tumblr_llxw06ogqm1qzn4kzo1_1280Here’s a moment of a girls’ life
it flickers, it flickers like a skirt, caught on a black railing, rented, torn, pried apart, and released, to flap, uselessly and without form
she’s lost her purse, her lipsticks rolled behind the bus and she didn’t put on her hose just right
the seams you see, they’re supposed to line up at the back where her heel hits the smooth patent of her shoe like how the girls in WW2 did it except they used eye-brown pencils because silk was needed for parachutes, oh and who can afford the cost of the worm?
that’s the way it should have turned out, fixing her seams, walking in with a kick and a smile, wooing her audience, beguile them, beguile them and they shall fall helplessly
exercise in futility, that’s not her, she doesn’t do performance art, that’s the image of her projected by those who believe, with her lips, and her green eyes, she’s kryptonite, such a bad bet, she’s a lame horse who prefers the stable, all those shrines to her potential, before she drank too much anxious about oh, more or less, everything in the world
and drinking they say, even in France now, is not du rigor but ruled out, if you wish to avoid your one out of eight women gets breast cancer statistic, what the hell? How to survive without sipping it down? Letting fermentation do its ritual on her guts, lifting her back into the gilded frame
she wished she were a boy, boys can still drink, boys don’t wear hose, they don’t have to worry as much if their armpits stink and they won’t have another boy tell them that their breasts sag when they rise up and clasp the void
if she were a boy she’d want to be a pretty boy the kind that other boys would probably hit on, with a large top lip and gleaming hair, because pretty gets you candy and she has a sweet tooth
if she were a pretty boy she’d try out fucking a girl just to know what it felt like
to be a version of herself with other body parts
would the girl look at her with frightened eyes, hooded and suspicious like a Russian doll, daub her sides with ancient gild, would she open her legs only because she wanted what you held back, in your frayed pocket, tightly wrapped, here it is, take a mouthful, bitter taste, will we live longer in our knowledge? The apple glows in the darkness from its position alone hanging from the lower branch of knowledge.
when she wakes up in the night and holds her singed hair back, hugging porcelain throne vomiting what she’s learned time and time again just doesn’t stay down
couldn’t she purchase another way of coping?
apparently pills have their own set of demons
she learns the art of the mask and strips for the doctor who takes his swab. It’s a painless test he lies, grimacing as he breaks her bones and pries denial apart, you won’t feel a thing
and then everything turned blue and the water didn’t stop running down the sink in the wrong direction and the clocks lost their hands and rolled into glue sticking to the inside of her emptiness, where no life was, sharing its wasteland
on E she danced until the fat at the top of her clavicle, that little jiggle you get when you drink lots of milk as a child and push your little breasts together, grew and people said well … don’t you have a fine pair on you?
not really she’d think if you could see how long it takes to get this look, all the tape in the world, and they’re still not really sticking
a bit like her, unhinged at one corner, asking; peal me back see what’s underneath
her own preference was for girls with skinny chests and protruding nipples she felt they were saying fuck you to every kind of lame expectation, their knife-like hip-bones, shaving her under the sheets like the incisors on wolves, the anger glowing in their eye, a Cheshire cat with blade
but she was too soft for that hard look and wore instead the conicular implements of torture Madonna had cast off
looking back it was fucking embarrassing
when did she learn authenticity? On the way home from the hospital when it rained and the dried blood on her legs, wound down her legs like a cat’s tail and smeared the grass beneath? she saw only mouths open, trying to speak, what do they want to say?
