About Last Week…

“Writer, predator; what’s the difference?”

Words hurled at me in response to words hurled at another. I did not mean to hurl them; I meant to lob them gently in honour of a woman who inspired me to reflect on the consequences of our inclinations, and it backfired.

Guess you can’t dip your fingers in someone else’s honey without them asking you to wash your hands both before and after. Fair enough, I suppose. Continue reading “About Last Week…”

When the Heart Goes Awol

It’s true: my heart has gone offline again. This makes me neither cruel nor interesting, just eager for a way back in.

Should you see a woman stumbling along jiggling heart-doors at random, well, it’s probably me.

You know what I hate most about shrinks/therapists/councillors? They’re always asking how I feel about that—and that, and that, and why not that too?

Fuck you all anyway. (My seven year old ass got sent home from school for hurling that particular gem at a school councillor once—ten Hail Mary’s later and all was right in the world. There’s something to say for being Catholic–provided you’re not a little bo…oh never mind.)

My heart is a writer you know. Continue reading “When the Heart Goes Awol”

“I Lost My Poetry.” (No, You Fucking Didn’t…)

I Lost My Poetry by Illian Rain“I lost my sense of poetry”, you said.

You didn’t say that, actually—you said “I lost my poetry”, upon which I fell to my knees in search of your riddles.

But I found nothing, for it was your sense of the poetic that was misplaced and not your words. Yes, there is a difference, and no, I would not have otherwise knelt in your favour.

Your words however…your words…

I would descend to the underworld, basket in hand, to salvage the drippings from your tongue. Pieces of you—once severed—should not be left to rot, forgotten. And I would retrieve not just your musings or the arms that commit brilliance to paper but the arms attached to a heart fuller and more generous than I am accustomed to. Continue reading ““I Lost My Poetry.” (No, You Fucking Didn’t…)”

If I Were a Radio

If I Were a Radio by Illian RainMaybe I’m already a fucking radio—maybe there is no if where I reside—where anyone with the inclination to play capture the flag with written words resides.

We—the so-called normally functioning humans—receive and transmit on the regular, consciously or otherwise. We—transcribers of fellow primates on souls, free of the burden of sound.

Knowingly, blindly, or un-awaredly we counter incoming vibrations with dismissal or reciprocity, an esoteric response that either blossoms or disappears into the night along with effluence and dreams. Continue reading “If I Were a Radio”

The Walk

The WalkWalk with me. Words aptly spoken in any corridor. The one before us was not special.

So I did.

I walked as he talked and as he talked I listened. There were his words, yes, then there were the words below the architecture of sound, a series of alliterations and syllables holding their shape regardless of the radius of their rhythm and sway. Continue reading “The Walk”