At Thorpe Park an autistic boy was stuck on the septic island, it wasn’t a ride, just a hill, with a slight moat around it, easy to access, but he got scared. Staff had to rescue him and once they’d walked him across the little bridge he asked to pose for a photo. Why not? But then, once news spread of the boys escapade, everyone else at the theme park wanted a go. The sun had come out, and the hill filled with families and couples wanting to divert themselves. One couple asked me if I thought they ought to sit down. I said, yes, say yes to everything today. They laughed, others around laughed, and said ‘today’? And I said, yes, it would get too expensive to say yes to everything every day, but say yes to everything today.
I dreamt I was stabbed in the hand by a man weilding a stanley knife in my brother’s car as he tried to pinch it outside christchurch road.
Business business business man, fold the paper for you, I fold the sheet as it comes out stained with symbols from the Epson.
I have heard about the rallies in rome and in jerusalem.
They say in rome there is a dust that makes when mixed with lime cement so hard it can keep a house firm even built below the water for a hundred years.
They say that in jersualsm there is a god made of dust, who can prop a soul that’s built on sinking sand.
He says that the word was with the water and that our breath, in being water, carries god when we speak.
Also, that it is not evil that enters us from without, so the focus on washing seems rather excessive.
It’s abou the evil from within. We’re all sinners etc. etc. And Simon Peter or Peter Simon, he was faithful in word but the was something missing.
And Judas Isacariot does not beleive in the kingdom of heaven but despises the rich. And it is hard for rich people to enter heaven because they have to give away their wealth. This I’m going to do.
It has beeen a while but I will go away to the sea or a mountain and I will get things straight with myself and the world which also means god.
And the devil was with Jesus on the fortieth night and told him about god’s elealousy and his lack of compassion to wwomen and his weakenss.
The Pahsrissees do they stand for Jews? And why was it that someone was taught (was it Herod?)that it was wrong to take the wife of your dead brother when there is also a teaching that it should be done.
And Who was it danced with John the Baptist’ head on a plate for Herod numero two?And Jesus was gentle with the men who put red on their faces and who praise the spartans.
I feel like I’m being driven out of my family. That’s the thing isn’t it? The new people the change. I don’t like it. Have to pretend I’m okay with it. I’m not okay with it. M is the enemy. Yes. That’s the issue. I have to pander to the enemy in my flat. Eff that. That’s where this is coming from.
I have to be complicit in my own orphanhood. No way jose. Not for me. I’m tired of words. I want. Want another mummy. Want to watch her tremble when I brush her nipple with the back of my hand. Eugh. I dreamt the door swung ope with a creak and the person entering was not my mum.
Her and I had been in the room together for the first time ever, when my dad came in, fussing. We could do it all ourselves I wanted to tell him, but no. And eventually we bedded down not together (i’m an adult now) but instead in separate rooms. I wanted to share I think. But that was not the way of things. My mother alone in the next door room. And later the door swinging open. This was the room where the bunk beds were. Where I imagined how intruders might get in. And I had to babysit for someone, and a spidie man shimming down the drainpipe, and i had to turn the plug off and they laughed, and i got angry with the boy, almost hissing. i went too far with him. maybe i won’t be allowed to babysit again. i don’t care about poetry.
G is for a time of fear when i want nothing more from life than somone i can rely on to love me. then thee is the other time the wide bottomed, long and narrow necked vase, filled to the top with something thick. the lsighest nudge would spill it. i need to e able to move free with this. am i ready to stop carrying it? The light behind the clouds, behind the construction sight, was it the moon, was it the light of a crane? We saw how they kept the cranes, their bits all hanging at angles. My friends will soon start, already are, coupling off. Time for me too too maybe. There’s nothing but right now and memory. Why should I be an embalmer? A traveller condembed to sail back back to try to undo his orphanhood. It would be good to spend less time lying awake and more reading.
Frida accepted Diego’s boiled egg, but didn’t thank him. As always he offered it gently, his head tilted down. Taking it without pause, she watched him move on to another valley. She hated him for knowing she’d take it, yet wouldn’t demean herself playing the game of hesitation. A flake of shell had been removed, the size of child’s thumbnail, white shone out from the brown and red flecked shell. Frida climbed the staircase to the top of the ancient ruin, painful for her, every step, and when she reached the top and could see the whole country, she threw the egg, which must have been caught by a breeze, for it arced away through cloud and out of sight, and some say splattered on a minister’s head, and some say landed in a sparrow’s nest, but Frida’s aim was true, and the egg fell onto one identical to it, knocking it from the hand a woman in the next valley along.The woman would look at the clumps of white and dusty yolk on the floor of her courtyard, then back up at a horrified Diego.
My hand in the pocket at the top of my bag has forgotten that it’s looking for a pen:
The synthetic fabric lining’s made for running in the wet, but it feels a kind of silk on my hot knuckles,
under my fingertips, which are also heavy with heat. Some cellaphane’s in there;
a last cigarette in a box that I’ll finish off when the drizzle stops; what I put there yesterday,
the cable to charge my phone today. I want to text you now to say let’s meet again in the rain: return,
pretend the day was never begun. These objects now: my finger pads enjoying their variety and the very easy mysteries of their nature.
