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July 12, 2010
July 06, 2010
Cut it
Almost never cut it
Your arguments weren’t valid
Hours melting like snowflakes
While we were living in squalor
Almost but never cut it
Your body a prize to die for
The powerful wear stilettos
I could never afford it
Almost never, so cut it
Escape is also an opiate
Stranded I turned to vileness
Respect for nothing but power
I almost never did cut it
Riding in on a donkey
My dismount was left unnoticed
In rags made purely of money
Your arguments weren’t valid
Hours melting like snowflakes
While we were living in squalor
Almost but never cut it
Your body a prize to die for
The powerful wear stilettos
I could never afford it
Almost never, so cut it
Escape is also an opiate
Stranded I turned to vileness
Respect for nothing but power
I almost never did cut it
Riding in on a donkey
My dismount was left unnoticed
In rags made purely of money
July 02, 2010
Ellen's story
Sagacity was Ellen's friend
She often went for older men
They would be stern
And wine and dine
Their thoughts would set her sex on fire
Their voices deep, their gazes strong
The list of her demands was long
Her foot was arched, lips ruby red
She listened, giggled, gave them head
Her life was rich, the men were old
O, glory to the young and bold
One night two men of Ellen's met
It was an accident, Kismet
First they were angry, then distraught
But one of them then had a thought
They hailed a cab, they all got in
She's in the middle
Looking thin
And you can guess what happened then
One younger girl, two older men
A city drive, a penthouse flat
With nice champagne and pricey art
Their beady eyes, their groping hands
They made demands
And danced the dance
And Ellen still likes older men
Sagacity is still her friend
Her foot is arched, her lips are red
And she still gives amazing head
She often went for older men
They would be stern
And wine and dine
Their thoughts would set her sex on fire
Their voices deep, their gazes strong
The list of her demands was long
Her foot was arched, lips ruby red
She listened, giggled, gave them head
Her life was rich, the men were old
O, glory to the young and bold
One night two men of Ellen's met
It was an accident, Kismet
First they were angry, then distraught
But one of them then had a thought
They hailed a cab, they all got in
She's in the middle
Looking thin
And you can guess what happened then
One younger girl, two older men
A city drive, a penthouse flat
With nice champagne and pricey art
Their beady eyes, their groping hands
They made demands
And danced the dance
And Ellen still likes older men
Sagacity is still her friend
Her foot is arched, her lips are red
And she still gives amazing head
June 30, 2010
Summer days
Go back to summer days
With breadcrumbs on your dress
And angry geese and beer and ticks
Amid the heat and hate
Of men creating fame and money
I water flowers on the windowsill
Submerged in city
And the bark of dogs and people
My chest is bare because of heat. Is yours?
With breadcrumbs on your dress
And angry geese and beer and ticks
Amid the heat and hate
Of men creating fame and money
I water flowers on the windowsill
Submerged in city
And the bark of dogs and people
My chest is bare because of heat. Is yours?
June 27, 2010
No title
She chastised me for metaphors
And offered her body as proof
Amid heat and jackhammer noise
Who was the puppet this time
On strings made of come
And bitemark dials on skin
We lost momentum quickly
Our diaries written in silence
You the artist; me the slut
And offered her body as proof
Amid heat and jackhammer noise
Who was the puppet this time
On strings made of come
And bitemark dials on skin
We lost momentum quickly
Our diaries written in silence
You the artist; me the slut
June 24, 2010
Maria sang
Maria sang
About true beginnings
Her hair was stripy with sweat
Coming back
Calling out from the haze
Where longing is fueled by cheap wine
You are late
And so am I again
These moments never truly happen
About true beginnings
Her hair was stripy with sweat
Coming back
Calling out from the haze
Where longing is fueled by cheap wine
You are late
And so am I again
These moments never truly happen
June 22, 2010
We were always out on Tuesdays
We were always out on Tuesdays
We fled from the glare
And our waters never broke
We never hesitated to lose the moment
We rode in on elephants at sunset
And conquered both sunlight and flesh
Nothing was coupled with anything
Our swansong was gossamer
But our fists were clenched
We fled from the glare
And our waters never broke
We never hesitated to lose the moment
We rode in on elephants at sunset
And conquered both sunlight and flesh
Nothing was coupled with anything
Our swansong was gossamer
But our fists were clenched
January 07, 2010
2009 - A summary
Let's drink to end this year, so many ends
Our closest dreamers turning dry and bitter
Our hands reach nothing, all we get is glitter
We strive so hard, but cannot make amends
Let's dream to end this end, so many years
So many drinkers turning spry and boring
We're out of drugs, they even stopped the whoring
But we shall force our way to joy from tears
Our closest dreamers turning dry and bitter
Our hands reach nothing, all we get is glitter
We strive so hard, but cannot make amends
Let's dream to end this end, so many years
So many drinkers turning spry and boring
We're out of drugs, they even stopped the whoring
But we shall force our way to joy from tears
October 25, 2009
October toast
It was an evening in October. I was back in the country for another ten days for work. It was dark, cold outside. The dog was on the kitchen floor. He had already entered his last phase – sleeping, being petted, peeing and eating. Not that he ever was a playful frolicking dog, but now he was moving on, he knew the deal. Everyone else was gone.
