May 2011
10 posts
A poem from last summer- Transport
I want to crawl inside your carcass- your heart won’t need to beat, I’ll do the work I’ll squeeze it in-out make blood pictures in finger prints and can you still live when I’m sat on your liver? It’s just so cosy in here and it’s a wholesome activity to be filling a cavity assisting coronary in murk undulating dark. I reach up your neck and wave hello- we have...
Intoxication - Baudelaire
You must always be intoxicated. It is the key to all: the one question. In order not to feel the horrible burden of Time breaking your back and bending you toward the earth, you must become drunk, without truce.
But on what? On wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But you must get drunk.
And if at times, on the steps of a palace, on the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your...
Hmm
I might give Maude and Clementine and Clarissa and the rat a coherent place to live (previous short stories, if they can be so called) I’m just too busy to write anything other than snippets at the moment. Too busy writing about black and white and London and Begotten and Baudelaire. I shouldn’t complain, really.
Rodent
I can feel it. Oppressive panic sensations creeping over my eyelids, my jaw bones itching, acid tickles. Its sharp, dark eyes are feeling their way over my taught skin, my flaws hidden beneath years of treatment. I let the lid open, ajar. A crack of light strikes the gelatinous bulb and my eyelashes crush one another. The tiny bastard is beating me. I can hear the bristles rising on its back,...
Clementine
Maude told me never to walk too close to the clementines. They are so terribly garish, their pores gaping and shrieking. Sometimes if I stare hard enough the leaves make green curlicue patterns in the trembling air. It’s so awfully stifling when I’m not in the mountains. The valleys hurt my ears and my eye sockets; sting them with acid sensations leaving a dull ache. My tongue is safe in its...
Hydrangea
Maude Hydrangea limped convulsively back up the moulding stone step. An anomalous weed brushed her varicose vein, which lay seemingly dormant on its clammy, mottled calf. Trembling, her left hand eased itself downwards, slowing cautiously to account for rheumatic delays, and upon reaching within a millimetre’s locus of the vein she extended a fragile, jaundiced fingernail, grazing a section...
