Wednesday, 25 September 2013

5 minute freewrite

If you do not open this valve every so often then there is a chance you will start growing so tense that the dinosaurs will take over with their feathers. There is a chance you will explore. I would like to be able to writhe and rhyme—all your subtitles and tense phlegm makes my mouth taste surly. Take off your top. Take off mine. I would like to talk about being a gothic cathedral against the annals of time, I would like another cigarette, a sip of the beer. Now the judge says shut up to the prosecutor and sends a wink to the stenograph son. That is a cute boy at the table, that is a nice typewriter that says rat-a-tat-a-tat. I would press my ear to its sail horn, I would press my lips to his cock. Ah, I should be writing of filth and fairies. Ah, I should be more upright than you. It has been many days since I last did nothing but nothing is a bile in the mouth that sullies the ups and downs of the pirate ships, forever hung and hitched on its wrench. Do you have a clue what they speak of, the ghosts, the boys in the haunted house? I cannot believe how many thoughts can coexist in a brain but the only way you get to peek is to start talking quickly. I am a feral puppy dog with braids in my tail, I am wagging, I am forever a bitch on her knees. Come over here and let me taste you, come over here and I will take you like a shin. I will swallow you like oysters and spun spaghetti; I will bite your neck. The ads in casual encounters, I read the sign wrong, I thought it was causal encounters and I started to think of the physics of fucks. Would you like to play Newton to my brass band? Would you like to take me in your arms and pretend I am Einstein? They said he was smart but maybe sometimes he was also on his knees and begging for something. Maybe we are all fools and the thought of contact is faster than the speed of a thousand motorway lights. Be quiet. I am listening to my own hands tapping. I can barely see the screen now. I have written more than all of your monkeys and I am scared to stop.


The last time we walked this street the gutters were rampant with
flung shoes, aglitter with smashed glass, thick with the mucus of lungs.

You turned into an alleyway and turned over a card; you prayed pokerfaced
for no Jacks to break or besmirch us, no sharp objects, no guns.

But it was good—our hearts were beneath our tongues and they tasted
like engine soot, your skirt was rucked, all the needles and nitrous

could not puncture our skin. This city was a spider’s web of bluebottles
half-decayed but somehow still abuzz; our feet were broken motherboards,

sending blue and violent sparks with our shoes. We were not broken.
This time the street is clean, you push a stroller by the boutique, I cannot

recognise the clack of your shoes. It is foolish to miss the city’s gangrene
but still. I peek down alleyways, hoping for a glimpse of the goods.


the door

it’s over

the windows, the sky
has spoiled

today is
tipped pitchers

drunken wasps
to the floor


the door

tread bare
foot on
summer’s corpses

gargle umber
gargle ochre

stay till dusk


the door

make a
flipbook of
fallen leaves

pages gathered
Gideon Bibles


the door

it’s warm here

to my skin, your skin
is toasty

we have
upon month

of teeth
below the sheets

Tuesday, 24 September 2013

Something normal at last

The girl is not fashion, she
thinks too much
eschews the ampersands
eyelids are swollen.

The girls stores saltmines of hair,
pigeon mail to her lovers
a hawk, a seagull chanting
the girl chancing her mitt.

Halfway through the evening
a zeppelin falls
sparks of liquid helium
the goats all gone to hell.

Coatcheck cutouts, our
sunglasses are full
our worn out jeans
knees gone to gauze and gaudy.

The girl falls down a flight
of pelicans and lands
on bacon
something normal at last.

Trumpet solos.
Exploding sugar.
The encore.
Your own private apocalypse.

Your house, after the electricity is gone

No need for live wires, let’s haul
the generator to the living room floor

let it squat and grin with mean metal teeth,
feed it gasoline till it heaves. We have

no tabletops but mirror shards, dark
corners of the room refracting,

your face your face your face
on every surface, turn on

the strobe. Shred the roses he posted,
fling the petals like slideshows of storms.

In the garden, let’s paint a warning
B E W A R E  O F  T H E  G H O S T S

spring traps for giraffes and councilmen
—let’s tripwire the bins. It is just

six days since the electricity and
the phone is dead, the fridge,

the nectarines are sick swollen cheeks
gone to rot. You prance in arabesque

robes of hijacked curtains, laughing
from the stairs. Your house is the

aching cavity of an old tooth, and
we wait in the hollows for dares.

