He did his best to keep his distance from her dress
Blue, with lace on the hem
Her shoulders tan and soft
Warm from the candlelight
Flickering from the votives
He followed her past the guests
Moonshine over the field
Where she began to dance because no one could see
Her bare feet in the grass
He took his shoes off so he could understand
The beauty in the distance
Her hair unpinned at last
Running wild in Central Park
Wednesday 19 November 2008
Hushed Affection
Love is after midnight
Inconvenient and covered in rain
Moments that fall beside quiet clocks
On patch-work quilts that were sewn before you were born
Delirious, drunk with opportunity and fear
A new chance
A new touch
Joni Mitchell on the radio
This is how your father felt about your mother
Very long ago
Fingers chasing silhouettes
Pillows that smell like skin
A lover in a friend
Holding you in the dark
Inconvenient and covered in rain
Moments that fall beside quiet clocks
On patch-work quilts that were sewn before you were born
Delirious, drunk with opportunity and fear
A new chance
A new touch
Joni Mitchell on the radio
This is how your father felt about your mother
Very long ago
Fingers chasing silhouettes
Pillows that smell like skin
A lover in a friend
Holding you in the dark
Portobello
Pushing pulling prodding praying
Bruising, biting
I can never be alone
A light in the window, a street lamp smeared by rain
Portobello Road has old world wares and witching houses
I sat on his knee on the couch in the living room
I complimented his mother’s mosaic mirror
And the brilliant colors that it reflected in the light
Alcohol poisoned with licorice and peppermint
The sweets of a child
I was a child
I almost caught myself
Clouds over the moon, shadows on the storefronts
The empty silence, punctured by his needles in my thighs
Pressing against a wall
He leaned close and licked his fingers
Pressing them tight against the yarn in the candle
Extinguishing the flame
I thought that he hissed
But it was the wick, reacting to fire and spit
I imagined piano keys plunking Clair de Lune
And I tried to discover
I tried to find something to discover
I could only recall Jacob’s daughter Dinah
And how God let man be
We were in the dark
He decimated cotton that clung to skin
And bit beneath the surface
Playing inside where he trespassed
Quiet, he soothed, quiet now
This will all be over soon
The colors from the mosaics
Bleed into the wall
Where the oils of my skin seeped
YOU
MAKE
ME
Bruising, biting
I can never be alone
A light in the window, a street lamp smeared by rain
Portobello Road has old world wares and witching houses
I sat on his knee on the couch in the living room
I complimented his mother’s mosaic mirror
And the brilliant colors that it reflected in the light
Alcohol poisoned with licorice and peppermint
The sweets of a child
I was a child
I almost caught myself
Clouds over the moon, shadows on the storefronts
The empty silence, punctured by his needles in my thighs
Pressing against a wall
He leaned close and licked his fingers
Pressing them tight against the yarn in the candle
Extinguishing the flame
I thought that he hissed
But it was the wick, reacting to fire and spit
I imagined piano keys plunking Clair de Lune
And I tried to discover
I tried to find something to discover
I could only recall Jacob’s daughter Dinah
And how God let man be
We were in the dark
He decimated cotton that clung to skin
And bit beneath the surface
Playing inside where he trespassed
Quiet, he soothed, quiet now
This will all be over soon
The colors from the mosaics
Bleed into the wall
Where the oils of my skin seeped
YOU
MAKE
ME
A Morning Scene
The morning brought clouds over the moon
Grey mist on the water
Dawn songs from birds dipped in morning dew
Shadows on the storefronts, waiting for release
A few quiet walkers
Early morning explorers
Watching in awe
At street lamps smeared by rain
At green awnings flapping in the wind
Grey mist on the water
Dawn songs from birds dipped in morning dew
Shadows on the storefronts, waiting for release
A few quiet walkers
Early morning explorers
Watching in awe
At street lamps smeared by rain
At green awnings flapping in the wind
Friday 7 November 2008
The Adventure
We’re cruising on the burnt black road in John Steinbeck’s California. The road is sloping, bending, turning, squealing against the wind at five, six, seven in the afternoon. The sun is slipping, dropping into the sea – crashing into the rocks a thousand feet below. Our windows are down, we’ve been driving forever, and air is spicy with salty foam that rises up from the depths of the sand. My hair is knotted, these tiny, perfect knots that bring forth curls and splendor. And I think “I’ve wanted to do this for years.” I melt into the leather, it’s supple and warm. There are mix tapes on the ground, hundreds of compilations of moods and songbirds with acoustic guitars. The cassettes swim with notebooks and photographs, all that we have ever needed.
