And while he slept the poor lad froze.
Magpie on the gallows
Where the death–rope creaks,
Why is it th
About the photographer: |
I've had a camera in my hands since I was ten years old, and I've never been able to see myself doing anything else with my life (unless you count my wanting to be a paleontologist when I was seven). My main interests lie in wildlife, documentary and portrait photography, as well as a recently-developed love for fine art and conceptual work. Formally studying my passion full-time has caused me to push the boundaries of the medium itself, and as one of my lecturers so eloquently put it: "If you become comfortable with where you are as a photographer, sell your camera and start doing something else."
What I do:
Portraiture (both studio and environmental), documentary and wildlife, as well as beginning to branch into fine art photography. In my spare time, I'm an amateur novelist and practice traditional art as a hobby (painting and pen-work mostly). I'm also an avid reader, with more books in my possession than items of furniture and clothing combined.
Long term goals:
Branch into professional documentary work
Travel as part of my career
Do work for Time, National Geographic or Getty Images
Backpack across the world
Create social awareness through my documentary work
To have one of my works featured on the covers of Time or National Geographic