authenticity died between her legs and grew cold in formaldehyde and the rubbing of fingers itching for a cigarette
walking the streets homeless, holing up in an office during night hours, smelling the feet of those who worked there during the day kicking their shoes off
stains on the office sofa that never came off
when he would deliver her bag of drugs and she paid him with herself because she had nothing else
how much would that equate per kilo?
quite a good bargain all things considered, it was like he said, she made him act that way by the tilt of her head
I’m only tilting my neck to get a better view of the strippers on Wardour street she’d say standing at the window, neon blinking in and out, in and out, little panties not yet showing their wear and tear, don’t worry they soon will undo their pretty dark pink bows
he told her you have the smallest waist you look like a french dancer in a Toulouse Lautrec painting
I am a french dancer she would reply and smoke a Sobranie to the gold rim to make the point
gimme a break, you don’t even like Ricard Pastis and those cigarettes are Russian
you’ve got a point there, Pernod is vile, mix me something chopped up, cut it fine, I want to hear music, open your eyes, open your fucking eyes so I can hear
I like the taste of aniseed
I hate it, it reminds me of my grandfather’s fingers and that imported saddle soap he used, when I looked into his throat he had coals burning there, they could extinguish your heart just by breathing on you
change the record / or you’ll kill the mood
he was always in the mood, even when he hated her he wanted to ransack her empty space
lucky she licked the bag clean or her price would be too high, nothing is too much for a fistful of dynamite
I wish I could live inside you, he would whisper, eyes already rolling like a horse about to be led to slaughter, to the exit sign
christ I can’t think of anything worse, she’d reply into the pillow, limbs trembling, her neck aching with his pummel
how long can it go on? can you make yourself wet when you’re faking? Or do you have to run to the bathroom and stick your fingers down your throat? Fake sudden illness to avoid an overdose of you
back in the days when her bladder was strong she could take a pounding and not need to pee afterward, they used to say, you can eat motherfucking hot curry, be given one like a sailor and still walk straight
how many sailors were bent over themselves and filled with whiskey and crab claws she wondered
but you stand up too long, with eyes on your back unpicking your defenses it gets harder
how many times can you shout, oh yeah baby just like that, just like that, you’re the best
he is hard he is inside her he feels like metal she feels like clover and the bees the bees swarm around her obscuring her open mouth the color of raspberries
that’s why she never cuts her hair you can hide so far inside if you carve out a tree and wait patiently for the thorns to do their climb
the wood cuttings of her twins mocking her sins, cooing; what a dirty little girl, you turned out well darlin
I want my moneys worth, he would say half in jest, nostrils crusted with crystal, beckoning her with dirty fingers
take the blue pill, take any pill, watch yourself swallow, there you go, to bed now child, tomorrow will be another show starting at six pm promptly and ending, never
she’d pretend she was sea anemone, anyone else, the girl outside in Soho gyrating to some euro pop song her long fake nails glittering against piercings speaking rapid Lithuanian into a pink phone
her nipples hurt where he burned them with his need to leave a mark, a tattoo artist without his equipment he improvised his layers of penetration
give me something to remember bitch or I’ll make it hurt more
she thud lifelessly above him like an unmoared boat seeking harbor, half-conscious with sorrow, afterward she lay closed off and drugged, as peaceful as an envelope that has been licked shut
and never, ever, ever did she learn to undo, the need to exclude herself from the world
so where’s her next fix? how does she stop wanting it to fill her veins with code
listening to the grind of the world outside, a room with a view boarded over and willingly comatose, two words inscribed on her tomb, ecstasy denied