Tonight there is no story, and no one will know. I hum “America” and he sings the words but I don’t know his name. We walked off to look for America. There are thousands, literally thousands, of Polaroid pictures organized in clear plastic sandwich bags, sliding along the back seat as we glide. At our diner stops I’ve photographed the miss-matched diner lamps. I’ve found that diner lamps have nearly always been miss-matched with one another, bright plastic reds with gold trimmed greens that have engraved leaves, a cornucopia of textiles and American Colonial china. I can retrace our entrances and exits, our revolutionary road from the Post Road Diner in Connecticut to Skippy’s in Wisconsin, all the way back home to The Griddle. It’s my intent to publish them, to redefine this country with wonder and a new way to trail blaze West. I have to share this love.
It’s been a long time, so we pull over and watch the sun. We don’t want to come home yet so we turn back towards San Francisco – another night in the city. We work our way back up the state, claiming the afternoon, seizing the night. No one will ever believe what we have become. We link together, and run with the 101. A white Honda is our carriage, ushering our dreams into the night. Near Redwoods there’s this pulse – we felt it the first time too – boom, boom, whoosh – there’s a life in the trees. We suck it up, I pulse faster and breath like its all going to disappear forever by the next time I swallow. The road means that there’s this unbelievable new way to touch and speak. In the woods, like the wheat in Oklahoma, the air is sweet but dry in a dying nation. We’re crying to be resuscitated; I understand why the dew in the grass tastes like the tears of a child. I understand the intensity of adolescent ignorance. There are no lights but we’re flying in space. And then we’re slipping through, breaking in – our eyes are open, our eyes are open, our eyes are open.
The economy hasn’t gone bust; our mother’s haven’t left us to find our own bread. We have been forgiven. Time is this foreign construct of structure and reality and ticking. Tick, tick, ticking – we’re tripping. This is all far away now. Our hearts are beating. We’re on this impossible trip where we can go anywhere, anywhere in any direction. Yesterday we picked up a hitchhiker because we could. He had long grey hair and six punk rock pins on his leather jacket. He gave us two apples and an ear for a rainy stretch. We’re starving but it’s life, we’ve got life. We’re singing; we’re doubled over in the brilliance of our outstretched fingers and the light that drops from the trees, the mountains, the reflection of the sea. I threw my mobile over the cliffs in a rush to escape – and I’ve never – we’ve never…
Look at the moon. The beams form a cross in the sky but I don’t believe in Jesus. I still find comfort in the beams. Look at the moon. I’m on the moon, looking back on the sea. I’ve never seen it this way. Tonight is the end of the world, but we’re all going to be fine. We’ll stick together as we fade and we won’t miss the morning. Not any of us. We’re speeding on the jagged edges of a road that’s been cracked out of a mountain before we’re off, sailing, shooting into the black as we explode with all of the rest in this saturation of peace and beauty that I’d always hoped would befall our last moment. And I think to myself, “I’ve wanted to do this for years”.
Tonight there is no story, and no one will know. I hum “America” and he sings the words but I don’t know his name. We walked off to look for America. There are thousands, literally thousands, of Polaroid pictures organized in clear plastic sandwich bags, sliding along the back seat as we glide. At our diner stops I’ve photographed the miss-matched diner lamps. I’ve found that diner lamps have nearly always been miss-matched with one another, bright plastic reds with gold trimmed greens that have engraved leaves, a cornucopia of textiles and American Colonial china. I can retrace our entrances and exits, our revolutionary road from the Post Road Diner in Connecticut to Skippy’s in Wisconsin, all the way back home to The Griddle. It’s my intent to publish them, to redefine this country with wonder and a new way to trail blaze West. I have to share this love.
It’s been a long time, so we pull over and watch the sun. We don’t want to come home yet so we turn back towards San Francisco – another night in the city. We work our way back up the state, claiming the afternoon, seizing the night. No one will ever believe what we have become. We link together, and run with the 101. A white Honda is our carriage, ushering our dreams into the night. Near Redwoods there’s this pulse – we felt it the first time too – boom, boom, whoosh – there’s a life in the trees. We suck it up, I pulse faster and breath like its all going to disappear forever by the next time I swallow. The road means that there’s this unbelievable new way to touch and speak. In the woods, like the wheat in Oklahoma, the air is sweet but dry in a dying nation. We’re crying to be resuscitated; I understand why the dew in the grass tastes like the tears of a child. I understand the intensity of adolescent ignorance. There are no lights but we’re flying in space. And then we’re slipping through, breaking in – our eyes are open, our eyes are open, our eyes are open.
