Wednesday, 26 March 2014

It's hard to hold the hand of anyone who is reaching to the sky just to surrender.

It has been a year and a day now, like the old Pre-Raphaelite poem. The one I loved so when I knew so little other poetry; I used to obsess over Elizabeth Siddal so much I wrote a song about her (terrible recording but, oh well.) I digress; a year and a day. Long enough to convert to Wicca if I felt so inclined (another past obsession.) A year and a day of clutching to a memory like a crucifix; clutching to a handful of half-hopes that, even in the beginning, were only built from a fallacy of false affection; only the result of being so lonely, so low that you have no choice but to lower your standards person by person until eventually the first man that half-smiles will do. I invented you! I invented all of you! How clever, how imaginative, and in the end; how deluded.

But, oh, so fun to laugh about! 
So fun to indulge in; the drunken tears, diary entries, determined kisses, each one another stake in the heart that won't even notice. Morrissey; It is pretty boys not girls that make the deepest graves.
By now, after searching for too long through you're self-absorbed traumas; the two of you so intertwined I can't remember who replaced who.

It breaks me; we are so human! 

Masochist; "you can lie back now."

I won't even try to replace you anymore.

image; me
image; mine

Thursday, 6 March 2014

I have a hiding place when spring marches in.

I don't want anything anymore. I am giving up. I am too naive, too credulous; tell me anything, I'll drink up and swallow your every word and cling to them like biblical truths (strange simile, the bible has always been a point of doubt for me, whatever.) It must stem from a deep unconscious love, mustn't it? To always see the best in people, isn't that just a display of profound hope in humanity? (Cringe.) A coping contrivance maybe; paving a sheltered path from here to the end. Oh god throw your fucking storms at me, I don't even care anymore, maybe a storm would wash away the grey, grey, grey; the mundanity, the boxes Plath says 'are only temporary' and yet seem to long overstay their welcome. I look at Crimea, Ukraine, Syria, Palestine and I am utterly helpless, hopeless, insignificant and flattened, how can we be expected to ever get out of bed again? Even here in my own safety net I declare war every morning, on myself, on my mother; my mother who fights her wars with a vengeance so stark it must only come from love.
 I come from nothing at all, the loneliest place in the world is the one in which we are needed by no one and I am fading and fading. Please remind me; I exist.

image mine
image mine

Thursday, 27 February 2014

Your fingers dimming in the lights like you're used to being told that you're trouble.

Last night as I was falling to sleep:

I dreamt of straight roads through open plains
your car
the sun beating through my hair as it unravels behind me
The wind knows our names but disregards them as it screams past
And us;
we are tunneling through light years of movement
etched our names in time and space
'we refuse to be contained.'
On Kerouac's path, from his foundations build a platform
so strong there are no dreams it couldn't support
the dust parts for us like the red sea as we skid swiftly through it
though we have no followers
we scream
We are free 
we are free
we are so, so free.

But I wake up and the morning is still.

Log Lady from Twin Peaks (aka my future)

Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady


Sunday, 23 February 2014

Your apocalypse was fab for a girl who couldn't choose between the shower or the bath.

Ten years old, wide-eyed in the back of the tiny white car driving through the night all the way from Galway to Kerry. The next morning; scouring the beaches and cliff faces for chunks of coruscating quartz left there after storms the night before. A week in the belligerent rain, thrashing through unwieldy clouds, threatening to throw the little caravan off the edge of the receding cliff and into the grey waves below. Maddening weather for the middle of July, but nothing unusual for the west of Ireland-anyone who voluntarily moves here must be insane. It was the romanticism of it that must have dragged my mother here from London twenty-five years ago; to the edge of a country, a continent, the whole wild Atlantic ocean; tales of pirate queens and Tristans and Isoldes.

I, however, never chose to be here and as much as I love the wilderness of the ocean and how it crashes unapologetically against the huge granite rocks, I am more than ready to leave, nothing here feels like home anymore, and I don't think it ever did. Is it people in general or just the people here? I stayed out till 4 am last night, in a forgotten town, grey and dead, came home and cried into dawn wondering why I have never felt, possibly could never feel, any shred of affection or connection to almost anyone here, where are the artists, the writers, the thinkers? The world is opening itself, the future is leaving, spinning, it's here, it's been here for years, and I need to grasp it, tell it to slow down or else take me with it. I'm going, I'm going, I'm going and I couldn't stop now if I tried.

Thursday, 20 February 2014

It will take me a few more years to learn flying is not pushing away the ground


I need to leave here. I need to travel. 
I need to find someone who cares 
whether my heart breaks or not.
I am craving cities full of anonymity
where I can dance my way in sequined 
dresses into the seediest bars where the lost 
gather with the single connection of lust for
artistic expression. 
I want to sit on the high stools, delicately 
sipping expensive drinks like it’s something i do 
for a living. In a way I suppose it is. 
Dreaming of fishnet stockings, 
seducing poets, a few words in my ear 
to drag me back- from an artist- 
desperate to paint me into his world 
of melancholic oil portraits. Then
gather up his brushes and join me, 
vaulting, as we lean on to the wings 
of the next insignificant adventure.

Also, I feel the most profound need to share this, it's my new absolute favourite poem:

I Sing The Body Electric, Especially When My Power’s Out. - Andrea Gibson

Tuesday, 11 February 2014

There is a charge for the hearing of my heart- it really goes.

Today is the 51st anniversary of Sylvia Plath’s death, and I think the 151st of Elizabeth Siddal’s. Strange coincidence, things always seem to happen on 11ths or 22nds for me. This 11th however, brings nothing in particular. It snowed though. I watched it fall soft as chiffon past the library window as I tried to desperately cram for my subsequent maths exam, tomorrow is history and art, at least they're two fields I have some vague idea about. I can feel the last few feeble tugs of winter and all that comes with it pulling at me; little belligerent threads. I refuse to be dragged away.

(The title of this post comes from Plath’a Lady Lazarus, I'm using my phone to write this and can't find a suitable link, but will amend that as soon as I get near a laptop.) 

Friday, 31 January 2014

Sweetness, Sweetness I was only joking when I said I'd like to smash every tooth in your head.

On New Years Eve we walked by the river, the train station, back home; pulling our bags behind us. You stood up to hug me when I arrived; the first glimmer of affection you've ever shown in almost twenty years of watching knowing me. The last light hung heavy outside and lit up the double-glazing with a milky amber glow. A serene look on your face, a final acceptance perhaps, you knew the worst of it and always had. Just before Christmas you visited me in a dream, told me you were going to die on the 14th of June, asked me to say a last goodbye. I mean it was only a dream but still, if I don't pay heed to dreams what could I possibly have to cling to? We sat and watched the fireworks on tv announce the end of nothing in particular, another year. I drank my tea obediently. Outside the rain kept falling, falling, and I remember thinking at least it's dark, the night only knows to get lighter.