Sunday, 24 February 2013

Holy shit, what is this feeling?

Holy shit, what is this feeling of waking up with a desperately happy head, with feet that are lollygagging to run, rent and rescue? All my dreams are glitter and sunbeam Sundays; all my bells are clanging. There's a transgressor on the rodeo pony, trying to buck a trend, or at least keep her feet. I would like to transgress, I would like to wear a rhinestone mined seeker suit, I would like some cowboy boots for kicking, do you want to take a stroll in the sand?

We could build a sand ship and stake a thousand paper flags in the crescents of the ocean, we could build a life. We could wait for the tide to come in and cackle as it destroys our silly suburban makeshift and we could take your video recorder and stop motion animation the collapse of civility, the rush of the sea.

Parrots! Goddamn mutli-coloured parrots! Wouldn't you like to join one for a holiday in the tropics; can't I dress you up as my mutli-kulti Christmas fantasy and make out in a rainforest while the vines rub our shoulder, while the fronds fan our toes?

All this hangup and hold out for the shades of grey, I say your sample size is showing and wouldn't we be better off tapping into the rainbow end of the spectrum? Let's tile our studio sauna with dayglo mosaic and dress up in garter belts, paint your toenails magenta, wouldn't we be better off backcombed and feral and feet off the floor?

Hand in hand with nonsense and airplanes, hand in hand with this cutout of a kiss. Let's stop thinking small, catch yourself, I know you've been there. Monday morning plans for a Monday afternoon life, it's not enough, I can't yell this too loud in your ear with a golden trumpet: Give up asking and go for the take!

Give up on small scale and worry, give up all the things that make your wishbone crackle. You don't need this. I've seen you topless and tasteless, flinging spent kisses in the ocean from the crux of the cliffs. I've seen you fearless and pharmaceutical, making a rollercoaster of the pavements promises. I've seen you pretend your route to work is every type of discarded mattress, you made a mockery of pacing, of heavy feet.

She said stop and I stopped she said hand it over and I gave her my heart she said what the hell is this and I said isn't it enough? It wasn't enough, it's never enough, what the world is looking for is more than meat and valves so I opened my arms and lifted her over the next big wave and said pretend you are a wild pony in a mountain of your own making, don't worry about the forests, there's never going to be a better time to find your feet and fly.

Did you wake up embarrassed? Are you embarrassed now? Did you take a side-eye glare at the colour film you picked out for the day and realised it's all too sepia, did you suddenly feel the wallop of life sitting in front of you, big as a fish? Did you once promise yourself that things would be different for you because you're different, princess, and this world is going to keep rotating whatever crazy hot-to-trot you yoke your wooden cart upon?

Holy shit, what is this mystery box labelled with the single word "grin" and pasted with postcards to another country, stuck with shades of sunshine, covered from head to toe with Elvis stamps and Marilyn Monroe in her up-skirt gutter-shot? Go on, open it up, put your arms around it and delve straight in, who knows what the second layer in pass the parcel promises, who cares?

Who cares? That's the ticket and the crux, that's the fantasy, that's the promise I've got for you if you agree to take your secret handshake and teach me the way to the ladder to your house in the trees. Go on, go on, you've been hiding up there for a week and I've got a thermos full of gin fizz, I'd like to be your ladycake, I'll pin you to the wooden boards and teach you the lyrics to rollover. Doesn't that sound like the way to spend a Sunday? Doesn't that just beat your plans with a carpet whacker, don't you like it?

Call me ladycake and let's hand it over together, arm in arm, tricksy spiders both. Take me on a date to your finest woodpile. I'll be dressed in dungarees and a pretty lace garter, I'll make a promise, I'll help you hammer and when the sun sets I'll take you home to meet my other half, the half that stayed at home today, the half that waits for Monday. You'll have nothing to say to each other and she'll just tut and pick the broken twigs from our barnets. We'll pay no mind. The Sabbath is built for ponies, you say, and I agree. Let's get yoking. Let's take our chance at the fair.

No comments:

Post a Comment