The economy hasn’t gone bust; our mother’s haven’t left us to find our own bread. We have been forgiven. Time is this foreign construct of structure and reality and ticking. Tick, tick, ticking – we’re tripping. This is all far away now. Our hearts are beating. We’re on this impossible trip where we can go anywhere, anywhere in any direction. Yesterday we picked up a hitchhiker because we could. He had long grey hair and six punk rock pins on his leather jacket. He gave us two apples and an ear for a rainy stretch. We’re starving but it’s life, we’ve got life. We’re singing; we’re doubled over in the brilliance of our outstretched fingers and the light that drops from the trees, the mountains, the reflection of the sea. I threw my mobile over the cliffs in a rush to escape – and I’ve never – we’ve never…
Look at the moon. The beams form a cross in the sky but I don’t believe in Jesus. I still find comfort in the beams. Look at the moon. I’m on the moon, looking back on the sea. I’ve never seen it this way. Tonight is the end of the world, but we’re all going to be fine. We’ll stick together as we fade and we won’t miss the morning. Not any of us. We’re speeding on the jagged edges of a road that’s been cracked out of a mountain before we’re off, sailing, shooting into the black as we explode with all of the rest in this saturation of peace and beauty that I’d always hoped would befall our last moment. And I think to myself, “I’ve wanted to do this for years”.
Effervescence
The fuzz in his eyes is the same bleary look in the horse’s eye
The horse that lives on the carousel, in a black and white moment
Pinned to the wall
There are twinkling lights in the dark, pale skin in the light
A small tiptoe walk, a gliding, and haughty strut – he changes
He kisses fingertips, sometimes I watch
Sometimes I wish it were me
How does it feel, he asks, how does it feel
How does the sky feel when its orange on your skin?
When the leaves fall but they’re soggy and dank?
I could fall in love with anything at all
Burning pictures in a dark room
Chemical smell and red light
Quiet, focus –
Quiet, he’s focused
Tell me about your Mom, I say
What’s she like?
I don’t understand where he comes from –
I can’t imagine him a child tying a shoe –
A boy kissing in the dark –
He has a spark and he loves the Titanic
Did I know that now they think it was the rivets that made it sink?
No, I didn’t
He’s excited, I haven’t seen this for a while and to witness it feels like a gift
My mother must have felt this when I finally came home
Breathing up and down
Sighing tempos, cadences, codas
I never could write a song so I settled
He curls up tight, in blue plaid sheets
Tell me about your Dad, I say
What’s he like?
I understand where he comes from –
I see him small and hiding, watching Daddy and his cigar
He twinkles
He twinkles
He twinkles
The horse that lives on the carousel, in a black and white moment
Pinned to the wall
There are twinkling lights in the dark, pale skin in the light
A small tiptoe walk, a gliding, and haughty strut – he changes
He kisses fingertips, sometimes I watch
Sometimes I wish it were me
How does it feel, he asks, how does it feel
How does the sky feel when its orange on your skin?
When the leaves fall but they’re soggy and dank?
I could fall in love with anything at all
Burning pictures in a dark room
Chemical smell and red light
Quiet, focus –
Quiet, he’s focused
Tell me about your Mom, I say
What’s she like?
I don’t understand where he comes from –
I can’t imagine him a child tying a shoe –
A boy kissing in the dark –
He has a spark and he loves the Titanic
Did I know that now they think it was the rivets that made it sink?
No, I didn’t
He’s excited, I haven’t seen this for a while and to witness it feels like a gift
My mother must have felt this when I finally came home
Breathing up and down
Sighing tempos, cadences, codas
I never could write a song so I settled
He curls up tight, in blue plaid sheets
Tell me about your Dad, I say
What’s he like?
I understand where he comes from –
I see him small and hiding, watching Daddy and his cigar
He twinkles
He twinkles
He twinkles
Thursday 26 June 2008
On Kindness
Dearest James - the Irish in the English - the logic in the ether - the ghost in the pack ---
I named you what you asked me too.
Let me forget your hesitations long enough to forget myself - you are so much better than you believe. When the sun is hot but low, and barbecue smells run rampant through the park I think of you. I don't know why. You've been a magnifying glass, a pillow, patient. I waited for the time - "the time" - but it came and I couldn't. I would sit and be with you for as long as I can imagine. It isn't cliched and it makes less sense but I've tried to write you down two hundred times. I have nothing. It seemed easier to sing it out, feel the fall, drink the drink and write a letter that I would never deliver but longed for you to see. I disappeared in the wind before you gave me solace in a late night pause. We went to KFC and shared a sandwich. It was so simple and we only went because I was nearly too drunk to stand. You ordered and we talked because I was lost and you knew the others would leave before I found my way. In an hour you held my floundering, cradled my soul but you had no idea. I breathed and swallowed. Months later you brought that night up when we were alone watching a movie.
