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.
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.