SaintAnne

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kingston city blackout

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X_X by SaintAnne, literature

Literature

X_X

Yet here is a language beyond your tongue Crippling crank-dips of lips semi-demolished-automatic That the arch of your back cannot hoist into the twilight Meaty grey matter-of-fact matter unmarred by the martyrdom of skins, Every word a violation of kitschy-volatile sense of self Here are the thoughts anchored extraneous To the trajectory of your instinctual movement, Booze blues’d in Billy Holiday oceanic rattling tones of cold and Buried with the blow labs out in the snow Here is sight beyond your eyes Where the privacy personalizes each various technique Of inhalation, exhalation In, out Binge, purge, and suck An antho

Femme by SaintAnne, literature

Literature

Femme

Baby Icarus, scorched ecstatic, Mouthed, within the confines of R-E-M, That humanity is its own punishment of Paradoxical investments and Flytrap pussy; that Sexual suicide sounding the Inking shut of thighs is Smoke signal for primal transference, like Conquered impoverished hide made for some Brand of Lush fur of The fear of Self Daylight’s deluded conviction moved in Sheets of waves of glare, like a Vinyl crime of hope where the Scratched hook was “we Make the rules up as we Go” go Figure, the Fundamentals are Funded by Figment, and light of day Never penetrates the human mind But while wearily but

carbon copy chemical by SaintAnne, literature

Literature

carbon copy chemical

Helpless as clockwork, ghosts of groans still on the pillow veins thick with fever and you walk right through muddied wings all in the paper shredder sparkling dumb tit-thick, glistening like spit, vogue sore backing down to the mardi gras cemetery where the tempest black still sucks at our blushing bones there’s that famine of lights, saltwater splashing over rusted filaments rocking from the bottom of your tomb tub through you, and the walls, right to the doorframe, like the house had nerves the confusion of mute under siege breath crawling over the seabed, birds strung up by fishing wire and all the kittens in box

Lovebroke by SaintAnne, literature

Literature

Lovebroke

There’s the clap of rubbers pop-pop-popping, The fucker’s got her pregnant she says, turns out I’m the Other other woman Well on my way to the weekly blackout, those Rainbows bend right out of his Jagged-toothed gaps and Suddenly he won’t be thrown out One of us Is just Too damned excitable because The couch keeps coughing up underwear Assortments of flavors, designs, shapes, colors and sizes and He is a non-refundable lie Fib-fuck, how adorable, the prospect of being Forever loved Forever off the ground, Being spun as though weightless Crashing like the seconds sucked from bottle’s bottom Right int

Mr. Sinatra by SaintAnne, literature

Literature

Mr. Sinatra

Hey there lover, let's away, cross the border while what's-his-cripple blows up chunks at high noon, are you feeling lucky? Why lay blame why not just keep to making sure that you and I are real enough to do what real things do? Cross your heart, hope to die, show me how you'd screw a child, hey there you, etch-a-sketch fuck No more sunlight for the white-heart baby g h o s t .

Orgasm Haiku by SaintAnne, literature

Acid Haiku by SaintAnne, literature

The Public School Catechism by SaintAnne, literature

Literature

The Public School Catechism

Stripping for them is the hardest part – Doctors, lovers and passers-by; I’ve been trained to hide beneath The layers of clothes So scars and unbathed months just Disappear No-love-baby With hopes and eyes for nothing new, Don’t look down, just keep going Homesick from the hospital Fat folding thrice Beneath the unshaved itch, Maybe someday the shame will burn away Maybe not l o v e i s f i c k l e Sights seen feelings felt scents sniffed sounds heard and Tastes tasted What else is there? By 28 I’m folding No more bonfires, balls of paper and rubberbands So Hey rubber band man Your dream dies with

Mister by SaintAnne, literature

Literature

Mister

I wrote him a book That he couldn’t read Said the ink grew wings The shade of rusted Chevrolet And crashed into his lungs Like a molten vinyl wave I sang him a song That he couldn’t hear And my voice cracked Like plaster, no I didn’t have a voice then And the silence washed Over the skin of dirt Like sirens, no He didn’t hear The ceiling leak like The actress set on fire, no He’s not made of Soot like me, no He’s not on like Driftwood tonight Synthesized and paralyzed in Songs that make your dead cry ash, no He wasn’t really there.

Mother Says by SaintAnne, literature

Literature

Mother Says

Echoes in black and white Train tracks and city lights Midnight migraines and purple shades I’m deafened by the scent again Of god’s aftershave, Blinded by the taste of Afterbirth When I found out that Pens and gravity Don’t work in my favour I damn near cried Well I can read but I can’t write The pseudo-sweetener Coating broken cheers And bitter closet-wielding double dares And when I found You In the mirror My reflection, supine beneath Your head turned away I damn near cried. Well I can fuck but I’m empty inside Hollowed out by Precious cinder blocks Tied down like dreams Your perfu

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About SaintAnne

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Artist // Professional // Photography

Jamaica
Deviant for 18 years
She / Her

Badges

My Bio

Mama. Griot. Poet.

Favourite Visual Artist

Shirin Neshat

Favourite Movies

Independent films, Dark comedy, Psychological thrillers

Favourite Bands / Musical Artists

Indian Folk Metal

Tools of the Trade

Canon Rebel Xti

Other Interests

Filmmaking

Post Spotlight

The Anne Lamott Guide (to creativity) by SaintAnne, journal

The Anne Lamott Guide (to creativity)

Jan 2, 2024

Shitty first drafts. All good writers write them. This is how they end up with good second drafts and terrific third drafts. Writing is not just jotting ideas down on paper. Writing is about discovery. You get your intuition back when you make space for it, when you stop the chattering of the rational mind. The most important thing about writing is sitting down and doing it every day, and the most important thing about life is just showing up and trying your best to be present every day. A writer paradoxically seeks the truth and tells lies every step of the way. Writing is about hypnotizing yourself into believing in yourself, getting some work done, then unhypnotizing yourself and going over the material coldly. I know some very great writers, writers you love who write beautifully and have made a great deal of money, and not one of them sits down routinely feeling wildly enthusiastic and confident. Good writing is about telling the truth. We are a species that needs and wants to