Was Lex eating? I can’t remember. I think we were drinking tea. Or maybe I was cooking that vegetable thing, where you burn peppers to remove the skin and then fry them with tomatoes, courgettes and onions. I made it a couple of times, and she ate some of it. I don't think it stayed down.
Lex was drinking one of her treatments – a vile Chinese bitter brew. At one point she told me that she really didn’t want to drink it in the beginning, but the person responsible for that particular curative insisted. It was really hard to acquire, and therefore it had to be used. It was muddy brown, and bitter, harsh. Lex said that in the beginning it made her want to vomit. Then she got used to it. At some point she even said that it helped somewhat.
Like I said, it was October, our unwritten schedule had another seven months until graduation, and Lex was full of energy that evening. The energetic days came randomly and we had just gotten lucky – lucky that everyone was gone, and that she was up to sitting in the kitchen.
We were talking about shared memories. Not our usual conceptual stuff, this was all concrete – times together. “Remember the party in San Francisco? Your uncle got so drunk and you were really embarrassed.” “Yes, I guess I was”, “And then Jeff had brought Salvia, but you refused to do any”. “Yes, yes, I know”.
She told me stories about her courtship with the Professor, the early days in Russia, the less early days in Sweden. We were covering her life, luxuriating in the moment. Then she said: “Let’s have some vodka”. We poured a shot each, toasted and drank. It was a beautiful wake. I can never be sure of what she really thought, but I felt that I knew that she knew that I knew that we both knew that she was dying. Some times we actually manage to grasp the opportunities we are given. Isn't that amazing?
Was Lex eating? I can’t remember. I think we were drinking tea. Or maybe I was cooking that vegetable thing, where you burn peppers to remove the skin and then fry them with tomatoes, courgettes and onions. I made it a couple of times, and she ate some of it. I don't think it stayed down.
Lex was drinking one of her treatments – a vile Chinese bitter brew. At one point she told me that she really didn’t want to drink it in the beginning, but the person responsible for that particular curative insisted. It was really hard to acquire, and therefore it had to be used. It was muddy brown, and bitter, harsh. Lex said that in the beginning it made her want to vomit. Then she got used to it. At some point she even said that it helped somewhat.
Like I said, it was October, our unwritten schedule had another seven months until graduation, and Lex was full of energy that evening. The energetic days came randomly and we had just gotten lucky – lucky that everyone was gone, and that she was up to sitting in the kitchen.
We were talking about shared memories. Not our usual conceptual stuff, this was all concrete – times together. “Remember the party in San Francisco? Your uncle got so drunk and you were really embarrassed.” “Yes, I guess I was”, “And then Jeff had brought Salvia, but you refused to do any”. “Yes, yes, I know”.
She told me stories about her courtship with the Professor, the early days in Russia, the less early days in Sweden. We were covering her life, luxuriating in the moment. Then she said: “Let’s have some vodka”. We poured a shot each, toasted and drank. It was a beautiful wake. I can never be sure of what she really thought, but I felt that I knew that she knew that I knew that we both knew that she was dying. Some times we actually manage to grasp the opportunities we are given. Isn't that amazing?
