with you on runways of laughter

This morning’s doings:

Woke up early, unexpectedly rested, to bright blue sky. Chilly in England. Scarves and mittens, ladies and gentlemen.

Remembered odd dream – I was making pomegranates out of clay.

Postponed: packing everything into boxes, shorthand practice, getting out of bed.

Looked at wedding rings on etsy. Got all excited.

Watched half of nature documentary with headphones on, secretly, cocooned in duvet. Sardines fucked by global warming. <not happy about this>

M brought me coffee. He got up early to finish this big job he’s working on. He looks exhausted, but darlings, someone’s got to pay for the wedding rings.

Found an old poem to share with you. It’s a bit long, but I wouldn’t dream of patronising you, dear reader, with assumptions as to your concentration span.

Palimpsest (11).

when i want parties i seem to get

corpulent lenten russian novels

instead of sluts in latex.

everyone dances on my

shattered sleep architecture.

you have to come back, and symphony me.

and let the meadows come back.

Find me a slatted pattern

take a hoopla, corral the patience of horses

a small molten north laptop choir and i

go south go south. go south.

(i said, i said took only one tiny unhappy bee

the meadows are full of metal)

 

when i wanted dreamings

i went whenever i had to

fell off cliffs and drank berliner

i went out to warehouses

and bite and bite and bite.

i slithered in deserts and didn’t know, i’m dreaming.

(and there are girls without voices in mali and thailand

there are girls without minds in shoreditch and gazi)

and i am doing this killing degree because

what else do girls like me know?

 

when i want parties

i get out of here

with you on runways of laughter.

fill up my oldest house with jamjars of candy

put so many lights on the appletrees

she’ll blow. follow me in soldier

bare all my buttons

explode all my beehives.

 

cy twombly, in my dream,

told me to look harder,

at your face!

and showed me a mirror. and

between the atoms very close he

licked the foam from his spoon he said

harder than that!, between the follicles

is carbon. coal. diamonds. your matter.

he said take off your clothes if you have to.

do not forget to get paint on your body,

he said, one love, bigger than thine.

 

so we were eating pancakes

and there was ocean all over the windows

and we battered down in ruby bear bed jackets

and he took the maple syrup,

brown sugar, cream to the white linen tablecloth

and started to bellow

“i am Thyrsis of Etna, blessed with a tuneful voice.”

while the waitress was nowhere to be seen

he thundered like god among the teacups.

 

when we want porno,

we listen to the bodies, saying “aw yeah”

like there’s something they just remembered.

there isn’t any dust in their cages. they

sharpen their nails on iron files, they practice sweating

on innocent cupcakes. They wear

fuck-me shoes. While the saami

castrate their reindeer with a nip of the teeth.

Sex has never been fair.

 

cy twombly told me, let it go.

let out the birdcaged. though i wanted

rivers of blood to sink the whole scene under.

even the dead will dance, when an egyptian

taxi stops in the road. a mandolin beating

impossibly high will bring us from out of our eggshells

from bloom to bloom. better

the borrowed days of february than the unseen icebergs.

better great cry then little wool. a choir

pitched impossibly high moves iron hearts

like slow machinery. these are facts,

and not to be disputed. whatever i can promise.

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