Monthly Archives: June 2011

Let’s Play Poison.

listen                               listen
let me tell                        all of
you secrets                      your worst nightmares
the darkness                    will pervade
and sorrow                      all encompassing
destroys                         madness and
scratching and                 pulling and beating
fellow man                       let the dust
rise                                  settle
over an ashen                  annihilated
land                                 land
once so full                     of beauty
of men                            who didn’t
listen or                          understand
again we shall                 prevail
fall                                  into greatness
into savagery                  burn all the
books and                      heathens and
dancing music                obliterate them
all gone                          away
bolt your                        loved ones in
steel doors                     trenches and
cages lock away             bursts of
the night                        colour
fear the                         reaper in the
others                            hearts lies
trust                               trust
no one                           everyone
nobody                          lies
eat the                            human
flesh with                        ligaments
the tendons                     roasted on
burning fire                     microwave ovens
allow yourself                  this is
a life                                a survival
of carnal                         brutal
venom                             venom

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Filed under Poetry.

An Ode to Madonna.

Dear Madge;

Do you ever wake up in the middle of the night in panic?
And realise you’ve left the gas on the stove?
Or do you just wake up in the middle of the night and can’t get back to sleep?
Do you ever have sleep in the corners of your perfect eyes?
Do you ever forget to take your make-up off?
And wake up with perfect panda-eyes?
Do you ever make your own toast?
And do you ever indulge in ‘fruit loops?’
Madge;

Do you ever tell Lourdes off for being on the phone too long?
And then ground her if she talks back?
Or do you let her get away with it?
Do you ever yell at her for being a nasty brat?
Do you ever drive her to soccer practise?
And stand on the sidelines with the other celebrity mums?
Do you ever drive through peak-hour traffic?
And honk your horn and grit your teeth and swear at the other drivers?

Madge;

Do you still Vogue?
And do you dance around your room in your underwear?
Or would you rather sit down with your iPod and listen to something else?
Do you ever drink too much champagne and get giggly?
Do you ever eat a whole tin of biscuits while watching Bridget Jones?
And mime along with every line ‘cause you’ve seen it a thousand times?
Do you ever write in your diary?
And keep a lock on it to guard all your secrets safe?

Madge;

Do you and Jesus ever fight?
And do you scream and yell and say things you don’t mean?
Or do you communicate your feelings?
Do you ever sit silently and wonder what to do?
Do you ever cheat on him?
And feel a pang of guilt and hurt as you walk away using those long, lovely legs?
Do you ever let it slip out that deep down you really love him?
And feel your cheeks redden and your neck tingle because he doesn’t say it back?

Madge;
Do you ever get lonely?

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Filed under Poetry.

Chaos.

I’m finding it more than difficult to put down in words all I know, and all that I would rather not know. Only I can tell you how I see the world, and how last summer played out for me. But I am an unreliable witness, so you shouldn’t trust me completely. I am painting a picture of what my life was like back then, and the enormity of the changes that ensued.

I was never unhappy – I was just dull. A robot going through the mechanisms of what I thought were the normal things to do. Waking up in the morning became a task only to be elevated when I took up full-time smoking. Without a job, my days were filled with reading, listening to my records, and taking long walks down to the pictures to watch old black and white movies. David would often get annoyed at me if I walked home late after dark. He always said it wasn’t safe for a woman to be walking alone in the dark; that it was unusual. I liked the darkness. In the evening, when the sun had set and the world quietened down, I would walk back in a peaceful slumber, peering through the warm, yellow windows of families settling down in front of the TV, or couples on their porches reading. Maybe it was unusual for a woman to be taking long walks in the night by herself, but David knew when he married me that I wasn’t exactly normal. Continue reading

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Filed under Short Stories.

Female Seeks Male.