- Remember that night when I walked you home, with the sandwich and my bike?
It is a common idea that boys do not remember poignant moments. The time when there is a colossal shift known only to those in the storm. The world is the same but there's been a jolt, a change in the light. We had grown together and with your recollection I fell further into myself. I'm not in love but to be honest I don't really know what that means anyway. Instead I know what it is to come alive under another. How it feels to be resuscitated into the throngs. This is all to you even though you would never believe it. I need you too. The boys were assholes but you stayed around. How do I say what I have to say? How do I write down in real words on real paper that you saved my life? You saved my life. And forevermore without doubt, adding years and the Atlantic Ocean I will never forget how you would answer the phone or how you saw through whatever it was that I was trying to pull over. I took your loftiness to be ambivalence but it turned out to be depression. Like a refrain in your favorite song, it fit. I didn't know and I felt so selfish. How could I not have known? What I wanted was your trust but you wouldn't trust anybody. So a country and a city away I'm writing you down in the only way I ever could. I feel you pulsing far away, I'll dial an international code forever before I'll give you up.
I named you what you asked me too.
Let me forget your hesitations long enough to forget myself - you are so much better than you believe. When the sun is hot but low, and barbecue smells run rampant through the park I think of you. I don't know why. You've been a magnifying glass, a pillow, patient. I waited for the time - "the time" - but it came and I couldn't. I would sit and be with you for as long as I can imagine. It isn't cliched and it makes less sense but I've tried to write you down two hundred times. I have nothing. It seemed easier to sing it out, feel the fall, drink the drink and write a letter that I would never deliver but longed for you to see. I disappeared in the wind before you gave me solace in a late night pause. We went to KFC and shared a sandwich. It was so simple and we only went because I was nearly too drunk to stand. You ordered and we talked because I was lost and you knew the others would leave before I found my way. In an hour you held my floundering, cradled my soul but you had no idea. I breathed and swallowed. Months later you brought that night up when we were alone watching a movie.
- Remember that night when I walked you home, with the sandwich and my bike?
It is a common idea that boys do not remember poignant moments. The time when there is a colossal shift known only to those in the storm. The world is the same but there's been a jolt, a change in the light. We had grown together and with your recollection I fell further into myself. I'm not in love but to be honest I don't really know what that means anyway. Instead I know what it is to come alive under another. How it feels to be resuscitated into the throngs. This is all to you even though you would never believe it. I need you too. The boys were assholes but you stayed around. How do I say what I have to say? How do I write down in real words on real paper that you saved my life? You saved my life. And forevermore without doubt, adding years and the Atlantic Ocean I will never forget how you would answer the phone or how you saw through whatever it was that I was trying to pull over. I took your loftiness to be ambivalence but it turned out to be depression. Like a refrain in your favorite song, it fit. I didn't know and I felt so selfish. How could I not have known? What I wanted was your trust but you wouldn't trust anybody. So a country and a city away I'm writing you down in the only way I ever could. I feel you pulsing far away, I'll dial an international code forever before I'll give you up.
Wednesday 23 April 2008
Maltball and Rand are Dead! or, Thank You, Mr. Stoppard
A Meeting, On Paper.
Plays
- Rock n' Roll
- Spring Awakening
- Hamlet *
Books
- You've read nearly everything I've ever loved
- You love the poets I can't understand
- It was lovely
- Cultural invigoration! (Music, Literature - John Donne! Joan Didion! - Theatre, our own writings...) *
- You said that you've never seen anyone speak like I did when I told you my big plans. I was swimming.
A Lifetime, In My Mind.
We could have done this. I was there. You blamed Tom Stoppard. The washing hummed and you were so careful where you put your hands. We didn't eat because we weren't hungry. Your trousers fit you perfectly. You liked my sundress. There was a book in your pocket. I was in love, down the rabbit hole with you. It was perfect but it was late and your father's friend, the MP, was arriving at five the next morning. We slept together anyway.
We could have done this. I was there. You blamed Tom Stoppard. The washing hummed and you were so careful where you put your hands. We didn't eat because we weren't hungry. Your trousers fit you perfectly. You liked my sundress. There was a book in your pocket. I was in love, down the rabbit hole with you. It was perfect but it was late and your father's friend, the MP, was arriving at five the next morning. We slept together anyway.