0 Replies to “Ecstasy denied”

      1. you do everything remarkably well, but sad is definitely where you shine brightest. this is captivating.

        1. Thanks S – I ‘try’ not to write sad, because the world as per our conver yesterday regarding pretense and wishing to be ‘seen’ together, demands less sorrow in writing – there’s enough in life they cry – but as much as I tried this is where I am in writing and I suppose that means a smaller audience less appreciation than say, the affirmation style of writing, nevertheless it is

          1. there’s nothing wrong with it at all. And soemtimes the audience we write for is ourselves in the moment.

          2. True. I guess we could go really overboard and write ONLY for ourselves, I could see that with say, fantasy stuff, very easily, I reckon that IS what a lot of people do!

          3. Me too. That sounds snobby doesn’t it? I do though. I mean not saying they’re worse but just that some of it seems trite. Tell me if ever I do. I will keep the gun by my side.

          4. It’s not snobby, it’s just a reasonable reaction to the general lack of artistry most folks offer.

          5. I equate posh accent with an abundance of coolness and probably an appreciation for tea.

          6. (and I reckon why you’re one of my favorite writers (and more importantly PEOPLE) on the planet) This is why your’e a special artist. There are many motivations, layers of meaning, layers of motivation, stories and directions going on in what you do. You’re intimidating.

          7. Thank you. I guess that’s a compliment to be intimidating! ha ha ha! I am told that a lot for some reason! I don’t see it, I ‘yam what I yam’ and I can’t hardly spell on a good day in English! But yeah, people only get intimidated because they’re insecure. I’m insecure but only self-insecure (the self) I’m not insecure around anyone else, nobody is better than anyone else.

          8. Stephen, it means a lot to me that you think that though, about being a favorite writer, I mean since I think you are incredible it’s like someone you admire (it is this) saying they admire you – full of wow

    1. In many ways it is disgusting. I try to write out things not for titilation effect but to shine a light on the despair of circumstance that I have witnessed I don’t know if ultimately that comes through but once in a while I feel an urge to be that voice for the pained, and cringe is a good word I think often we see things and cringe and walk on, and they remain, suffering. Thank you for surviving the reading ! xxx PS did you ever read Gone To Earth in the end? I just wondered as I don’t think I asked if you had found a copy.

      1. Your writing doesn’t titillate, it makes a point, and often it’s a seamy unpalatable one. I haven’t read it, like I haven’t bought any books for ages. We live on a shoe string and have a library full of things I haven’t read yet so…

        1. Phew. I’m really glad. I can handle seamy and unpalatable (would worry me if it were) but glad it’s not titilating. That would be the wrong message entirely. I’m going to send you that book I just have this feeling you would love it. I am at the other end of the shoe-string, wish post was cheaper we could have a fun book swap.

          1. That’s too kind, Candice πŸ™‚ I have a book promotion coming up (on the 20th) and if all goes well, I might sell a few copies! Then my paypal account might have something on it for book-buying purposes.

          2. I have no idea, honestly. Last week I downloaded a book a friend was offering free and never got it. Husband orders books from a second hand place. I’ll get him to order it for me πŸ™‚

          3. Really? Weird. No I didn’t mean the book I’m sending you I will send that, I meant with your book is it going to be digital only or also printed? I only ask because I don’t have a device to read from and sort of swore off doing that but I badly want to support you with your work and also read it.

          4. It’s the series that was published last year. The company was bought up by a much bigger one and for a year nothing was done at all in the way of marketing. They’ve decided to get going with it and I have various promotions starting on Friday. If all goes well I should sell some books and get the series moving. BookBub usually generates a buzz. It’s kind of you to think of helping, but this series is really for kids. I never intended it for adults, though most readers of YA as far as I can judge aren’t so young. It’s in paperback too. I’ll post something about it tomorrow and let you know how it gets on.

          5. Okay deal – I don’t care if it’s for kids, we both love kids books – if it’s well written it really doesn’t matter to me and I believe it would be well written and that’s what friends do, support each other and hold each other up – I’m very proud of you.

      1. I realize sometimes the grotesque is not what someone may wish to read. I wonder sometimes would I want to read what I write? Surely we must consider that? I don’t know the answer as I’m too subjective. What do you think? Would you love what you write? Or would it leave you cold? How important is that?

        1. i love some of what i write, hate some of it. i try to imagine the person that wants to consider the thought β€” and ir ealize i’ve already considered it in the writing. I think there are people out there that don’t write and so they read the wrings of others to get those thoughts processed for them. Kinda like making a hamburger for someone.

          1. That’s honest. And a good metaphor. I may have to think on this more. I know as a writer you must consider your audience but not let it govern you.

