Snow white skin and cherry bomb lips she enticed me
back to her four post bed; a princess on rumpled sheets
a tyrant on my hips
I’m conquered by smoky glances and sultry sighs.
“Trust me,” were her words
murmured through my beltloops,
whispered on my chest,
gasped in my ear,
begged in my mouth.
Implicitly, I complied.
Sunlight rouses me from dreams
of raven hair and alabaster flesh
laughter shakes me from sleep but
cold metal holds me still, exposed
to the man in the chair before me.
Laughing
he makes to leave
wipes the smile from my face
deadens the twist in my stomach
but last minute he turns
holding my dignity on a rusted circle; my jailor
lips curling in a sneer
as he snaps the key in the lock.
First my left, then my right
freedom was never as sweet as her snare.
FUCK
YOU
DAN
lipstick, scarlet hate on my chest.
i’m so sorry scott
black eyeliner apology on my thigh.
He shows me the door, an apparition
by his side blows me a red kiss, smears one on his cheek
and waves a diamond
goodbye.
“You got off lightly,” she drags him by his hair
“Trust me.”
I do.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
No, Gandalf I expect you to die...
I slept in and missed the last day of seeing my history lecturer. Mostly because every time I rolled over to check the time I was faced with the shaving foam Julie had left beside my head and I mustered up a "Damn him" before going back to sleep. I did this at least twice before I made the effort to move it out of the way and reveal the disappointment as there was no way I'd make it to the West End in time this morning. Gutted.
I've got an essay to write and I haven't read the books. My god, who could blame me. Good old Cicero. One minute he's talking about all the terrible things that might have happened if Catiline had succeeded. Oh god not the virgins. NOT THE VIRGINS. And then the next he's talking about how amazing he is. Pages and pages of vanity. I'm not the biggest fan of rhetoric, lawyer twaddle really but rhetoric that's really just about how he wants to be remembered for all time? Ugh, it's bad.
However, better than Plautus. Things are funny because they sound like rude words!
Met my archaeology tutor yesterday. American woman studies Vikings. Made us write our names on folded pieces of paper and told us for the next 3 weeks we will be roleplaying. This whole course feels like a farce. Play acting archaeologists with no hope of free fedoras and whips. It's almost enough to make me pack it all in and fall back on English. Sure everyone was a pretentious twat and sure we spent weeks talking about things that actually had no relevance to anything and sure every argument I put forward was marked with a "Not really". Not really? My interpretation didn't match yours is what you mean to say...
Yeah maybe not.
Did I ever tell you how much I love Michel Gondry? Here is a reason why you should too. Be sure to search Youtube when you get there. He makes his own homemade version of his own trailer. ♥
I've got an essay to write and I haven't read the books. My god, who could blame me. Good old Cicero. One minute he's talking about all the terrible things that might have happened if Catiline had succeeded. Oh god not the virgins. NOT THE VIRGINS. And then the next he's talking about how amazing he is. Pages and pages of vanity. I'm not the biggest fan of rhetoric, lawyer twaddle really but rhetoric that's really just about how he wants to be remembered for all time? Ugh, it's bad.
However, better than Plautus. Things are funny because they sound like rude words!
Met my archaeology tutor yesterday. American woman studies Vikings. Made us write our names on folded pieces of paper and told us for the next 3 weeks we will be roleplaying. This whole course feels like a farce. Play acting archaeologists with no hope of free fedoras and whips. It's almost enough to make me pack it all in and fall back on English. Sure everyone was a pretentious twat and sure we spent weeks talking about things that actually had no relevance to anything and sure every argument I put forward was marked with a "Not really". Not really? My interpretation didn't match yours is what you mean to say...
Yeah maybe not.
Did I ever tell you how much I love Michel Gondry? Here is a reason why you should too. Be sure to search Youtube when you get there. He makes his own homemade version of his own trailer. ♥
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Alas, I am a big gay
"Little red riding cat," My mum smiles at my blanket clad form as she prods at the cheese stuck to the toastie machine. My sandwich had exploded but she wasn't making me clean it since I looked so pathetic. I'm speaking too fast, too much like when I'm drunk or I'm going to cry. I lost track of my point a while back but I keep going and she gives me a look. Then I fell into the chair and pointed at some vague spot before me. "Blurry. Ow." Fuzzy squares encroach on my sight like a TV slowly losing reception. Sorry for the interruption but programming is finishing early tonight due to technical difficulties. Pain settles above my left eye and before I crash I wave a piece of paper in front of my mother.
"I wrote a poem."
