Saturday, 9 August 2014

Baby, baby, ain't it true? I'm immortal when I'm with you!

It is beginning to get dark earlier again. Come here, don't fade with the summer, come, the foxgloves have closed but the pollen in the too-tall grass still makes my eyes itch. The blackberries stain my fingers with their sultry juice, warm and nostalgic. Stay for the harvest moon, watch it rise, stay out all night with me we can lie in the heady meadow and count the perseids fall. I once saw seven stars shoot in one night, on a tiny island, the beach was phosphorescent and a boy whose name I never bothered to learn told me to stop wringing my hands - the wishes will wait. (He knew nothing.)

But who do you pray to like it really matters? Like we're not all expectant and trembling, collectively biting our lips at the sky? Like somewhere it isn't midnight? Like somewhere we're not just waiting for winter to come and stiffen our deft hands and turn us taciturn.

Tell me all your secrets and give me something to hold. There is nothing to worry about.



Wednesday, 30 July 2014

Stop the swing of the pendulum, let us through.

Take off all your clothes. Peel away the flimsy layers one by one, let them see it, the white sun-starved skin of the hipbones, the ribcage; jutting out, jagged bleached rocks. See how beautiful you are then. Fold further into yourself, legs too hot in your black nylon tights, take them off, take them off, sucking at your skin, they suffocate. And what about your arms, your hands, awkward with redundancy, what do you do with them? Where do you let them land? Nothing is instinctive. Cover your eyes, block them all out, come now, you don't want to see them anyway, don't cry, you always knew you were too vulnerable, too small, too quiet. Don't love needlessly, no one will do that for you.
Open your mouth, tentative, turn the first words out slowly, like the first graceless creaks of a rusty wheel. Let them hush. The thin melody hovers, pauses, expands. Watch it rise.
Fill the room with silver.

Happy birthday Kate Bush, eeh, eeeh queen of everything!!

Also, I did a little gig the other day and somebody filmed me, you can watch it if you like:


Tuesday, 15 July 2014

Post-restlessness

The man is too close; 'you look pure, your eyes are gentle.' It's not a question. How many additives do I have to mercilessly shove down my throat until I can look contaminated? Forget it. Throw it away. I go to the cemetery to sit for a while (it is, after all, a dreaded sunny day.) Foolishly attempt to apply lipstick with no mirror and let my eyes flirt with words I am not taking in. Maybe I should get 'murderously psychotic' emblazoned across my forehead. How's that for purity? Maybe I should write. I have forgotten a pen. Maybe if I had nice new stationery I would write nice new things. A subsequent wander through a glossy bookshop: €14 for a Moleskine. Fuck off. But Hemingway wrote in one! I am not swayed. I spend €1 on a pen instead.

Q. Are you with someone else now? (I don't care, I'm just curious in a non-committal, bored way.) Does she pull her hair around the side of her neck? Does she wear worn out boots and tacky 80's cardigans? What cigarettes does she smoke? Is she better at rolling than you or does she have to relight every third drag too?

(Are you still looking for me in her?)

I allow myself the small liberty of rendering you just a body. That's the trouble with idle men though, isn't it? They make assumptions and call it philosophy. Do you ever wonder who's life I am ruining now? Don't worry, dear, you can rest assured this old trainwreck is hurtling right on over the horizon, still falling over the heels I can't walk in and parasitically recharging myself off the flickers of amber street lamps.
Don't think about me. I'm not being callous, I just don't think about you.


This explains me quite well.

Slightly cheesy but whatevER









Saturday, 5 July 2014

It's nothing at all

All of London unravels behind me I abandon pretty red-brick houses like unfinished poems. I can block it all out quite easily and turn back in to my self, shut the rest out, lightless and blankly irretrievable. 

It is summer and my mouth is forgetting how to swallow again.

It is summer and I am not worrying about anything rational. I am worrying about what way the light will slant through the window of my shapeless bedroom when I finally give up and go home, and will it catch the dusty crystal there and send me little rainbows or not. I am worrying about what home will be, it's never been a place, but please please please even I need something to fall into. I am worrying about what is going to happen to this little girl; perpetually dazed, habitually sardonic, all jutting out bones and shyness and love for the world (bizarrely, still unconditional.) Does the world look at me and think, what luxury! I hope so. I'd love to be me if I was anyone worse.
*

I miss you, I miss you, I miss you. (Hi if you're reading, you know who you are, is this too much, sorry.)



ps. It's my birthday on monday, 19 is the age I have always wanted to be haha.

Sunday, 29 June 2014

Qu'es-tu devenue maintenant, sous cette pluie de fer, de feu d'acier de sang?

