Thursday, 8 July 2010


When I was little I was desperate for a house with a balcony. A decade and a divorce later, as the dark lies across the sky like carbon dust sprinkled over glass, that’s where I find myself. The car park that sleeps below like a dead zebra is lit by the occasional streetlight. The body of tarmac is still and shadowy in the cool night. Cats steal across it from time to time, and from the underground parking lot of the next building, occasional cars curl through and ooze down the road. Tiny flies and dusty winged moths flock to the promising glare of my computer screen, lured to the slow buzzing warmth and light that it emits.

Some things make me so sad I can’t help but cry. Fran always says that I cry at everything. Old men in old suits, with old glasses standing under the neon glare of a supermarket aisle, for example. Wrinkled faces contorted into expressions of confusion, of sadness, of a deep and irrevocable far away-ness. Sad strawberries in a trolly. Eyes in the past, the eyes of someone so utterly isolated within themselves, that they seem to be existing behind a layer of glass. Perhaps a bell jar. God, it kills me to think about.

And then there’s me. I’m a slot machine with symbols that don’t match, no matter how many times you try me. I’m rigged. I’m wired wrong. I’m in love one minute and sick with disgust the next.

Tuesday, 6 July 2010

‘He was so surprised to wake up and find Teresa squeezing his hand tightly. Lying there looking at her, he could not quite understand what had happened. But as he ran through the previous few hours in his mind, he began to sense an aura of hitherto unknown happiness emanating from them. From that time on they both looked forward to sleeping together. I might even say that the goal of their lovemaking was the sleep that followed it…While they slept, she held him as on the first night, keeping a firm grip on wrist, finger, or ankle… Tomas came to this conclusion: Making love with a woman and sleeping with a woman are two separate passions, not merely different but opposite. Love does not make itself felt in the desire for copulation ( a desire that extents to an infinite number of women) but in the desire for shared sleep (a desire limited to only one woman).’
-Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being.
I've been meaning to look this passage up for weeks after that Jenny Owen Youngs lyric reminded me 'no better way that I can see to spend all the time while you're asleep than holding your hands inside of mine'

Let’s fall asleep together soon. Let’s become tangled in cotton and dreams that glide and skim on the oceans of our minds like fish making their way in the dark hush before dawn. Let me hold your hand, let me keep you close while we lie in the silence, just two more slowed heartbeats in the town held in the palm of a great warm hush, a collective inhale. Let’s breathe the same air; breathe in each other. Molecules of you would tumble through my lungs, finer than dust, and infinitely more potent. The blood in our veins would make its dull aching journey. The pulse in my thumb would throb slowly where it met your hand; they’d grip each other as they hung off the side of the bed; two mountaineers clinging together above a precipice.
It could be this way, we could lie entwined as the pale dawn fades into the sky, filling the room with blue, submerged in the depths of the inescapable new day. As the wires that hold everything in place make the earth groan towards the sun, we could be there, together, quietly sharing this bemusing existence. The first rays that peer over the horizon like tentative deer would illuminate my hair, weaving it through with golden silk. The hum of the summer night would sharpen into the early morning music of birds as they flex their fragile wings, and surf on the breeze of the rising morning. Dew drops would glisten on the soft purple spikes of grass, tears soon to be forgotten by the kiss of the sun. And slowly, as the sun brings colour back into a world hidden in shadow for what seemed like eternity, we could drift, off the edges of the earth of our minds, and fade into reality again.

Monday, 31 May 2010

wow so i have so much to post

i don't like putting it on my tumblr but forgot about this outlet. so this is a poem i wrote on the meeting of sylvia plath and ted hughes. if you don't know about that, google it. it's in the works, still.

two distant stars, though once

separated by infinity, now hurled

with all the power of this earth

against the other. matter and it’s mate

with bared teeth and hungry eyes

and fierce minds and empty hands

created a crescent moon, blood red

that kissed his skin and wept,

sunk deep into his heart and scarred it too,

her milk pulsed into his veins

as she gifted him with love’s wound,

to match her own scars.

galaxies stretched between

but a fading half moon marked him

as hers, his pen drew from his heart

three words: ‘i am here’

(she believed he’d always be)

magnetism bound their paths,

gravity held and fate spun until

their orbits passed once more

and with violent fire eclipsed,

burned so bright it blinded

two scarred stars with light enough

to reflect the other.

Haven't updated in forever so let me just brainstorm something

I remembered that night, conjured it back into my consciousness from where it was buried, beneath the heavy weight of passed days. I remembered the road that stretched before us into the twisting darkness of the countryside, and I remembered that you were crying. I had been crying, also: he'd bit my pretty red heart in two. The night above us was so densely black, barely pockmarked with stars, and the country still and slow, sleeping around us. No cars passed as we walked, a few empty teenagers with blood that tasted of alcohol and the smell of stale smoke in our hair. Between us, chasms divided the earth and threatened to swallow us whole, our feet brushed the edges as we walked. On the brink of life, tired eyed and bursting with pain. He was silent mostly, but he told you to think of the best day of your life to stop you from crying. He hadn't cared about me, and I told the dead night that I hadn't had a 'best day'. No one heard. Only the darkness that stretched around me, submerging me in its depths listened, it swallowed my words and they passed, like tiny bubbles into the unknown.
Minutes, hours, years later, we reached his house and curled ourselves on the floor like children, half grown, suspended between the innocence of youth and the void of adulthood. I was fiercely alone, and beside me, the abyss grew, it's darkness spread, and, as I slept, it began to engulf me, it sucked me into the Real World, gasping for air and searching for light.

this is about what was probably the worst night of my life. or rather, the aftermath of it. ha ha ha