Monday, 25 February 2013


Live young and be wild, my friend, the poet. Stop letting the world on your shoulders pinch you with jogging and ill at ease. Be easy.
Let me prescribe a flower cure from this garden of bougainvillaea, make a poultice of petunias, a sure tulip; place this petal underneath your tongue and count to three hundred and by the time it's dissolved you should be hurtling through space.
Even time.

I've seen you breathless and believing in waterfalls, yelling There's no stop to the city, taking a brass rubbing of the tarmac to remember the shape of footsteps in spring.
Maybe we are all already hurtling through time.

Live like a psychotic dolphin trying to outleap the rise and fall of the ocean and don't be afraid to bark like a seal.
Eat the rotten fruit. It's got no other sin than too much ripeness and I thing it's time we trusted in things that get wetter, stop placing our faith in things that dry out. This is the symptom of living, or at least one definition of biscuits versus cake.
Is there any sight so perfect as the sunlight on the tarmac, or hummingbirds?

Keep faith in the crazy kaboom, keep kittens in drawers for depressed afternoons. Go Catholic.
You've much to learn from this Mexican lust dust, not least cherry cola kisses and taunting in tongues. I'll teach you to string a rosary with electric love voltage; I'll hand you the wire cutters and sell you my fuse.
I want to eat art so let me bite your tattoo.

Send your lady friend a love letter in hieroglyphics and tell her your theories of Egyptians in space, space mummies, space cat tombs, draw her a picture or just pronounce Ptolemy.
Do you believe there are pyramids somewhere on the dark side of the moon, or on Mars, or a less gaudy solar system princess, Iapetus, perhaps, or Io? I cannot believe that the aliens would choose only us.
Surely there are razorblades everywhere waiting to get sharp?

Spacegirl cowgirl cosmic loser, let's go searching in the desert for petals we can peel back and get doolally on sap and sugar, let's set up a doughnut stand at the point where the tarmac meets the sand and get icing sugar dust in our highfaluting hair.

I read they found space fungi in Tutankhamen's tomb. Perhaps he died on an intergalactic love trip, or maybe he escaped along with the mice and mycelium, both.
If I offered you a fist of blue purple turquoise stems and said stick out you tongue pretty, would you? I've got no promises but I'd like to feed you raspberries, crush them on your lips; I'd like to see the cosmic dribble down your spacegirl supersonic chin.
I bet you taste sweet.

Do you keep dragonflies in matchboxes in a seventh story flat? Do you have seven stories you could tell me if I sat you on my knitted dayglo carpet and lashed the monkeys to the front and said Scaramouch and Whee and we went to the sky?
The sky here is heavy, jasmine cumin snuffed-candlelight plum, the sky here smells good, and quiet, I like you. I bet you taste sweet.

We're weighed down on this magic carpet with monkeys and too many doughnuts, icing sugar falling like spacesnow on the streets and into those fat hessian sacks that line these streets. I'd like to plunge my hand up to the elbow. I'd like to bite you.
It's so silent halfway to space and if we train my monkeys hard enough perhaps we'll make it to the pyramids of Iapetus, maybe we can reach a cosmic decision, or just find some razorblades that could cut through skin.

I'd like to nosebleed over civilisations and watch the scurrying, shrieks, and this is the final plague, perhaps, this is the end in the form of pelting rubies.
Or we'll just leave them be and take to our own sky and hitch you up with a blade and a diamond dagger, doughnuts, too much sugar in our bloodstream and I can't talk for sicking up my electric love voltage. For shame.
Let's forget shame, for now, let's be blood sisters, I've got the switchblade if you've got the smooth white neck?

Crush a raspberry between your lips and dribble that sweet pink juice and let's lie around like infinite space whores throwing heads of dead roses and licking our wounds. Can you believe I found this magical carpet? Can you believe we're halfway between the moons and the sky?

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