The greyness is settling itself uncomfortably, familiar, a premature autumnal heaviness. Outside the traffic is binging and purging with the clean precision of a neurotic ballet dancer. I am heavy too, and neurotic, and grey, maybe. I have already dried up my desires to run blindly on instinct, it usually works out eventually but optimism or opportunism can be exhausting and and inexorably futile. Sometimes, maybe, it is better to accept infeasability (although tomorrow I will wake up smiling idiotically and renounce this, starting it all all over again.)
I hate, hate, hate uncertainty. I hate the incessant swing between arrogant authoritative confidence and crippling self-disillusionment. Is that what makes artists? The pendulum swoop between absolute narcissism and despairing self-hatred? Fuck did I just call myself an artist? Goodness no, even I'm not that pretentious. I hate even trying to feign eloquence most days. It would be much easier to just sidle into that obediently bland prettiness, the kind of banally attractive girl that might win beauty pageants but about which nobody is going to write poetry.* It's like a placid, unattainable and equally undesirable dream, this innocuous regularity. But then somebody whispered through wine-dappled lips about my 'beautiful soul' and that is more than enough to risk futility all over again.

*Disclaimer: I am not the kind of girl about whom anyone is going to write poetry either.


Image mine, cleansing my crystals 
Polaroid of me and my sister's best friend in Highgate.


I love Jacques Prévert at the moment he is like a french Ferlinghetti or something.

**Title translation: 'Now what's become of you, under this iron rain, of fire and steel and blood?'

Sunday, 8 June 2014

Do you remember what they called up to you and me in our window?


It takes nothing. Mere seconds and we are falling hysterically back into the waves we thought had long surpassed us. God, I'm laughing at the hopeless futility of it all. Simultaneously venerated and repulsed at myself. That old dread, the paranoia, and in between; the laughable nerve of sheer optimism that's set of by the slightest of touches. I recognise this pattern in myself, I've been filling it out for years. Why do I let myself fall into the old impetuous storm, again and again? It's that shred of hope, the distant glint of the lighthouse. Nothing, of course, ever comes of it, nothing substantial; a few feverish poems, a song perhaps, but really, no one significant to sing it to.
No. We can go back to our mirrors, our computer screens, wait for our phones to flash and spark off our hearts until suddenly our whole selves are on fire. Little pixelated illustrations to our daydreams, or little horrors to fertilize the subsequent nightmares. 

But god, it still hangs from a thread. I'm sorry the naivety I could never suppress still remains unabashed. Sorry I don't avoid those awkward foibles of our hearts, sorry I consciously seek them out and look for the poetry in them. I'm sorry if that's too much, if it makes you uncomfortable. I'm sorry that I'm emptier than the bottles we use to drown each other out. I'm sorry that after everything, I still cling to intangible subtleties and tangible men as validation of my self-worth. I'm sorry my self-worth needs validation in the first place. Sorrier if you even care.

Oh, but I am too harsh? Maybe. Even if I was, whatever would come of it would be just that - harsh. And utterly, utterly pointless. All that could manifest would be you, uneasy of me as I talk away nervously in my mess of an accent (liltingly Irish with a north-London kiss that doesn't quite no where to plant itself.) The inches of light between us growing into miles of apprehensions.

 Lilly, I too would take sweets from a stranger today.

found on tumblr
This image is by the amazingly talented Gloria you can find more of her ethereal pictures on her beautiful blog The Ghosts I Summoned. I adore her aesthetic.



Thursday, 5 June 2014

Nothing's changed I still love you, only slightly, only slightly less than I used to.

Brief nothings to no-one in particular, a voiceless face, a shadow of a name, still though; I scream why aren't you obsessed with me, like the narcissist I am and wait for a voiceless reply. They're all the same. I search and search for an anomaly, some deviating spark to set the rest on fire, an irregularity to fit only with me and form the pattern; clean and symmetrical, sedated and tired.

Symmetry is over-rated. 

The girls drift by in their Topshop uniforms, their tousled hair and that artful upturned flick at their eyes. Tell me you're an individual, convince me, I believe almost anything. The men are the same. I'll keep screaming until eventually not even a reaction is granted, unperturbed, I'll slip into the line; the right shape, the right hair, the right eyes. 
Tell me I'm still alive.

Over and over I play it again, don't you yearn for a scratch in the record? For the place where lines won't meet, for a place the lines have never been, for a place where they still sing for anarchy? Find something to touch, something that's burns; 
everything I touch is empty.

Sometimes I remember to breathe.


And outside, the evening is still. Outside, the last brave strands of sun stretch across my mother's grass (too long) and linger on the flowers she tends like a first-born. Inside, my head and heart hurt and are heavy. Is that too self-indulgent? Sorry. 

Sort of dedicating the rest of this post to The Smiths because they are my life and I haven't listened to them in ages, sry



Also: If you're interested my poem 'Old Light' was published on the Dagda Publishing website yesterday, you can read it here: Old Light. I'm not really a poem-writer though. 




and so I drank one, it became four, and when I fell on the floor I drank more.