I inhale

September 12, 2013 at 11:34 am (Bodies, Halves, misogyny, poem, The Real) (, , , , , , , , )

I found Cissy wrapped up in a grubby paisley throw upon the riverside where I knew it was her before unrolling from all that matted red hair out the top it was luminous and partdreaded but perhaps would coil if brushed it lay on the dusty sunroasted asphalt clean somehow protruding bodiless from the O opening of greenblue weave I knew it was her before I rolled her and the face was when it came pale and unfamiliar though fitting  and the sight of my own sore hands on and rolling out the bluegreen cloth awoke me in some sense of myself as the centre of a tableau I was my own audience to and so she was unwound at the riverside which suggested drowning but her lips pink and dry and asking for I’m sure everything she eventually got as I thought cruelly my becoming aware of her discovery at all before here in venom though lucid I am paralysed I am  always paralysed for a moment upon revelation just as on waking the exception being so distinct from the rule I leap out of bed sometimes my chest throbbing onto the river bed perhaps lay her to rest either in before or since the rescue which itself was staged by someone else her counterpart my carer though a creation as much as any old thing I can think before I see but her is and that unrolling body tumbles about the bleengrue teardrops the wrists leaping over each other and clatter on her thin bones her body unfolded itself to me as she unfolded herself at my push a mile or two from gruebleen sea where she could have gone to drown it was not me for though I have the face in mind and the face was hers I had never seen it once before for as they say the brain will not conjure faces of its own accord but can so make ex nihilo the sensation of  familiarity that old measure of being what well we miss when pointedly in our present when déjà vu strikes stronger than any fixed memory the brush creaking through her knotted hair musksmell of synthetic bristles head bobbing back as though on a spring the wrists again now the wrists clattering over a broken neck almost bruiseless and quite peaceful my own hands in my peripheral growing numbish as I take the formality of her pulse two hunks of meat pressing into each other as the breeze dies down to tepid stillness like any sealed room the mouth lolling open in the dead air as my own breath tugs at diaphragm spasmodic I reverse the riverflow and drift backwards into my own blackness to see first the beginning.

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Archie (Monologue)

March 31, 2011 at 10:39 pm (Art) (, , )

She left me for the luxury of no longer being near me.

We had embarked on a project. Think multimedia audio-tangible rearrangements of lexicon and concepts into a purely aesthetic composition, only to be taken abruptly into the realm of illusionistic dissonance by textual simulations of kinetic and/or artistic energy. It looked like a collage. But it was more, it was a piece. Let me explain. There were lines of prose-poetry on the original canvas, covered with newspaper clippings from the culture pullout from the Independent, which in turn were subjected to hours of Wagner as the ink dried, to absorb the tone. On top of these we wrote earlier drafts of the original prose-poetry and pasted pictures of European root vegetables.

Which was all very, very political. Now, let me explain us:

Something about seeing the workings of your own mind under someone else’s skull is deeply unattractive. Despite her wasp waist and expressive pale eyes, I could never stir up an ounce of feeling for her. In my pants. This physical blandness between us was so apparent that even Stephanie’s boyfriend had no issue with us sharing a room on numerous occasions. Or a bed, that time in the lake district. Not that she even mentioned that we ended up having to share a double, because it didn’t fucking matter. The closest we came to touching that night was my cold foot flumping onto the stubble of her thigh as I “starfished it”, which ended swiftly with a copy of “Hot White Andy” (which is great) colliding with my forehead, and “feet off, you skullfucker” colliding with my ears.

My creative infidelity to psychedelic drugs never bothered Steph. Not the actual use, at least, though idea that I was just playing a game of H.S.Thompson made her cringe. She caught me sobbing into a patent leather shoe once, wailing about how in the depths of it’s cheesy toe I had spied the universe, but turned away for a moment too long and lost it. She didn’t care, dilated to the circumference of her powder blue irises, she proceeded to simply caress the supple leather of the shoe and inform me that it didnt matter one jot, since these were obviously the happiest brogues in da woorrll wurld. She rubbed the shoe into her face. Right. Into. Her face. In a muggy horror I tried to pull it out.

I tried to write a song about that. And pasted it onto our piece, right over Steph’s favourite sweet potato, which was going too far.

There was a shoe in your face, my girl
a shoe in your face.
I pulled it, my girl,
girl, girl, girl, girl,
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
out of your face,
it left not a:
(oh ah!!) Trace
in that face which should have been covered with something nicer like
lace.
Mace Brace Chase Pace Case Tas(t)e. Vaginal Mucus.

She left because she couldn’t trust me any more. Trust my ideas, my direction. Suddenly our work was a tug-of-war between her tongue-in-cheek wit, and my tongue-down-throat nonsense. Go as saucy and psychoanalytic with that as you will. Half way through our project Steph pointed out that we hadn’t worked together for months, just bickered with the aid of several pads of paper, four notebooks, two laptops and a napkin. “You can’t write moronic shit about vaginal mucus and the iraq war and hope that it’ll come out profound. You can’t counterfeit that,” she whined.
“Well you can’t write like a boring cunt and hope to grab the interest of anyone who isn’t secretly dreaming of owning a Radio 4 hoodie”
She briskly informed  me that spunking punctuation at random into incessant ramblings was not interesting, it was an Avant Garde staple and Cummings had been doing that since 1928. And then I laughed cause she said cummings.  She blushed, and added that Radio Four was as amusing as it was informative, actually. Also, she could tell that for weeks I had secretly been pronouncing her name “Steff” with a double eff and it wasn’t funny, subtle or clever She said I was pretentious! Well!

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