My bed is never made.
I’m fickle; and because of this I have done many things that
make me sound cool even though I’ve given up on them. For
example, you might often hear me say that I play guitar. Et
je parle en francais. Mais c’est nes pas vrai. See? Also, I can’t
trust anyone who doesn’t like dogs, or the smell of rain,
or a giant mug of tea. Also I take compliments really badly, but I’ll tell you now; I want to hear them all the time. I will roll my eyes, but secretly
I love it. My all-time favourite movie is Singin’ In The Rain and my all-time
favourite song is Stairway to Heaven followed closely by These Arms Of Mine.

I like staying in the bath long enough
so my fingers get all wrinkly; I slow my breathing down, float perfectly
still, and imagine I’m a suicide who’s just slit their wrists.
Sometimes when I’m driving along, I imagine ploughing myself into a pole. My picture would be on the news.
A tragedy.
Also, I like to daydream that I’m a West-End star, all glittered up, jazz-hands ‘n’ all. I would be in my dressing room putting on my wig and make-up, when my entrepreneur husband walks in to tell me he’s in love with our teenage nanny.
After months of hurtling myself into a harrowing depression, I
arise from my gin-soaked apartment – in New York – to write a
best-selling novel called Lolita.
If you are: hairy, tall, pierced, tattooed, unwashed and intolerably rude – I will
most definitely be attracted to you. Add in a motorcycle, a drug habit and bouts of manic-depression – and I will fall in love with you.
Please don’t make me do that.

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Filed under Poetry.

Reality of Retail.

“Hey, yeah, um, I’m looking for Don Kwiks-ote?”

“Excuse me, do you work here?”
(Unfortunately.)
“Yes! How can I – “
“I’m looking for the latest Pulitzer prize-winning book?”
(Like you’re actually going to understand it anyway.)
“Ah, sorry, don’t have that one in yet! Maybe next time?”

“Why do you keep tarot cards in Occult?”

“Scuze me mayt?”
(You are not a judgemental person.)
“Yes, can I help you?”
“Aww uhm lookin’ for the new Jahymes Petterson, you goddid?”
(You are totally a judgmental person.)
“Sorry, we haven’t seen that one come in yet.”

“Can I have a discount for this damaged book? It’s a gift for my mum.”

“Hey love, could you help me find a book?”
(Just wait for it…)
“Sure! Which one were you after?”
“It’s the one about that woman? It’s about 200 pages? Red cover?”
(Sure! Why don’t I just go the computer and type in that accurate description?)
“Um…”

“I’m sorry I’m really not feeling a positive energy from these Angel cards.”

“EXCYUSE ME? YOU THAIR? FIND ME A BOOK EH!?”
(I might actually kill this woman.)
“A book?”
“YES AH WORNT SOMETHING BEATIFUL EH?!
(How about a nice punch in the face?)
“How about Vikrum Seth?”

“Yeah, ah, do you have any Sigmund Frood?”

“Hey babe, do you have the latest James Patterson?”
(A generation of absolute morons.)
“No. Sorry.”
“Nah that’s fine honey. So what are you up to later on tonight?”
(Piss off.)
“Piss off.”

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Filed under Poetry.

Ma Cheri.

She smiles with a sneer
and dances with spite
She won’t laugh nor cheer
nor speak without fight.

Her hair falls in cascades
of oil and grime
And her skin is as yellow
as stale, old white wine.

Her laugh is a cackle
of dirt, spit and ash
Her eyes are dark hollows;
face covered in rash.

I do not love thee
though some say I must.
But a promise was made
with that one futile thrust.

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Filed under Poetry.

Work.

Don’t look at me:
Don’t look me in the eye, but instead
glaze over the smooth curve, the shadows,
molestations of my skin,
the goose-bumps and shiver
shiver
here –
I stand and rumble the earth,
you slime in and I am washed away.
Peel away each layer until I am
turned inside out.
My blood clots on the dry wall.
A masked force – I am hurdled
across the room
smashed into a thousand tiny pieces
and only now
I claw my way out of the shards.
Broken splinters.
Applaud, applaud.

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Filed under Poetry.