It was partly to blame for the brain melting agony that shifted and swung violently with every step. But I made it to bed safe and sound. No, not safe. I writhe and curl up into a ball. I hate these. Most any pain I can handle if I try but headaches break me. I shut my eyes, try not to move and hope that when Julie goes to bed, she does so silently. No light, no noise, no movement. Don't even think too much. Don't shake the beast. My nose itches but the hand that moves to scratch it is gone. Lost all feeling. I panic. Panic moves the pain, I bit my lip to keep from crying out and I realise I can't feel it either. Slowly and yet suddenly the buzzy fuzzy awful spreads to half my face and I'm erased. I throw my head back and the pain is electric; she lives!
This is why I'm not the biggest fan of verse.
Now here's some reasons why I am dreadfully poor:
I bought art! From Perfect Stars if you are wondering, there's a link in my link list I'm sure. Not great pics but I was excited and sleepy and my proper camera broke a while back.
"I wrote a poem."
It was partly to blame for the brain melting agony that shifted and swung violently with every step. But I made it to bed safe and sound. No, not safe. I writhe and curl up into a ball. I hate these. Most any pain I can handle if I try but headaches break me. I shut my eyes, try not to move and hope that when Julie goes to bed, she does so silently. No light, no noise, no movement. Don't even think too much. Don't shake the beast. My nose itches but the hand that moves to scratch it is gone. Lost all feeling. I panic. Panic moves the pain, I bit my lip to keep from crying out and I realise I can't feel it either. Slowly and yet suddenly the buzzy fuzzy awful spreads to half my face and I'm erased. I throw my head back and the pain is electric; she lives!
This is why I'm not the biggest fan of verse.
Now here's some reasons why I am dreadfully poor:
I bought art! From Perfect Stars if you are wondering, there's a link in my link list I'm sure. Not great pics but I was excited and sleepy and my proper camera broke a while back.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Combat baby
We, daughters of educated men, are between the devil and the deep blue sea. Behind us lies the patriarchal system; the private house, with its nullity, its immortality, its hypocrisy, its servility. Before us lies the public world, the professional system, with its possessiveness, its jealousy, its pugnacity, its greed. The one shuts us up like slaves in a harem; the other forces us to circle like caterpillars head to tail, round and round the mulberry tree, the sacred tree of property. It is a choice of evils. Each is bad. Had we better not plunge off the bridge into the river; give up the game; declare that the whole of human life is a mistake and so end it?
And 3 years later Virginia filled her pockets with rocks and walked into the river.
There's no way out, the only way out is to give in.
I prefer reading the literature of the dead. I read arrogant men and suicidal women. I love them more than I could love you.
I want to be wrong but
No one here wants to fight me like you do
I'm little red riding hood, gotta fight the big bad wolf. I've seen through his disguise. There's two pistols in my basket, I'm gonna shoot his big nose off. I don't need no woodsman to rescue me. Some romantic addition to tradition. His value declined when he offered his name. Round of metal between the eyes and the forest is mine.
Happily ever after ends with the ring on my finger. Commitment lasts too long. Your arm is heavy on my shoulders, holding me down. Lips on my mouth steal my words. You tell me how to dress, how to wear my hair, who I should see, what I should like. My body slumps in your bed. I'm your toy; I won't say no. Have your cake and eat her too. You don't know me. Ain't that funny. You don't know me at all. I curl in the corner with the knife in my hand. I've got to cut you out of my flesh. Spit on the floor, I want rid of your taste. Too dark for you? Come back, you can't leave me. I'm waiting for my moment. Blame it all on me. It's ok baby, I understand. It can all be my fault. I should have loved you more. But stay a little longer, until I work this out. I'm nearly there. Almost perfected this art of the living dead. Don't you dare ruin it.
We all got our problems. By the time I'm through I will make you cry. I'll make you question everything you believed in. Silly little boy, you just want everybody to love you. Stupid girl, one day you will learn that none of this actually matters. It isn't real, it's a game we lost before it began. Prey off those who play to win, they'll carry you far. Look for the cheaters, they're the way, the truth and the light. You're a fake, a fraud, a phony if you want to get all Caulfield about it. We'll get drunk, get high. Turn it up louder, hit me again. Let go, sweetheart. Stop pretending. Let's have a night of something real.
And then I'll make it easy for you to leave me.
And 3 years later Virginia filled her pockets with rocks and walked into the river.
There's no way out, the only way out is to give in.
I prefer reading the literature of the dead. I read arrogant men and suicidal women. I love them more than I could love you.
I want to be wrong but
No one here wants to fight me like you do
I'm little red riding hood, gotta fight the big bad wolf. I've seen through his disguise. There's two pistols in my basket, I'm gonna shoot his big nose off. I don't need no woodsman to rescue me. Some romantic addition to tradition. His value declined when he offered his name. Round of metal between the eyes and the forest is mine.
