We can colour our memories (conscience?) clean/ In shades of dihydrocodeine
IT RHYMES.
By the by, here endeth depressing posts for a while. I'm getting a little sick of cataloging various hues of self hatred. There are better things to do.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Monday, 15 June 2009
Sunday, 14 June 2009
Bollocks to you, bollocks to me.
She pulls on thick suck-in pants under black netted tights; a bra fit-to-bust with double the required breast size and a palpable pudgy overhang; the plunge pool of her belly groans with the strain of a large portion meal tucked into a small-portion skirt. Low neckline, adorned with a hand-shaped pendant reaching low into her cleavage. It's meant to symbolise a Muslim's promise to prayer five times a day: the true meaning is lost in folds of fat and irony. All this to advertise the undertow of emotional need; sex and love are relative terms. The two are simultaneously irrelevant and unlikely.
Women are shit.
Women are shit.
Wednesday, 10 June 2009
Look Forward to Suburbia.
It's a kind of abstract conglomeration of love and loathing on my part and submarine detachment on hers. [ Submarine=hundreds of mad, feverish, scrabbling and sweaty Souls to be Saved from a cold titanium shell, although occasional porthole viewings reveal a grand total of two men playing cards slowly, and probably Solitaire at that ]. I'm not sure why I'm with her.
We fuck often enough to be afraid of her fertility. Each blotless month promotes another spatter of frantic activity in which we pelt our bodies with pills, booze, tobacco. A military-machine-gun like salvo in which no organs are spared. Liver, heart, kidneys, lungs; all hack and pulse and ulcerate in protest whilst she dispassionately dissects a future spelled out for us in entrails; guest towels, kitten- themed egg cups and ironically chintz curtains at thirty. You ooze around your urban domain in our Porsche, I sit at home and watch our frozen embryos take shape in the womb of a our paid Filipino surrogate. We are happy. We have dogs.
We fuck often enough to be afraid of her fertility. Each blotless month promotes another spatter of frantic activity in which we pelt our bodies with pills, booze, tobacco. A military-machine-gun like salvo in which no organs are spared. Liver, heart, kidneys, lungs; all hack and pulse and ulcerate in protest whilst she dispassionately dissects a future spelled out for us in entrails; guest towels, kitten- themed egg cups and ironically chintz curtains at thirty. You ooze around your urban domain in our Porsche, I sit at home and watch our frozen embryos take shape in the womb of a our paid Filipino surrogate. We are happy. We have dogs.
Saturday, 23 May 2009
Graffle.
Imagine the horror of having to write a sex scene. In a book, a play, anything. Even a poem.
(I've been reading some of the "Women's Literature" belonging to my mother and sister lying around the house, as yet another method of procrastination to prevent revision. Needless to say, I am more than a little cross. And confused. Why call anything a "mighty sword"? It doesn't sound erotic as much as it does painful.)
Apparently, you're not allowed to be truthful. Of the entire spectrum of things that can go horribly wrong, miraculously, NOTHING EVER DOES. No one gets their hair caught in a jeans zipper, or accidentally tears a condom with their nails.
And yet it's entirely common and expected for at least one character to go insane, get amnesia, disappear, die in a car/drugs/shark related accident, commit suicide, marry their brother, be abducted by aliens, betrayed by their lover/husband/brother/son, flayed alive, tortured, marry the love of their life, or kill about 5 other characters before finally getting to the lead character and then failing to kill them because of some bizarre coincidence involving a fear of water or the utterly implausible convenience of a police officer (and probable love interest) turning up "just in time".
Mm, I do so love a late night insane ramble.
(I've been reading some of the "Women's Literature" belonging to my mother and sister lying around the house, as yet another method of procrastination to prevent revision. Needless to say, I am more than a little cross. And confused. Why call anything a "mighty sword"? It doesn't sound erotic as much as it does painful.)
Apparently, you're not allowed to be truthful. Of the entire spectrum of things that can go horribly wrong, miraculously, NOTHING EVER DOES. No one gets their hair caught in a jeans zipper, or accidentally tears a condom with their nails.
And yet it's entirely common and expected for at least one character to go insane, get amnesia, disappear, die in a car/drugs/shark related accident, commit suicide, marry their brother, be abducted by aliens, betrayed by their lover/husband/brother/son, flayed alive, tortured, marry the love of their life, or kill about 5 other characters before finally getting to the lead character and then failing to kill them because of some bizarre coincidence involving a fear of water or the utterly implausible convenience of a police officer (and probable love interest) turning up "just in time".