          2. It’s like a freakin’ tightrope walk and my inner moron is always saying ‘f’ the audience and writing whatever the hell I want. I can’t seem to balance audience and my own inner demons.

  1. It was a tough read, as often I gravitate toward the poetry of beauty, and light, and hope. But the job of a writer is not just to be positive and “pretty,” but to capture and reflect all that is in the world, and all of human nature, including the gray, the dismal, and the harsh, like this piece. Well written.

    1. Thank you very much for your honesty and sharing this. I can see why most would gravitate toward that kind of poetry and i do often too, and it makes so much sense, but it’s good to know that the truth here has some value even as it is sad. Thanks so much.

  2. I think the painful, dark things have much more power to move us. How does the saying go? “Art doesn’t have to be pretty, it has to make you feel something.” This wasn’t pretty or easy but there was a whole lot of truth in it. For me, even poetry and writing about “beauty” has more depth when the theme is redemption or overcoming of an obstacle… so there’s always a dark component in the work to which I am drawn. I love your writing Candice. <3

    1. I love that quote, thank you for reminding me of it dear one, I so appreciate that and your words. I do agree and ‘redemption’ is definitely the word du jour – and the overcoming of an obstacle. I’m glad you got that from this, because it was my intention, (you never quite know if you convey yourself until someone else reads it and lets you know so I appreciate that very much) thank you so much! I too am drawn to the dark component – I’m so glad that someone else is too because there is a great deal of pressure to be palatable and well behaved πŸ™‚

      1. You are very welcome, my friend. πŸ’œ I think things like this need to be said no matter how unpalatable they may seem to some. Life is unpalatable an awful lot of the time.

  3. Your writing never ceases to evoke raw emotions from my heart. I can feel the sadness in this but, also the rage. I can feel the desire to probe through the difficult to reach the better parts. Thank you for sharing this, Warrioress. ❀

    1. I’m glad you can feel the desire to probe through the difficult and reach the better parts as I do believe in redemption and salvation (gosh that sounded so religious and I didn’t mean it that way at all) for all those who suffer, I think there always has to be hope, I’m glad I convey that. Thank you so much for taking the time, I know these are longer than my usual and a bit ‘out there’ and I really appreciate you taking the time to read them and comment – thank you E.

      1. I don’t mind the length of anything you write..with your skill and artistry it really isn’t something I’m aware of. Redemption and Salvation are beautiful words and don’t exclusively belong to Religion. I understood what you meant perfectly.
        Hope is what allows us to get through events in our lives that would otherwise bury us. Hope is always there. <3 Much love, Shieldmaiden.

          1. And you’ve likened me to Tennyson so…im pretty much ready to die whenever! πŸ˜„πŸ˜„πŸ˜„πŸ’•

          2. I laughed so much at this! Well but truth be told you must and will live a long life so you can carry on writing and encouraging others, doing the good you do regularly in the world. Moreover if you are of your ilk you have a long path ahead of influence and stories. I do think you are of that ilk I’m always reminded of my favorite poems by him when I read your longer ones. Yes it’s a compliment because I adore his work.

    1. Dear Peter, overwhelming can be a good thing, a bad thing, a thing of neither emotions but more a void, or … hopefully not a terrible thing πŸ˜‰ (thank you for reading, I am so grateful)

      1. Let me simply say I found your poem most moving, as a good poem should be; and emotionally exhausting as walking in another’s foot prints for a little while usually is. You hold back nothing in your writing, and for that I give you great credit and praise . . . In short: raw and rare . . .

        1. I like that notion of being emotionally exhausted by walking in another’s foot prints, nice. Yes true. I would like to be more of a talented writer than say, just a ‘raw’ writer, though it seems I cannot avoid the latter πŸ˜‰ we must strive to be the best of ourselves and nothing more. Thank you for your time and reading my work it means a lot my friend.

