Abandoned 3

I was thinking about the differences in thinking about sex. The very very physical and the romantic emotional. The cloud of lust that disguises odd faces, strange noises and leaves everything in this beautiful glow. And the same lust that makes it all so bright. Heightens senses. Memorises moans and groans and oh just certain things fingers were doing. I was comparing the two in my head as I walked home the other day and I thought there’s two sides of one girl. But it took me so long to write this shit I gave up and can’t remember exactly what I wanted to prove.

Lou fell in love with an anarchist, which is a difficult thing to be these days. A cause, a real cause mind you, not a flimsy environmental issue; save the whales, nuke the whales, slice, dice and serve the whales. Hug a tree, love a tree, stick your penis right up that tree. A real cause is hard to find. Lou fell in love with a revolutionary. A girl with passion behind her delicately smoke-filled eyes and a riotous sneer in her smile and he would never have seen her had his lab partner not called in sick that day. She stretched past his waiting form in the union cafe to liberate a sandwich and grinned as he tried not to stare at her protruding chest. She stamped in thick boots past careful lines of hungry students and swung her arms out above her head in a laconic yawn. Her oversized coat rode up her back and revealed her jeans, slashed across each cheek of her ass. With a wink she had taken an overzealous bite of her stolen lunch and disappeared out the door. Lou fell in love with this anarchist.
At the time, he was a dating a librarian. A problem he didn’t seem to acknowledge until he was stammering in front of her critical fingers. Such noises were ignored as her nails tugged on his pubic hair and hooked into the elastic of his boxers. She pulled him this way through the bar and kicked open the door of the toilets in the back. Anarchy did not seem to extend to her Snoopy bra or the curling flower tattoo secreted behind her knee. In fact, the little rebel positively blushed as he entered her, before her nails tore lines in his back and she bent his head back by the roots of his hair.

It’s not block, I’m calling it writer’s funk

Louis XIV or a note to my Little Prince

I’ll send a dozen roses to you on the moon
to orbit around your most beautiful ego.
I’ll love you forever until the last sunset.
Then I’ll pull you by your roots
destroy every thorny petal
and discard with comet disdain
never to bother me again
with baobab insecurities.

I loved you first

Sam didn’t say anything. Dee watched her twist the scissors around her fingers in the flashing sunlight streaming from the kitchen window. He tugged at the edges of the towel around his shoulders, coughed down his sleeve, and slurped an unwanted mouthful of sugary tea. Sam didn’t say anything. She licked her lips twice, audibly unstuck her tongue from the roof of her mouth but changed her mind halfway through her first breath. She placed her cool fingers on his temples and tilted his head down towards his knees. Then the only sound was the steady snip as his curls spiralled to the floor.

and now I don’t know what to do. I can write it all up to this point but as soon as she cuts his hair I’m done, spent, empty. I don’t want to follow the Biblical story since I’m barely following it at all but for the hair.

I am making the effort to rewrite the things I think have most potential. Which at the moment is my backwards end of the world thing. Possibly my hospital piece but I dunno. My mum, who never has a strong opinion on these things really, believes adamantly that I can stretch that one to a fullsize novel. I am not so sure.

I have a very strong urge to write a philosophical novel. I keep trying to make my french one work but I don’t know. It’s a drag. A drag I wish was already done, if you get me.

I am mostly posting because I liked that first silly poem and to let you guys know I am still alive on the internet in case you didn’t know. I want to write a short story about otters.

For a lack of anything better to say

I am trying to read too many books. Or really I am not reading Plato because I can’t afford it just now and I’m reading Orwell and Burroughs and thinking about reading Hemingway. Everyone is kinda melting together. It doesn’t help that there are all the contemporaries to keep track of. The Beat Generation, really. Throw in influence and you can stretch to Salinger (who is in the to-read pile) and Palahniuk (who I cannot afford) and Bukowski (whose poetry I dip into now and then but not too often). 

I’m reading so much because I’m not writing. I cannot write. I enjoy it in the moment but that disappears instantly upon completion. When I get back to it I’m left with utter indifference. I can see the good bits, bad bits but I don’t see if any of it is salvageable. I can’t see if there is any point in trying.

I don’t mean to sound quite so oh woeisme pointless emo whine. I certainly am not fishing for validation. I will be annoyed if anybody tries to do so. It’s just in the frustration of everything else I couldn’t cope with this too. 

I mean, dreams of publication are always great and I’ve always had them. But I don’t write thinking I ever will be. I don’t enter competitions or submit to magazines because I prefer the solitude. It’s not the rejection I fear. It’s getting it wrong. It’s hard to explain and sounds so fucking idiotic that I’m not going to try. 

It’s easy to stop. Let it all go and soak up other people’s work. My fingers are torn apart and I’m a wreck but I’d rather be silent than mediocre. There’s just the fear of inadequacy , the threat of losing something. 

I spend too long in bookstores reading first and last pages. I browse through Amazon reading as much as they put up for free. It’s all a long narrative I can’t keep track of. But Burroughs is a kind of mundane reality that I can’t stop reading. Not like the Fuck Up which was a mundane kind of mundane that while mildly entertaining and occasionally funny was rather disappointing (but cheap).

I am sure I had a better point. Ok, I watched a film based on a Hemingway story. In it Gregory Peck shot a rhino in the face. He’s so manly.

Lecture Notes

nirvana isn’t something you obtain but something that must be sustained

surrounded by drug takers and ne’erdowells

greek gods have birthdays every month

your mouth is a gun all curled up in my flimsy hopes of childhood crushes

16th C lot of cold weather, goddam witches. WHEN GOSSIPS MEET

that’s when we’ll explode

and it won’t be a pretty sight

You are right about Antigone-how sublime a picture of woman! and what think you of the choruses and of the godlike victim? And the menaces of Teiresias and their rapid fulfilment? Some of us have in a prior existence been in love with an Antigone, and that makes us find no full context in any mortal tie.

Shelley was totally hot for Antigone you see.

surely he meant survive, ‘if you manage to escape childbirth’ Good God the babies are massing

an arrogant man is safer than a narcissistic man. An ego is infinitely better than a flower

a stranger in a black car with candy-flavoured condoms snares the woman-child with her long legs and taunt skin stretched to brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreak

sexy, sexy Apollo

Christian IV was a total alcoholic

take me to your bed and show me some trees

she had blow job lips and sweet cunt smile and every line of her mouth was a kiss off to all the men that had never wronged her. Somewhere between her cubist breasts and her incubatory thighs was a tattoo of a vine winding along the contours of a waitress-toned stomach.

I have forgotten why she was leaning over the counter, spilling over onto my lap because the coffee she had poured me was sludge cold.

she sang in crackled gramophone tones, scratching the record throat, lifting the needle notes

she sang so soft as if she’d break

the beautiful dangerous kind of ordinary you just can’t leave alone

I almost married a guy once. he proposed to me because I wrote a story about a man with his name. He slept with me because of that story but I never wrote it for him. So don’t tell me your name.

she clamps a finger across his mouth, don’t tell me your name, I’ve been told too many names tonight and I don’t want to lose yours

whisper it in my ear sometime and I’ll echo it back in quiet gasps

but later later later