Fixer’ upper.

Fixer’ upper.

Vanity.

Vanity.

Mornin’ love. (Taken with Instagram)

Mornin’ love. (Taken with Instagram)

bite

i am tired of manufactured fun

the clinking of white teeth

and the fiction behind them.



if eminence is truth

then i am a lie - 

soot covered

obsidian grit

frail invertebrate pariah

set low

on a dime-store shelf.



a lowbrow queen in

low thread count sheets

the muffle of a sweat soaked pillow.



yet my narrative is fact 

while your spit drips folly 

through fabricated ivory squares - 



I’ll bet my worth

that if you dust me off 

you just may find yourself again.

- self

I cannot write this for you,

so i shall write it to the sea -

for in both of them i drown,

and the two are natural deaths.

- self

this is lovely. 

title optional

6 am shouts at me

while you sleep softly in your bed.

There is no movement here,

‘cept the creaks of the house

and a crackle in my lungs.

White noise becomes a nervous 

voice in the dark,

parroting the thoughts 

bucking in my brain.

What’s there to say little man?

You are less real to me than loch ness,

unicorns and such.

But still, 

much the same as religion,

a listless deity clinches the whip

and i am held paralyzed,

left to speak with the voices in the dark.

- self

Pa & binoculars. (Taken with Instagram at Seapointe Village)

Pa & binoculars. (Taken with Instagram at Seapointe Village)

Top of the wheel aka losing my dinner (Taken with Instagram at Morey’s Piers and Beachfront Waterparks)

Top of the wheel aka losing my dinner (Taken with Instagram at Morey’s Piers and Beachfront Waterparks)

week at the beach (Taken with Instagram at Seapointe Village)

week at the beach (Taken with Instagram at Seapointe Village)

Taken with Instagram

Taken with Instagram

- Ingrid Jonker

- Ingrid Jonker

the interior of bones

sober minds disconnect feelings from body -

still your gaze,

it may break through the bones of this woman

as your nails scrape,

tear,

as they rip at the marrow,

as they run through these grooves

that have turned into sewers

and your grin - 

so it seizes my youth’s last reserves

and to think those

ivory channels

held the fits,

held the nerves,

held the cause for a life 

they have turned into gutters

and i beg -

stay awhile,

my distant, fatal friend,

you may clip me to the quick,

but no stitch shall endure 

the brine of my being,

my own means to an end

i can still see utopia flickering beneath the surface.

i can still feel my pulse;

the interior of bones.

- self

the mediator between brain and hands must be the heart.

from Fritz Lang’s film, Metropolis