Something Simple (Hear The Church Bells?)
On a lawn somewhere is me, sitting on a denim-jacket-blanket, with the lights dimmed behind unblinking eyes, while the flash goes off for nobody’s bedroom wall. All we ever did was smoke cigarettes. We don’t have the faded photographs of our mothers’ generation, we have our faded faces, our indistinct edges. We witnessed the passing of time together, sprawled across each other like gutter trash, like the most beautiful, broken, bouquet. It might be true, we need no proof, when we see each other we rebuild the memories, we rub new grass-stains into our jeans and filch lighters from each other’s pockets.
I don’t miss the insecurity, the ungainly stretch of limbs, of waistbands. I miss my girls. Lipstick grazes across cheeks and glasses, the chalky, delicate mornings where we’d perch in the half-sun, cups of inky coffee, holding each other together. If we do indeed have nine lives, I owe them three of mine, at least. These paper-doll limbs so carefully mended and put to bed.
I wish for the warm embrace of youth, just once more. The safety of a few years rest with no pressing plans, just pressing palms against each other.
Pressure-less, we withered like bicycle tires in each other’s arms.
Breaking open bottles of Bernadino on the footpath, spit out the glass.
And the next day was always a new person, with a ceremony to match. Red wine staining our gums, fingers covering smiles, barring laughs.
If my youth had a character in a comic book it would be a collection of all of them, my girls. My first loves, charismatic with no charisma to speak of, burning holes in the back of that guy’s jacket with a cigarette end because he made fun of me at the bar.
My girls, dry-cutting their hair and consuming without constraint. My girls, weeping openly on a street corner. My girls, the most damnable girl-gang that ever lived,
I can only hope for heroines of the same quality in future story-books for little girls.
You are kind for asking but I’m sure not everybody wants to know:
"He reached across the table and touched her hair. There was something tremendously real about the way it felt. Like life itself, it was hard and smooth, and far away."
TAKING A BREAK
It’s the first day of autumn and I couldn’t be happier.
Last evening I celebrated, wore a silk shirt in the rain, came home to expel demons, so to speak.
I threw up violently and without restraint into a mesh office bin and fell back into bed with self affirmations.
Left someone on the street as they called my name hollowly onto the swelling wind, it has such gangling limbs, its fingertips twisting my hair like yours don’t.
And the grime in the gutters makes me feel more at home.
Light Switches in The Wards
My Father didn’t die
when I was 21.
Wellington was as bitter as
taking off your dress in the dark,
his body didn’t fail
like mine does every time.
All Of My Little Black Books XIII
Monday 25th November 2013 12:45pm
Last eve I was so downtrodden after finishing work. I stopped & stopped again to spend money on ridiculous, frivolous thing, money that was meant to be spent on travel. On getting out, On beating anxiety. On other people- on the possibility of these things.
Vodka & soda & elderflower cordial, so that I might get drunk in the waning sun & hope that somebody else might join me. Alas. Just embarrassment & sickness & uncontrollable tears over the thought of ____ dying. Of putting my face against his sheets & knowing him entirely but with no possibility of him anymore.
Asleep upside-down and less than content, less than relevant. But I love him so. So much that if he were to fail, if his lungs stilled & his thoughts faltered, it would be my own dead body that others came to view.
I am swimming, badly. Mostly I feel I am treading the deepest ocean water. So tired am I, too tired to reach a shore I can’t even see.