Two days later, at a table across from the bar at Starbucks you said goodbye. You'd thought of nothing else for the past two days and you didn't see how it would ever work. This was harder for you then I could imagine, you said. You looked so sad. No doubt you were. Your eyes kept blinking to keep the wet only a glaze. I wouldn't cry in front of you. We hugged outside, it was all very dignified but you wouldn't let go. Your fingers tangled my hair and you whispered "Shit," in my ear. Somebody had to say the truth. Our hearts made us dizzy, but I didn't pull at you. Maltball and Rand are dead.
Friday 4 April 2008
The Gummy House
The Gummy House is sticky. The Gummy House is sweet. The Gummy House is everything that I would like to eat.
He ate me. Off the wall. You were so sweet sleeping, I couldn’t wake you. I was hanging onto deliriousness - all the days, the dark, the fucking Circle Line and crowds outside the Natural History Museum. The fucking Natural History Museum where Nolan was.
- In two weeks time I’ll be rubbish, but I’ll call.
Nolan was just one of them. There are many that I keep hanging on to but its not the same here and I should know by now. I tell everyone who goes to Cromwell Road that they’re a traitor. But he isn’t there anymore. He has nothing to do with anything now - nothing, blank, fin. But he lives on my walks through the park to school. Every fucking day. It was different when I first arrived but I’ve overstayed. I’ve got to go, but I’m in the Gummy House. This whole city is the fucking Gummy House and the sick part of me that wants to be prodded and bitten. "Bite it. You have to bite it." That’s from Atonement. I couldn’t read that line allowed in class. Bite it. You have to bite it.
All the day’s clothes were on my body. Too much a hassle to take them off when he wanted to go beneath my black bra that my mother had bought for me. I was the auto-body in his teal kitchen, all parts, no kisses. I had a boyfriend, stop I have a boyfriend.
- Where’s he now sugar?
My pants were undone. My skinny jeans use to be a struggle to get on and off. They were harder with Nolan but I’ve stopped eating again. I don’t want anything from you. Please.
- No.
My back hit the light switch. There was light in the kitchen before he pushed me against the wall again. Light was on, off, on, off. I would have laughed but it was awkward and he was focused. His hand was jammed in and I couldn’t make a sound. You were asleep. I’m sorry, I should have called. But you would have killed him and left me panting. What flavor was teal? Was there ever a teal gummy bear? A tropical mix? His hand was in, his head was down - there was no shelf to grip on the wall. The house was clean, his mother was asleep upstairs. I’d met her. The American amongst the slanted vernacular.
He was a singer. I wanted that art back but what was mixing vocal chords going to do? I cried, he didn’t notice. Which was fine. I wasn’t allowed to make a noise anyway. Girls in brown braids run through fields in gingham dresses but I was in the Gummy House.
He ate me. Off the wall. You were so sweet sleeping, I couldn’t wake you. I was hanging onto deliriousness - all the days, the dark, the fucking Circle Line and crowds outside the Natural History Museum. The fucking Natural History Museum where Nolan was.
- In two weeks time I’ll be rubbish, but I’ll call.
Nolan was just one of them. There are many that I keep hanging on to but its not the same here and I should know by now. I tell everyone who goes to Cromwell Road that they’re a traitor. But he isn’t there anymore. He has nothing to do with anything now - nothing, blank, fin. But he lives on my walks through the park to school. Every fucking day. It was different when I first arrived but I’ve overstayed. I’ve got to go, but I’m in the Gummy House. This whole city is the fucking Gummy House and the sick part of me that wants to be prodded and bitten. "Bite it. You have to bite it." That’s from Atonement. I couldn’t read that line allowed in class. Bite it. You have to bite it.
All the day’s clothes were on my body. Too much a hassle to take them off when he wanted to go beneath my black bra that my mother had bought for me. I was the auto-body in his teal kitchen, all parts, no kisses. I had a boyfriend, stop I have a boyfriend.
- Where’s he now sugar?
My pants were undone. My skinny jeans use to be a struggle to get on and off. They were harder with Nolan but I’ve stopped eating again. I don’t want anything from you. Please.
- No.
My back hit the light switch. There was light in the kitchen before he pushed me against the wall again. Light was on, off, on, off. I would have laughed but it was awkward and he was focused. His hand was jammed in and I couldn’t make a sound. You were asleep. I’m sorry, I should have called. But you would have killed him and left me panting. What flavor was teal? Was there ever a teal gummy bear? A tropical mix? His hand was in, his head was down - there was no shelf to grip on the wall. The house was clean, his mother was asleep upstairs. I’d met her. The American amongst the slanted vernacular.
He was a singer. I wanted that art back but what was mixing vocal chords going to do? I cried, he didn’t notice. Which was fine. I wasn’t allowed to make a noise anyway. Girls in brown braids run through fields in gingham dresses but I was in the Gummy House.
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