from a physical prompt that involved choosing matchboxes out of a box of ‘philly blunts’:
“we’ll see who’s laughing when it’s raining nekkid ladies”
oh, to be immortalized on a matchbox, or a lighter-the sins of the flesh as partner to fire-hail prometheus-the blessing and the curse-rattling around like symbolism in a purse, even if you don’t smoke- you’re smoking, stealing knowledge unless it’s yours to own-so subjective, like beauty, unless it’s “objective”, but who truly is? who can be-objectified, that’s really, in the eye of the beholder, throw the devil over your shoulder like a non-existence bra cupping boulders so supple they could smoulder flames, we don’t know names, only anonymous dames posing, throwing looks out of peripheral vision. so much colder than real life, more stepford than real wife, swap stories for cigars, circulate around bars-calling card without a name, broken hologram in a cave or boudoir, notorious and infamous-less is more, more or less, undressed in confidence or confidentiality act violated more clearly than never stated outdoors. abhored, we’ve come a long way from rubbin’ two sticks together to taste apples raw from the gates of creation myths that explain human suffering and why the blame always rests on those of us who bear breasts.
that’s the best rendering of this image unless she can confess to further transcription from the bench, coated photos emerge like groundhogs from darkrooms, the same idea ad nauseum cloaked in the shroud of novelty, indifference of existing screams of conformity, illusions of choice and reality-it all starts here, and moves in a circle of duality. eyes wide shut to questions of practicality, temperate rainforests and mallory as your family ties shame between your profession and their legacy or maybe just a mistake in your brain forever documented but only to those who strike near you-once the smoke clears, do you stay in their eyes? obscured are your thighs, surprise a stranger with your eyes lined in kohl, speaking truths that nobody else can know, how far can you go-do they collect or forget, do you care or respect natural impulses to strip and be stripped-what’s dignity gotta do with it?
hmm…this is proof that i wrote in stream of consciousness in workshop. huh. some good stuff in here, i might work on it more someday.