Happily ever after ends with the ring on my finger. Commitment lasts too long. Your arm is heavy on my shoulders, holding me down. Lips on my mouth steal my words. You tell me how to dress, how to wear my hair, who I should see, what I should like. My body slumps in your bed. I'm your toy; I won't say no. Have your cake and eat her too. You don't know me. Ain't that funny. You don't know me at all. I curl in the corner with the knife in my hand. I've got to cut you out of my flesh. Spit on the floor, I want rid of your taste. Too dark for you? Come back, you can't leave me. I'm waiting for my moment. Blame it all on me. It's ok baby, I understand. It can all be my fault. I should have loved you more. But stay a little longer, until I work this out. I'm nearly there. Almost perfected this art of the living dead. Don't you dare ruin it.
We all got our problems. By the time I'm through I will make you cry. I'll make you question everything you believed in. Silly little boy, you just want everybody to love you. Stupid girl, one day you will learn that none of this actually matters. It isn't real, it's a game we lost before it began. Prey off those who play to win, they'll carry you far. Look for the cheaters, they're the way, the truth and the light. You're a fake, a fraud, a phony if you want to get all Caulfield about it. We'll get drunk, get high. Turn it up louder, hit me again. Let go, sweetheart. Stop pretending. Let's have a night of something real.
And then I'll make it easy for you to leave me.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
All your lives unled, reading in bed
There's a cold on the horizon. I'm hoping with enough willpower I can stave it off like last time. Let's all hope so since next week begins the oh crap get essay done time.
You know that restless way when you can't do anything else until you get something down on paper. It's a nightmare, one that wakes me up and consumes my thoughts and the worst part of it is that I am simply not good enough yet to realise all that I can imagine. I'm vain. Incredibly so, although I try not to show it and when I do I use sarcasm to protect myself from contradictions. Because, like all vain people, I'm a mass of insecurities. I wrote my first novel when I was fourteen, although it was not my first attempt. There was that one I started when I was nine about orphaned twins, very melodramatic and ridiculous. But this was my first completed novel. I typed it all up in chapters and let anybody who asked read it. That was the great thing about our high school, few people read let alone wrote their own stories so I was smothered in praise. Of course it was absolute rubbish. Then came the Elfwood period. Considering how picky I am when it comes to clichés my little page on that site is a veritable mess of overused plot holes. Again, it was the perfect place for quick and easy praise. It's why I've never bothered posting anywhere else, except for blogs of course but that's a different matter.
Nobody has ever told me I could write. Nobody ever really encouraged me to write either. I never entered competitions and so I never won anything. I just remember being in the front seat of my dad's car, driving to the BBC building and passing the university. He pointed the imposing building out to me and said that's where I might be when I grew up. I told him it would be pointless because I was going to be a writer.
I didn't quite imagine I'd be stuffy nosed and thumbing through my worn French dictionary to find out how to spell the sentences that play out in my head. I handed the first page to my mother who merely told me that clack would be a better onomatopoeia than tack for a typewriter and ignored all french like phrases. I fear it's become one of those pieces that nobody else will want to read. But one must persevere, if only because I'd fidget myself to a broken finger otherwise.
Julie provided a brief summary of what I've written so far and if it became a published work I'd love it to be the blurb:
I AM WALKING DOWN THE STREET
THERE A STRANGE MAN I DO MEET
I TOUCH HIM INAPPROPRIATELY
AND THEN I PRANCE AWAY WITH GLEE
Now have a picture of the best part of La Dolce Vita. Because it makes me happy.
You know that restless way when you can't do anything else until you get something down on paper. It's a nightmare, one that wakes me up and consumes my thoughts and the worst part of it is that I am simply not good enough yet to realise all that I can imagine. I'm vain. Incredibly so, although I try not to show it and when I do I use sarcasm to protect myself from contradictions. Because, like all vain people, I'm a mass of insecurities. I wrote my first novel when I was fourteen, although it was not my first attempt. There was that one I started when I was nine about orphaned twins, very melodramatic and ridiculous. But this was my first completed novel. I typed it all up in chapters and let anybody who asked read it. That was the great thing about our high school, few people read let alone wrote their own stories so I was smothered in praise. Of course it was absolute rubbish. Then came the Elfwood period. Considering how picky I am when it comes to clichés my little page on that site is a veritable mess of overused plot holes. Again, it was the perfect place for quick and easy praise. It's why I've never bothered posting anywhere else, except for blogs of course but that's a different matter.