Mm, I do so love a late night insane ramble.
Wednesday, 20 May 2009
I Like You
A little bit more than I'm willing to admit. Not even to myself.
Last night I obsessively crammed my mind with enough anime to squeeze everything else out through my ears, and made cookies at midnight. My dad crept into my room squeaking madly and wearing a mouse mask at some point, but fled after I informed him there was a cat in the room. I'm not entirely sure whether that was a hallucination brought on by lack of sleep or not. I'm hoping not. I have so much to do, and I'm doing none of it. YAY.
My mobile has no credit. I refuse to feel guilty about this, because I'm too busy feeling guilty about everything else.
Here is a story I told to someone else some time ago, in pretty much the same words:
Once upon a time there was a hedgehog whose name I have forgotten. He lived in a dark, dark forest (whose name I have forgotten) but that is okay, because I'm pretty sure it was called The Dark, Dark, Forest. So.
He had a pretty nice time of it there because there were no roads, so he never got flattened, and there were no old ladies putting out milk, so he never had to explain to them that he was lactose intolerant. In those days, this was a serious problem, because as we all know old women can be unbelievably sly and malicious, and would inevitably try and trick him by calling it soy milk when in fact it was really dairy. Old women cannot be blamed for this because of the "Change Of Life" my mother is always referring to mysteriously. You might have thought it was about the menopause but actually it has everything to do with lactose intolerant hedgehogs. But I digress.
The only problem with this was that he had to go to the supermarket every day to pick up soy milk, and being a very lazy hedgehog he tired of this trip. So he began to daydream about the forest across the river.
Now, this forest was called the Yum Yummy Gumdrop Forest, and you can imagine what a forest like THAT was like. All the animals from the Yum Yummy Gumdrop Forest were fatter than badgers (except the badgers, who were much fatter than that), and they all wore expensive watches and drove flash cars. Our hero seethed with chronologically deprived jealousy.
So, one day, he decided to travel across the river to the Yum Yummy Gumdrop Forest. This may seem like something simple he should have thought of long before now, but in fact it was VERY HARD. Very hard indeed. Because hedgehogs have short legs and stuff. Anyway.
TO BE CONTINUED... Except it doesn't matter: No one reads this.
Last night I obsessively crammed my mind with enough anime to squeeze everything else out through my ears, and made cookies at midnight. My dad crept into my room squeaking madly and wearing a mouse mask at some point, but fled after I informed him there was a cat in the room. I'm not entirely sure whether that was a hallucination brought on by lack of sleep or not. I'm hoping not. I have so much to do, and I'm doing none of it. YAY.
My mobile has no credit. I refuse to feel guilty about this, because I'm too busy feeling guilty about everything else.
Here is a story I told to someone else some time ago, in pretty much the same words:
Once upon a time there was a hedgehog whose name I have forgotten. He lived in a dark, dark forest (whose name I have forgotten) but that is okay, because I'm pretty sure it was called The Dark, Dark, Forest. So.
He had a pretty nice time of it there because there were no roads, so he never got flattened, and there were no old ladies putting out milk, so he never had to explain to them that he was lactose intolerant. In those days, this was a serious problem, because as we all know old women can be unbelievably sly and malicious, and would inevitably try and trick him by calling it soy milk when in fact it was really dairy. Old women cannot be blamed for this because of the "Change Of Life" my mother is always referring to mysteriously. You might have thought it was about the menopause but actually it has everything to do with lactose intolerant hedgehogs. But I digress.
The only problem with this was that he had to go to the supermarket every day to pick up soy milk, and being a very lazy hedgehog he tired of this trip. So he began to daydream about the forest across the river.
Now, this forest was called the Yum Yummy Gumdrop Forest, and you can imagine what a forest like THAT was like. All the animals from the Yum Yummy Gumdrop Forest were fatter than badgers (except the badgers, who were much fatter than that), and they all wore expensive watches and drove flash cars. Our hero seethed with chronologically deprived jealousy.
So, one day, he decided to travel across the river to the Yum Yummy Gumdrop Forest. This may seem like something simple he should have thought of long before now, but in fact it was VERY HARD. Very hard indeed. Because hedgehogs have short legs and stuff. Anyway.
TO BE CONTINUED... Except it doesn't matter: No one reads this.
Monday, 27 April 2009
Guilt is a Terrible Thing.