Sunday, 22 September 2013

breakfast drunk

we are liquid people
we are lying on the floor, trying to craft the day out of the ends of spider webs
we taste of elderberries and gin

the cars on the cobblestones make the whole flat shiver
the cuttings from the plants are taking root
the coffee the coffee the coffee

this an ode to drinking until the floor capsizes
this is nonsense
this is all I have to offer the world right now

quantum makeouts!
cowboys with quick leather boots!
you killed me first!

take out an insurance policy on dragonfly wings
and dream of wasps in your mouth
take me to the church

sometimes I forget I have a husband
and the whole world is foolish

sometimes I stay inside and photograph my bruises

sometimes I am on the floor
(I am on the floor now, and

my mouth is sandbanks and screws)
seven shades of topsy turvy

your mouth is mulch and chanterelles
you made me laugh

my afternoon is broken bears
my life, my day, my heart
is tipsy

Tuesday, 3 September 2013

Spoilt Milk

That girl smells like spoilt milk. That girl listens to records that tell her, being born was your first big mistake. All the passwords that girl uses are cuss words against former lovers who have spurned her. All the messages that girl picks up from the shop are full of instant gratification. That girl stands in the kitchen and dinners on dried onion flakes and jarred anchovies. That girl uses dinner as a verb.

Look at that girl in her slacks and wet hair, trying to build a network from marker pens and day old wine. Look at that girl practicing rollerskating from the desk to the bathroom. Judge everything she does and never worry about your own first mistake.

Listen to music so loud it's impossible to hear the clack of the keys you are typing. Forget about sounds, listen to the beat of your heart and your drum. Look up cigarettes in the Dewey Decimal System. Put the record lid down to protect against dust. Take a month off writing, your fingers will be there when you return. Never stop this, your words are worth more than anything, your imagination is firmer than the beat of your own heart.

Taking advice and scrunching advice into a spit-stained ball.

Saying yes to all the dates.

If your flat is built of windows, like a greenhouse, are you ever allowed to throw the first stone? Are you allowed to walk around in a bra doing fauxyoga stretches while clutching a bottle of champagne in one hand and turquoise nail polish in the other? Will the neighbours notice; will the neighbours complain? Do you need me to answer any of these?

By this girl's desk is a list of hieroglyphics that promise she can communicate by means of snakes and fists and stacked knifes. Or daggers. I am sure none of believe that cutlery is suitably ancient.

I was supposed to give up on the dull and give this heart fully to words and mysteries and the inky sweet void.  I asked the i-ching and the i-ching said as soon as I stopped worrying, all the opportunities would fall into my hands.

But who can place their destiny in the hands of wheat? Who can count sticks and take it as gospel? Only the smart, I reckon; possibly not me.

The speakers are all gone to fuss and crackle. The kitchen is avast with fruit flies. The bedroom floor is slippery with cast-aside polyester frocks. Am I happy, you ask, and the answer is yes, probably. I am feeling the inhale and exhale of the universe more and more.

The only thing I don't understand is why it is so hard to remember to take time every day and sit and spew like this. Or the only thing I don't understand is everything.

They told the girl that she would never make anything of herself giving it away for free. They told the girl she should edit everything she put into the world. Her words, her pitch, her face, her attitude. They told her to hold out for the good stuff but the girl was so spellbound by the prospect of anything that she moved her fingers and laughed and started anyway, saying, there will always be tomorrow. There will always be more.

Or even if there isn't, what do you get by holding it all to your chest in the depths of a black soot pit? I would sooner be taken advantage of brutally and without mercy and be left with fingerprint bruises than be bored. I would sooner have every idea stolen than let every idea wither. Ah, tugs on the hair and tugs on the heart, I want to be so many boats coming in and out of the harbour at once.

I want to be everything.

Such as: a red-faced spider monkey, a glass of autumn's first mead, Clara Bow, seventeen pomegranate seeds stored in a virgin's moist cheek, your sister, a chest about to be thrown over the side of a sinking ship (so full of treasure), a filthybroken degenerate, clothesline tied on things, hieroglyphics, a legend, Lorna Garman, the electric forces inside a neon tube, the crackle on a record player, gin fizz, a kiss, myself.

I know, I know, none of this is anything and all of this is nonsense. I am distracted. I smell of spoilt milk, even after the shower, I can taste the degeneracy of sweated slapped evenings on my thighs. Still, there are fishermen who hang a dozen trout on a line and stop to build a soft autumn fire with the ashes of their summer. There are days ahead of us that will be full of beached whales.

Three days into September and I have no idea what the hell is happening, but I am happy to hitch this horse and wait.