Nobody has ever told me I could write. Nobody ever really encouraged me to write either. I never entered competitions and so I never won anything. I just remember being in the front seat of my dad's car, driving to the BBC building and passing the university. He pointed the imposing building out to me and said that's where I might be when I grew up. I told him it would be pointless because I was going to be a writer.
I didn't quite imagine I'd be stuffy nosed and thumbing through my worn French dictionary to find out how to spell the sentences that play out in my head. I handed the first page to my mother who merely told me that clack would be a better onomatopoeia than tack for a typewriter and ignored all french like phrases. I fear it's become one of those pieces that nobody else will want to read. But one must persevere, if only because I'd fidget myself to a broken finger otherwise.
Julie provided a brief summary of what I've written so far and if it became a published work I'd love it to be the blurb:
I AM WALKING DOWN THE STREET
THERE A STRANGE MAN I DO MEET
I TOUCH HIM INAPPROPRIATELY
AND THEN I PRANCE AWAY WITH GLEE
Now have a picture of the best part of La Dolce Vita. Because it makes me happy.
Friday, February 22, 2008
On ne peut pas fabriquer la vérité
Marie-Jacques peered round my rain-soaked inexplicably curled mop of hair and once she pursed her lips and spouted nonsensical poetry in broken french I knew she wasn't going to leave me alone. Cicero was lost, I jotted down absolute rubbish about Chalcolithic pottery in the hopes that my writing would be so small they'd just give me the points anyway and I begged her to hold still.
"Why are you here?"
She shrugs bony shoulders. "Pourquoi pas."
"Mais pourquoi maintenant? I was writing last night, you could have come then."
"Il faut commencer 'il était une fois...'"
"You're taking the piss."
"Tais-toi!"
"Tais your own toi."
I scribble notes about the French Revolution from lectures I've missed.
"Et il faut finir 'ils se marièrent et eurent beaucoup d'enfants'"
"Shh I'm very busy and important."
I started writing about enlightenment. Which was just lists and lists of philosophers and thinkers under various headings. David Hume was one of the Scottish Enlightened ones and with a spasm my hand creeps to the top of the page and writes she's searching for the missing shade of blue.
"Oh come on. You want me to write a philosophical fairy tale in french? Where were you in sixth year when these things were fresh in my mind. I'll be stuck on wikipedia with foreign dictionaries on my lap. You know I'm lazy with the grammar."
"Je t'aime." She knew ideas were planted in my head and need say no more. Needless to say it was difficult to pay attention in class despite such discussions as "But Catherine is a girl" (nice of them to notice) and bluffing my way through things I barely read the night before.
And my little Parisienne tortures me with something too perfect for me to recreate on paper. And I'm left trapped in my own limitations.
"Why are you here?"
She shrugs bony shoulders. "Pourquoi pas."
"Mais pourquoi maintenant? I was writing last night, you could have come then."
"Il faut commencer 'il était une fois...'"
"You're taking the piss."
"Tais-toi!"
"Tais your own toi."
I scribble notes about the French Revolution from lectures I've missed.
"Et il faut finir 'ils se marièrent et eurent beaucoup d'enfants'"
"Shh I'm very busy and important."
I started writing about enlightenment. Which was just lists and lists of philosophers and thinkers under various headings. David Hume was one of the Scottish Enlightened ones and with a spasm my hand creeps to the top of the page and writes she's searching for the missing shade of blue.
"Oh come on. You want me to write a philosophical fairy tale in french? Where were you in sixth year when these things were fresh in my mind. I'll be stuck on wikipedia with foreign dictionaries on my lap. You know I'm lazy with the grammar."
"Je t'aime." She knew ideas were planted in my head and need say no more. Needless to say it was difficult to pay attention in class despite such discussions as "But Catherine is a girl" (nice of them to notice) and bluffing my way through things I barely read the night before.
And my little Parisienne tortures me with something too perfect for me to recreate on paper. And I'm left trapped in my own limitations.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
I'm a walking cliché when such a creature I sight
I fell in love four times today.
I think it's the result of being so goshdarned jaded and tired of the big bad world, hold on while I break out the red wine (actually I quite fancy some but we only have good stuff in the alcohol cupboard of mostly evaporated drink), that makes the silly romantic side of me to be a little over the top. There's not really a happy medium with me. I'm a cynic until he complains and then I either ditch him or lose myself in fanciful notions.
But when I'm single I fall for just about everybody I meet.
I will say right now that they were all female. I cannot help that.
