The Hermit and The Moon (Tarotredactyl)

Now on Misery Tourism! Agape, a gape, gawking at a gap between the universes- a gap, no thigh gap ever- a poetess

My newest prose poem/ prose/ thing/ autofiction/ auto de fe/ CNF/ writing thingy is out in Misery Tourism- where terrible things happen to terrible people!

My piece in the opening excerpts only- go indulge ALL your senses!! Let it do terrible delicious sexy crazy evil intellectual inspirational things to you for me!!

It even has the reflection of my unblinking vulva in it!! I am the Power and the Glory-hole!

It is a response narrative for the Autofiction x Worldbuilding submissions call For this call, we asked people to write a response to another author’s autofictiona. I did this autofiction and a response to some elses and another awesome someone used my weird personal world to write a piece in! The response to mine was BRILLIANT and here! I’m so a-Muse-d!! 🖤🥲☺️

via Wikicommons -Raquel Levi Artist

Excerpts from The Hermit and The Moon (Tarotredactyl) by Pixie Bruner

You might very well have been one of the deaths of me.

I have a marauders maps of navigating secrecy and solitude, handrawn over my many lifetimes, tattooed upon my palm in the broken lifelines. I just need the lantern to guide my way through their landscapes, so bland, infused with diffused essential oil cocktails, and perfect. First thought I was crooked, as if my head’s on askew, tilted quizzically, but set to plumb, the odd angles all set to safer 90’s and Colt 45 degrees so it won’t seen so askew, the film tweaked in editing so everything is plumb and square. A movie set backlot and stage pieces based on the clickbait of Better Homes and Burdens. It’s all so beige, sage, nuetral and faux.

You might as well have been one of the deaths of me.

I know the hidden desires and secrets, clasped like rosaries by widows at matins in midweek. Unrepentant, untethered, I am undaunted by shame. I need barely enough light to see by. I go by feel. Fondling my way through everything. I go by my feels, all of them, all the time, ceaseless. I have answered the right questions of the enigmas, danced in drunken riddle-waltzes with the Sphinx as the suns rose over alien horizons, been torn apart by maenads, Puritans, real narcissists, and been fucked well by more than a couple madmen, sociopaths (one court-established even!) and schizophrenics. It’s the unreal that is most real. The secret worlds inside our skulls, the nooks and crannies of brain matter and their mysteries within. The only absolutes are there are no scientifically unprovable absolutes- grey infinity in grey matter.

You may very well have be one of the deaths of me.

I love the beauty of the shadows, the sacredness of profanity, the storms under still clouds, the tempests in every teapot and electric kettle. I am the Hermit under the moon. Huntress and Hunter, Salome dancing flamenco in the courtyard beneath a night sky on fire, her teeth castanets and the head of John the Baptist as an unwieldy maraca, a night sky with strange stars, a night sky without stars, I reflect my own light. A shadow-draped ruin lit by a single flame.

You may as well be one of the deaths of me.

I am the keeper of secrets, I consume them up, leave nary a crumb as the motherfucking revered reverend mother at the tea set. I shall be mother and eat the crumbs you leave behind, whatever you spilled sucked up eagerly, slurped up like a shop vac of consolation, empathy and sympathy, each speck, every drop, subsumed and substinence. None shall ever escape my confidentiality. I am a black hole, I absorb, I draw in. Then I encode, encrypt it. It is unbreakable in my enigma body machine. I keep all secrets. I hear all confessions. I listen. Whack me with a hammer, hear that full dull impact, I am the sounding board.

You possibly will be the death of me.

If I gifted /shared intimacy, you are special, you are rare, you are mine and the feast, provided you never corner me or block all the egresses. I am relentless and will wake you from sleep sucking out your soul in the only forgivable way to wake someone from a deep sleep, like a succubus crouched between your thighs. I am the haven of small heavens and daytrips to Hell. I am the port of call me. I am the Power and the Glory-hole.

You will be the death of me…

(Now go read the rest!)

Agape, a gape, gawking at a gap between the universes- a gap, no thigh gap ever- a poetess

😘😘😘