Eyes closing, headphones in, I forget the patrons of the cafe, the barista drying saucers. Your poster was just a light blue oblong
with a white border, tacced to a blue wall. It belonged to you, and was part of an original, but art itself was owned by someone else.
The right to print and distribute was owned by another person. Not Felix Gonzalez Torres, the artist. He is dead.
Now the artwork, the printing of identical posters to be given away at the gallery, is owned as a kind of copyright.
It sometimes comes up for auction. While I’ve got you here, I want you to know about the cobblestones under my feet today.
Well that’s it really, I’d like to be able to say that they were like this or that – they were just so cobbly,
pressing through my Nike soles, and looking back, it was more about a body – the blown drizzle was, the smouldering green, the labrador gazing out through the ground floor glass,
just been told that no, you can’t go out and play – all of it about a few hours spent with lips and palms on skin.
The city is beautiful is one way to say it. Another is that we are. The green smoulders in the drizzle. I love a grey sky, me.
When I got out of bed I took some mattress with me stuck like paint to my behind. Funny. I tried the handle but it nearly melted. I tried to turn this ripe banana to leave into the hall, but once I found I’d have no luck, I saw the door had a kind of crack, growing, as if and invisible axe had struck, and its weilder prised the wood apart for me to see the Hockney hanging where it always hangs, in the hall, opposite my door. Soon enough I could step through – the challenge now that my feet kept sinking, as if in a ball-pit. I waded to the kitchen, and was unsurprised to find the fridge- freezer a good white puddle, the silhouette of a dog mid jump, diving through the air, belly exposed, legs splayed, trying to take a bullet for its owner. No food or drink seemed to remain except a glass of orange joice I hadn’t finished the night before, whch I picked up now from where the umbilical cord would have entered this diving dog, its navel I suppose if dogs have belly buttons. The juice, yes, (could also have been the bullet hole) I had a sip.All as expected, sweet, and cold, and as liquid as it should be. The glass did not begin to merge with orange. I sat down on the been bag chair that used to be our couch, and enjoyed my vitamin rich breakfast drink and tried to have a think. The lightbulb above kept dripping onto my head, which made it harder. But as it dripped its last, and disappeared, I had an idea for how to cope
A doctor again trying to remove my willy with a little jig saw
And sawing a cross section of my body to show how the lymph nodes glowed.
Don’t they see that what’s happening now is ridiculous.
I can’t even sit down to breakfast without the fear of my lung poppin or my balls from givin out. Poof.
After fourdays sleeping it off, the moon woke up in bed beside the sun, who burned with equal light. The moon stepped over to the window, and saw god had made the world in pairs and hierachies, heaven being greater than earth, water than fire, and the sun – she looked over at the sun with whom she was in love– and wondered who would have to be the dimnant one. The sun dozed, and as he dozed she kissed his forehead and went to speak with God. She found him in his office poring over blueprints, and she coughed gently. Moon, it’s good to see you, bellowed God., what’s ado?God, the moon said, I’m worried. You have given me, as you have given all that you have created, a partner, in the sun. I love him, and even this trip to see you is hard because it hurts to be apart. But I am anxious: you have created a world based on unequal power, and as things are, the sun and I shine with different lights, but no light the inferior of the other. I cannot help but fear the day when you in all your might will choose which one of us will be the greater light. At this, God looked up from his blue print, hands resting on his desk, and the moon saw his anger. I suppose you want to be the greater light do you? How dare you come to me and demand such a thing: you greater than he?! Hah. As punishment, your light will shine sixty times less strong, ts. Even his presence beside you will burn too much to bear. You will rise on other side of the sky, never coming near. At this the moon fled his office and tumbled through the dark sky. She tore her hair all out until she was bald, and gouged her skin out leaving wounds that bled silver and left deep craters as scars. This silver matter she rent from herself for love of the sun, was scattered across the universe, becoming sky stars and comets.Occasionally the moon still sees the sun, in the evening, across the dusk sky, and the sun in all his brightness never notices her weep.
My friend, I am the one you let bite into your poisoned food to taste essences in the varied stuff of our days.
And in reality my dick does hurt a little where the saw cut. Almost did nick.
The others guessed how at the junction it was Martie Smugmore whose name was to be guessed.
The picture of importance was of one of chicken dinner. And Rob too there,
understanding perhaps, too late, or better late than never. Wading through the carpeted floors of my flat.
I dreamt of talking to someone about not being able to have kids.
That’s off the cards for me. Radiotherapy, over ten years ago.
Is that all? Chemo too. But time wise it’s all. A fat couple walking through the car park, bronzed and tops off. And And a boy with breasts. My third nipple. And sprawled out too, my anatomy doll, exhausted strapped to a pole, to manipulate into position.
I’m tired of women telling me my voice doesn’t matter. The shaming they wield with such indiscretion. I am tired of some things.
Time to reclaim some identity, and own it. I feel a fury somewhere. Can imagine someone spluttering at Christian women Just shut up okay just shut it. Don’t make me feel bad about my heritage. Don’t make me forsake.