September 30, 2009
Peanut Dream
She is sitting at the kitchen table perched on a chair, feet tucked in. The cup of coffee is standing in front of her, ringlets of steam curling upwards in a slow, gyrating stream. The smoke takes me back to a memory of her hand holding a cigarette, smouldering and trailing smoke - it is winter, and we are both shivering as she is speaking excitedly, while we stand outside of the shabby looking doorway leading down into the club. We are surrounded by beautiful people, everybody not giving a fuck together. She talks about her passion for travel, how she walked the Inca trails in Peru last year. She's drunk, maybe high, but it doesn't bother me. We have just met.
Now she is sitting at my kitchen table, wearing one of my t-shirts. The wind outside is chasing yellow leaves and the apartment is cold. She smells faintly of sweat, so do I. We haven't showered and the night was spent fucking, fuelled by Red Bull, coffee, alcohol and sugar. Now she looks pensive and as she stares off into the distance, I notice that yesterday's make-up has formed small clotted clumps on her eyelashes. She is eating peanut butter straight out of the can, slowly but methodically sticking spoonfuls into her mouth. The peanut butter is the chunky kind, making crunching noises as she chews.
"I've loved peanut butter my whole life", she says dreamily, "our mother used to make us peanut butter and jam sandwiches on weekends, in the mornings. You know, she made us eat oatmeal every day of the week, but on weekends we had hot cocoa and peanut butter and jam sandwiches." I nod and take a sip of my coffee, its sharp smell fills my mind with the colour black. She scoops up another spoonful, sticks it in her mouth, chews. "We would sit there, me and my sister, and we would eat them as slowly as possible, to drag it out for as long as we could. I used to start with the corners of the bread, because no topping every reaches all the way out to the edges, you know? And then I would nibble my way inwards, like eating a pizza from the outside." She drifts off, lost in thought, and my thoughts drift off to my own mother, as a different me enters a different kitchen, early morning, hung over from some party the night before, several years ago.
As I walk in, everything is totally quiet, and I see her in her yellow morning robe, sitting at the table. A plate of cinnamon apples is in front of her, a cup of coffee, and her pill box, with one compartment for each day of the week. One of the slots is open, revealing a colourful mix of vitamins, placebos, supplements - her daily portion, awaiting ingestion. The dog is lying in the middle of the kitchen, a big, unwashed sack of quiet reproach for not getting treats. When I come in he gathers himself lazily and approaches to check if anything is coming his way. I extend my hand to pet him, he sighs audibly, and drops back to the floor in disappointment. My mother is reading the morning paper, but as I come in she closes it and pushes it away. I make myself tea and sit down opposite her. We speak, but what I remember is the moment itself rather than what we talk about. The world around us is still.
The girl puts another spoon of peanut butter in her mouth, the crunching audible as she chews. I study her face, sharp, symmetric, certainly pretty. Her blonde hair is tousled and she has tied it into a ponytail. As I examine her she begins to fidget, and my eyes are drawn to her breasts, nipples outlined by the white fabric. I feel the beginnings of excitement, but she interrupts me, exclaiming: "I just remembered that I forgot to call her, I was supposed to meet with her for lunch today!" I'm not sure who she means, and it takes me several seconds to come up with the appropriate social response. "Call who, your mother or your sister?"
"No, Ann. We we're supposed to meet for lunch at X today. She's just broken up with David again, you know, he's such an asshole. I just don't understand why she continues to go back to him. I mean, I've told her again and again that she should just get on with her life and leave him behind, but she always goes on about how great he is, and that he's had a hard time and I've told her a million times that he's walking all over her but she is so so very sad for him, where is my bag, I need my mobile, have you seen it, I need to call her, I wonder if she went home with him again yesterday."
I watch her come up for air, like a singer who has just finished a whole refrain without breathing, a sharp intake of breath punctuating the outburst. "I think it's in the bedroom" I answer, "can you bring mine as well?" She slips down from her chair and walks out of the kitchen. Her bare feet make tiny slapping noises on the tiles. I watch her ass as she walks out of sight.