I feel bad for basically using this as a duller version of a diary. I'm aware that most bloggers DO, but I honestly didn't set out to be this apathetic. SO. I wrote this as prose, but it reads well as poetry. And everyone knows pretentious bloggers write poetry, right?
Madeline sits on the bed.
She's very real, and close, and silent.
She has a livid red blotch
On her back from the scratch and grate
Of stubble between her shoulder blades,
And the inside of her thighs sulk
With purple, yellow, black and blue bruises,
Some like fingermarks, others not.
A thin white scar,
As if from a knife wound,
Snakes from between her breasts to her navel.
It not an old scar; it shimmers silver against her jaundiced frame.
I can trace her bones through translucent skin,
See the skeleton rising up through living flesh to greet me.
I like the word skeleton.
Madeline sits on the bed.
She's very real, and close, and silent.
She has a livid red blotch
On her back from the scratch and grate
Of stubble between her shoulder blades,
And the inside of her thighs sulk
With purple, yellow, black and blue bruises,
Some like fingermarks, others not.
A thin white scar,
As if from a knife wound,
Snakes from between her breasts to her navel.
It not an old scar; it shimmers silver against her jaundiced frame.
I can trace her bones through translucent skin,
See the skeleton rising up through living flesh to greet me.
I like the word skeleton.
Thursday, 16 April 2009
It goes something like this:
I found some work in one of my mountains of scrap paperwork. It's not dated, but it's probably from around 7 months ago. Very pretentious, so I will keep it for the sake of posterity. Years from now I can look at it and laugh even harder at myself than I am now.
It goes something like this:
"I want this:
The thrust and pulse of music reverberates through my body. Slammed closer, skin to skin, a thousand myriad strangers shudder and grind together. I feel sickened by my own perversity, my desire for violence, for hard, heavy contact- a collision of corporeal ghosts. I did not come here alone. I have left the others far behind me in my thirst to belong to belong to this host of unknown individuals, made one in our desire to forget. We are pulled inside out, our dark and sweaty inner selves exposed to electric lights and the vibrations of synth, bass, drums. We cling and are clung to, frantic hands flung upwards as if gasping for air.
I want this:
She wakes up the earliest, because she never really slept. A confusion of half-hazy ideas and vivid pictures possessed her mind in the night. They are banished by the shrill and desperate dawn chorus. She dresses at speed, knocks back tepid bedside water, and quietly lets herself out of the house. The girl does not take a key, or mobile, or money. She does not leave a note. As soon as she is out of human sight, she runs. She does not stop. She disappears into the landscape of her own thoughts.
I want this:
I discovered that I was still ugly. I had removed so many layers, peeling back, scraping, scratching and destroying, pulling out the barb of past experience from my skinless self. When I found the core I saw that it was ugly, and wrong. I ran down to the beach, lay down in the surf, and let the swash and backwash of the ocean soften and erode me into nothing. Into dust."
By me, for me, about me (probably: I am very ego-centric) because I don't expect anyone else to read this blog.
It goes something like this:
"I want this:
The thrust and pulse of music reverberates through my body. Slammed closer, skin to skin, a thousand myriad strangers shudder and grind together. I feel sickened by my own perversity, my desire for violence, for hard, heavy contact- a collision of corporeal ghosts. I did not come here alone. I have left the others far behind me in my thirst to belong to belong to this host of unknown individuals, made one in our desire to forget. We are pulled inside out, our dark and sweaty inner selves exposed to electric lights and the vibrations of synth, bass, drums. We cling and are clung to, frantic hands flung upwards as if gasping for air.
I want this:
She wakes up the earliest, because she never really slept. A confusion of half-hazy ideas and vivid pictures possessed her mind in the night. They are banished by the shrill and desperate dawn chorus. She dresses at speed, knocks back tepid bedside water, and quietly lets herself out of the house. The girl does not take a key, or mobile, or money. She does not leave a note. As soon as she is out of human sight, she runs. She does not stop. She disappears into the landscape of her own thoughts.
I want this:
I discovered that I was still ugly. I had removed so many layers, peeling back, scraping, scratching and destroying, pulling out the barb of past experience from my skinless self. When I found the core I saw that it was ugly, and wrong. I ran down to the beach, lay down in the surf, and let the swash and backwash of the ocean soften and erode me into nothing. Into dust."
By me, for me, about me (probably: I am very ego-centric) because I don't expect anyone else to read this blog.
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