First off I got up early this morning and turned up to my history lecture for the first time in a month. Why? Because today was Marxism. What I didn't know was the lecture was being taken by a woman who had a fantastic accent (although where she was from I can't say) and she wasn't hugely attractive. Until she spoke. She was one of those lecturers that really cares about what she was talking about and for once it was a subject I was interested in hearing about. She had a black shirt on and hadn't buttoned up the sleeves. Every time she spoke of the Proletariats and the Bourgeoisie, her arms would wave around excitedly, flashing white skin to the half empty lecture hall. I could have listened to her all day. She's teaching for another week. I might just turn up.
I saw the second on the way down ashton lane where I had like the best panini thing ever. It was her hair. Originally brunette she had dyed her hair pink and then blue or purple. The result was a technicolour mess that shouldn't have worked but left me entranced as she rummaged in her bag for something. The way she shook her head made all the colours whirl and I swore it looked like they flashed between them all. I desperately wanted to know what possessed her to that to her head, and if she knew it was going to end up so spectacularly beautiful or if it was a happy accident. But alas, like always, I hesitated too long and she was gone.
The third stalked past me in the library. Tall and self-sure she had short hair in that burgundy colour that everybody seems to be choosing these days and a waistcoat that just looked right. She was gorgeous in a androgynous perfume haze as she pushed everyone else out of her way to get to the desk.
And lastly I noticed a pair of legs propped on the back of the broken seat next to me in archaeology. Her tights had large swirling roses that trailed up to a purple skirt. She talked through the long explanation about geoarchaeology and where the stones of stonehenge came from about some show that was like Battlestar Galactica but like really funny and with that guy from Two Guys and a Girl (Nathan Fillion I interjected and was met with a big smile and isn't Firefly the greatest). She had curly dark hair tucked under a purple beenie and a genuine smile that showed her fat teeth.
And I chose to share this with you rather than keep it to myself because I don't wanna talk about the football. I ranted all afternoon to Helen (who obliged with sympathetic sounds) to the extent that the table of boys next to us felt emasculated and I heard "So um like who do you support?" and 2 Rangers fans half-heartedly attempted to out talk me.
I think it's the result of being so goshdarned jaded and tired of the big bad world, hold on while I break out the red wine (actually I quite fancy some but we only have good stuff in the alcohol cupboard of mostly evaporated drink), that makes the silly romantic side of me to be a little over the top. There's not really a happy medium with me. I'm a cynic until he complains and then I either ditch him or lose myself in fanciful notions.
But when I'm single I fall for just about everybody I meet.
I will say right now that they were all female. I cannot help that.
First off I got up early this morning and turned up to my history lecture for the first time in a month. Why? Because today was Marxism. What I didn't know was the lecture was being taken by a woman who had a fantastic accent (although where she was from I can't say) and she wasn't hugely attractive. Until she spoke. She was one of those lecturers that really cares about what she was talking about and for once it was a subject I was interested in hearing about. She had a black shirt on and hadn't buttoned up the sleeves. Every time she spoke of the Proletariats and the Bourgeoisie, her arms would wave around excitedly, flashing white skin to the half empty lecture hall. I could have listened to her all day. She's teaching for another week. I might just turn up.
I saw the second on the way down ashton lane where I had like the best panini thing ever. It was her hair. Originally brunette she had dyed her hair pink and then blue or purple. The result was a technicolour mess that shouldn't have worked but left me entranced as she rummaged in her bag for something. The way she shook her head made all the colours whirl and I swore it looked like they flashed between them all. I desperately wanted to know what possessed her to that to her head, and if she knew it was going to end up so spectacularly beautiful or if it was a happy accident. But alas, like always, I hesitated too long and she was gone.
The third stalked past me in the library. Tall and self-sure she had short hair in that burgundy colour that everybody seems to be choosing these days and a waistcoat that just looked right. She was gorgeous in a androgynous perfume haze as she pushed everyone else out of her way to get to the desk.
And lastly I noticed a pair of legs propped on the back of the broken seat next to me in archaeology. Her tights had large swirling roses that trailed up to a purple skirt. She talked through the long explanation about geoarchaeology and where the stones of stonehenge came from about some show that was like Battlestar Galactica but like really funny and with that guy from Two Guys and a Girl (Nathan Fillion I interjected and was met with a big smile and isn't Firefly the greatest). She had curly dark hair tucked under a purple beenie and a genuine smile that showed her fat teeth.
And I chose to share this with you rather than keep it to myself because I don't wanna talk about the football. I ranted all afternoon to Helen (who obliged with sympathetic sounds) to the extent that the table of boys next to us felt emasculated and I heard "So um like who do you support?" and 2 Rangers fans half-heartedly attempted to out talk me.
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