The can of peanut butter stands empty on the table, she has left the spoon inside it. Coupled with the now very thin trail of steam coming from my coffee cup and the sounds of the city drifting in through the window, this reminds me of some movie scene, a long still shot setting up the mood for... Something. I pick up my coffee, and the rich, bitter, black aroma fills the air around me with a promise of movement as the burnt blackness envelops me.
Now she is sitting at my kitchen table, wearing one of my t-shirts. The wind outside is chasing yellow leaves and the apartment is cold. She smells faintly of sweat, so do I. We haven't showered and the night was spent fucking, fuelled by Red Bull, coffee, alcohol and sugar. Now she looks pensive and as she stares off into the distance, I notice that yesterday's make-up has formed small clotted clumps on her eyelashes. She is eating peanut butter straight out of the can, slowly but methodically sticking spoonfuls into her mouth. The peanut butter is the chunky kind, making crunching noises as she chews.
"I've loved peanut butter my whole life", she says dreamily, "our mother used to make us peanut butter and jam sandwiches on weekends, in the mornings. You know, she made us eat oatmeal every day of the week, but on weekends we had hot cocoa and peanut butter and jam sandwiches." I nod and take a sip of my coffee, its sharp smell fills my mind with the colour black. She scoops up another spoonful, sticks it in her mouth, chews. "We would sit there, me and my sister, and we would eat them as slowly as possible, to drag it out for as long as we could. I used to start with the corners of the bread, because no topping every reaches all the way out to the edges, you know? And then I would nibble my way inwards, like eating a pizza from the outside." She drifts off, lost in thought, and my thoughts drift off to my own mother, as a different me enters a different kitchen, early morning, hung over from some party the night before, several years ago.
As I walk in, everything is totally quiet, and I see her in her yellow morning robe, sitting at the table. A plate of cinnamon apples is in front of her, a cup of coffee, and her pill box, with one compartment for each day of the week. One of the slots is open, revealing a colourful mix of vitamins, placebos, supplements - her daily portion, awaiting ingestion. The dog is lying in the middle of the kitchen, a big, unwashed sack of quiet reproach for not getting treats. When I come in he gathers himself lazily and approaches to check if anything is coming his way. I extend my hand to pet him, he sighs audibly, and drops back to the floor in disappointment. My mother is reading the morning paper, but as I come in she closes it and pushes it away. I make myself tea and sit down opposite her. We speak, but what I remember is the moment itself rather than what we talk about. The world around us is still.
The girl puts another spoon of peanut butter in her mouth, the crunching audible as she chews. I study her face, sharp, symmetric, certainly pretty. Her blonde hair is tousled and she has tied it into a ponytail. As I examine her she begins to fidget, and my eyes are drawn to her breasts, nipples outlined by the white fabric. I feel the beginnings of excitement, but she interrupts me, exclaiming: "I just remembered that I forgot to call her, I was supposed to meet with her for lunch today!" I'm not sure who she means, and it takes me several seconds to come up with the appropriate social response. "Call who, your mother or your sister?"
"No, Ann. We we're supposed to meet for lunch at X today. She's just broken up with David again, you know, he's such an asshole. I just don't understand why she continues to go back to him. I mean, I've told her again and again that she should just get on with her life and leave him behind, but she always goes on about how great he is, and that he's had a hard time and I've told her a million times that he's walking all over her but she is so so very sad for him, where is my bag, I need my mobile, have you seen it, I need to call her, I wonder if she went home with him again yesterday."
I watch her come up for air, like a singer who has just finished a whole refrain without breathing, a sharp intake of breath punctuating the outburst. "I think it's in the bedroom" I answer, "can you bring mine as well?" She slips down from her chair and walks out of the kitchen. Her bare feet make tiny slapping noises on the tiles. I watch her ass as she walks out of sight.
The can of peanut butter stands empty on the table, she has left the spoon inside it. Coupled with the now very thin trail of steam coming from my coffee cup and the sounds of the city drifting in through the window, this reminds me of some movie scene, a long still shot setting up the mood for... Something. I pick up my coffee, and the rich, bitter, black aroma fills the air around me with a promise of movement as the burnt blackness envelops me.
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