King of Winchester

he was drunk again

waving it around like the King of Winchester

i made a dash to the fire 

while he fixed himself a vodka tonic

closed the flue and 

smoked him

out

#katyamills

one stone. two birds

a gun is the coldest moulded steel you ever put in your hand, holds a darkened chamber where living death sleeps, full of powder, ready in a puff of smoke and recoil to take two lives in one second. the other one won't die by the bullet.

we are young

The days run away and I cannot do anything about this, I do not understand my age. I suppose we are all very young, even the very old, and this appeases the cruel god who comes out from time to time to command us away, life changes and we are not welcome anymore...
                                                                                                                  you are done with me and i am done with you and all our messy nonsense of two thousand three hundred forty-five yesterdays. I cannot say what came over me but i remember crying when i knew i was no longer gonna be protected or saved. I was to be blooded and charged with my Appetite For Destruction and to carry all the old Lies again, in rare form; they coulda made a fine killer of me, at the academy...
                                                                                                                                                            what I want to say is, losing you, this was one of the saddest of neverending losses, what i wanna say is sorry. and you have no need to forgive me unless it helps you -- please -- i think i forgave myself but i wonder -- when i hurt -- thinking of all the times you told me fuck off  

before i finally did

navel (touching) label #4

The fabric of life
a dust-colored thread

i will now hug you
so hard (your hat falls off)
 while tickling the
backs of your
      knees

archived emails with
comet tails (uncomfortably)
we watch them
disappear

entire social contexts
gone awry
(and)
the way you know i know ya
is textured like granola

    and guns
    and sons
    of guns

cannot unravel
what we've come to love
about (our fair maiden)
weave city

sewn back together the
ends of days and
carefully self-placed in bed

head at the foot
foot at the head

eye of needle sees
the thread and
closes ranks

 send in the dreams the
fortified milk the
hormone replacements
the fortified tanks

I might pull too quickly away
 vacuuming the room to
 do the dishes

dreamer
do the dishes dreamer
do the dishes

 the track switcher the track
switches having seen your face
in my reflection

god i love to dream
with you about you of the tail end
of dreams where we
(begin)

(again)
your lips on my earlobe
untying the knots of a world
without touch

the blush of a crush
on the plush

mile high pile
the dust-colored fabric
of life

too fuckin' bad to be
 without a studio

you coulda
got it all
down

number 4

I thought i was pretty damn cool and i didnt have a cigarette hanging off my lip and i hadnt died by 27 like all the rock stars, no, the stars are bright the stars are light the stars come out tonight and its fresh after the rains and i think im pretty cool but i don't rock the latest iphone or anything, i don't even broadcast on Instagram, the night is here and these quiet hours are mine all mine, cause im feeling pretty righteous but i dont subscribe to no religion, no, i got my own apartment and im an independent woman and an independent author, i think im pretty cool but im not on any bestseller lists, i think im pretty sweet but you wouldnt wanna cross me, no, i dont own any guns im no Hunter S. Thompson but i do believe in civil rights, ya, i dont drink or carry a medical maryjane card, i light up pumpkin candles and let my cats run free, but ive learned im only as capable as i believe i can be,  ya, you and me can only make it if we give it our all, dripping wet with paint off the canvas in the hall, i think im pretty cool, but not because of anything i have or anybody you think i am, no, i like to keep my blood pumping and circulating through the web, call it an obsession and it might be in my head, but if the motivation is to shine a light for anyone in the darkness, the hope, and these long early hours of quiet and calm so the life i have lived which has by no means been nice can channel through me to the distant lands where life is something terrible and senseless, and someone needs some help or to know you're not alone, to find you and discover your story of survival- of dreaming- of reality- of you and me together through the thick layers of media glaze that keeps us groping in the haze, our heads held high, uncool, unfashionable, looking like losers getting old, feeling like freaks, impoverished on the streets sometimes, depressed for fuckin weeks, without a friend in the world, burnin through bridges and pages and pages, ceaseless in our inquiry, agnostic to the core, fighting for the mystery, in love with number 4.