    1. My beautiful talented friend, thank you so much. I’m glad it ‘appealed’ although I know that’s totally the wrong word I’m lazy I can’t think of one right now, but I’m just glad it was wow and not puke! πŸ˜‰

  4. When I read- I seldom bring religion in to my understanding of darkness and light. Some of the greatest writers believe in God- and may I add again not religion. I have seen people that are chained to darkness – and beyond human help… I could write volumes on what I have seen alone- but it would not portray the goodness and light that is for any one who chooses. I write from experience- and yet I choose to only reveal that which will benefit. I have been asked to write a book many times- and in different countries where I have been. I see no reason because those I needed to reach I have done so personally. Now I will concentrate on reaching deep inside of me…….

    1. Agreed – but I would add – maybe with your knowledge and insight, sharing those things with those who do not yet know what you know, can bring some peace to others lives as well, maybe even save someone from going down the wrong path or being consumed by darkness?

  5. I challenge any one to do two things……. One is to go to a deserted place by day and experience what you may feel in the light. Then Two go to the same place at night and experience darkness. Darkness will challenge your very being…….’. Darkness cannot drive out darkness- only light can do that’ ‘ Hate cannot drive out hate- only Love can do that’ And yet without the dark- I would never see the stars……..

  6. Awesome and haunting and then the ending with the words on her tombstone. It is also realisticly sad as so many people live that existence and so few there to help them. Wonderfully written! Thank you!

  7. That hurt me so much I couldn’t finish it, but I mean in that way that a guy can’t talk about Lorena Bobbitt without squinting and squirming. Congrats. Can someone just tell me how it ended.

  8. I smoked Sobraine once, a very long time ago. It seemed an exotic thing to do. I gave the exotic up – not good for me πŸ™‚ Being flippant I know. Needed to lighten the feel a bit πŸ™‚

  9. Interesting. It would be good to offset some of the dark stuff but it’s not necessary. It’s bleak. It’s hopeless. It’s real.
    I like it, keep it coming

    1. I think I have never heard someone say ‘it’s bleak it’s hopeless it’s real’ I love that! What an awesome comment! Thank you so much! So encouraging as I have been told off many times for being bleak, real and hopeless! You rock! πŸ™‚ (thank you)

  10. Anyone can write fairytales but writing the truth takes guts. In my darkest moments I need something to relate to, even the idea that someone is as despondent as I am. The bleakness aside it is shocking and shocking makes you wake up and think – it’s exciting to a reader. I am making a huge effort to read more blog posts and I look forward to reading through yours as I very much enjoyed this

  11. This. This took me every dark place I have ever lived or even thought about going. I can feel this like oil on my skin. It is me and outside of. It is the desperation we feel at 2 am when the depression is at its worst.

    1. Maybe it’s cheeky to steal your insight but I feel EXACTLY that way reading you about it taking me to every place I have thought of going or been to. You said it EXACTLY right.

      1. On a completely unrelated note, I feel like we should have An Unbearable Lightness of Being reading group– SK wrote a piece earlier this week that reminded in many ways of your piece After The Devil. I think we are all on the same wavelength and up for a discussion about sex.

        1. That’s a very related note and you are so right. I agree. It is uncanny that it mutually influenced us in exactly the same way! Good idea! What other books/films do you feel really summed up life for you? I have to say that one is at the top. I told you about Sunlight On Cold Water also right? I definitely think you are right about our being on the same wave length some would say that is not a good thing I see it as a saving grace.

  12. Really natural and realistic sometimes reality is sad we just have to handle it in our own way writing about it is very nice thing to do. And honestly even the post was big but your words had power to hold me till the end it was something far next level thing.

  13. Holy fuck! It feels like you crawled inside my head back when I used to use and teased out all the dirty little secret thoughts and pain and nothingness.

  14. I happened-back to this fine piece of yours and it reads even better the 2nd time through.
    I think that you’re gifted. keep on, friend. g.r.

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