k by k selfie at home

murder by memory - part iii

The way you remembered it was not the way I remembered it, and everyone else had already forgotten.  The NRA was not a weak lobby in DC. Many financiers and real estate magnates and movie stars and pro athletes and paranoids and phobics wanted to keep a .44 in their glove compartment,  and worked the legal system hard to find the highest caliber argument. But soon there would be no head to put a gun to. Only a heart which held the lantern of truth up to an establishment which held stake in a lesser truth, perhaps an eco-friendly low watt lightbulb. This was no revolution but there were two sides and both believing they were bonafide fighting the forces of darkness. Everyone else was confused as hell or too busy to bother. What were we trying to accomplish? The way you remembered it was not the way I remembered it, and everyone else had already forgotten. But collective forgetfulness tended to take the creases out of faces erasing lines had been drawn, like twilight, like darkness; so long as you could not see them the crashing waves were not so frightful, and might even lull you to sleep.

she whose temples were rubbed - ii)

she whose temples were rubbed (a series of posts)
by Katya Mills, 2014

27 June 2011 at 01:24

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Part -i) ::: revisited

Anecdote from the cutting room floor, circa 2009 …  cuts fresh falling off her aura, this girl. Locks of her soft layers of dyed hair flashing in the fluorescent light for the last time, in silence, her silence, the silence of her stylist, of her boots up on the old steel footrest.

She was sickly aware of being one of millions in her country. one of billions in the world. Any megalomania of her youth had been drowned or subsided into a pale ascertain of some kinda amegalomania minority status in the pantheon of petty class passive-aggressive weaker-than-war fare.

She was sick from feeling cold and sick of being stepped on like every footrest in every goddamn hair salon or rickety down home kitchen in the not so deep south where she hailed from. Snailed from. Slow to wake up out that hot and humid daydream.

Part -ii) ::: with tribute to Kurt Cobain, on the 20th anniversary of his young death

She knew she could neither recover the day nor the dream. She knew she would not recover, for she had nothing she wished to hide from herself anymore. What she had uncovered, well, it was all the darkness you could expect to find under an old rock toward the far edge of a garden, revisited after years of neglect.

 

She was a despondent girl.  Our girl. And still people dared to stare back at her silent icy stare. For they knew her as the daughter of disgust and disgrace.
Fuck, she thought, hers was the legend she would carry all her life and to her grave. Hers was the standard by which all could measure, even the lowest of the low, and still be seen as if from below. Her only entitlement for all she was aware, was straight up misery. Not unlike Kurt Cobain. And she wore interesting sweaters over floral button down shirts, not unlike him, beneath her cold hard eyes true. Looking back at you.

So she stared. And she could have cared how you reacted, whether you cared or did not care. Or did not care enough not to care or care. Many if not most were subjected in her presence to having her eyes upon them. The uncomfortable, unwelcome, malevolent glossy glare.

The silence of falling years of color, could not have felt more free on this day however. She sighed in the chair, having untied her hair. By the weight of her breath, one would not have thought freedom. But feeling was the heaviness set forth in the room, bouncing across mirrors.

Rippling earth through the room.

Folks shied away, children started crying. For what sensation she lacked, she made one without effort. A natural audience surfaced from magazines.  A natural uneasiness surfaced from her longstanding psychic wounds and kept people away like the bubbling molten rock volcanic.
It was said that those who ventured too close to her -- well... all anyone might hear was gutteral cries someone lost somewhere in their spleen. No one needed to know anymore.

She had some feelings about feeling. She did. She was not therefore unfeeling.
Who was?
Not to feel might be too plastic.
Whereas feeling was often way too dramatic.
So she strove for some middle path.
Which, despite her fair effort, often led her to static.
Whats wrong with static?

The silence that followed or preceded both her stares and her static...
she considered 
This silence was beautiful, she thought, like her glock automatic.
This was her gun, not a clock, not a toy.
She found it beautiful yet deadly. Two incompatible traits. Incompatible but not impossible.
 Her gun was something she kept neither to use nor enjoy. She found it in the pond by the old shed, where the shallows found coy.
Some spirit had told her she would find it there, and not only that she should or could - truly she had no desire to - but that she must go and retrieve and polish and learn the gun.
She did so reluctantly.
Then sent the spirit away with her stare...         --  to be continued --