Wednesday 30 November 2011

Early rising


It’s early, and you are
probably still asleep.

Warm and safe and
soft
in your bed.

I could come
and join you.
Creep in and
slide home beside you.

Swathe you with my body,
the covers hot and semi-
stifling on top of us, and kiss
you lightly. Wet your lips
and stroke your sides and
feel you come awake
all over,
underneath me.

I could slide
down the bed and
open up to your taste and
get you to stir and rise
like the winter sun
just gleaming in
through the curtains.

But it is very early. And you
were probably up late, and you
are likely still in bed.

Soft and safe and
warm,
asleep.

Tuesday 8 November 2011

Why won’t any of you cunts dance?


No really. Why not? Because Throwing Muses – however fucking AWESOME they were tonight (and they were pretty fucking awesome) – have never been a favourite band of mine. They’re a band I was vaguely aware of during my teenage years, I recognised some of the songs tonight but that’s about it.

But I was still rocking the fuck out tonight.

Yes. I was that annoying bitch in front of you who was constantly moving around and headbanging to some of the tunes. Yes, I was the one who was howling like a wolf to try and encourage an encore.

And this is a band that isn’t even one of my favourites.

So why weren’t you dancing? Why weren’t you grinning madly when that bass line kicked in? Why weren’t you moving – helplessly, ecstatically – to the drum beat on that song?

How can you help but move? When Kristen Hersh is singing – in that rough, throat-fucked voice that makes you want to offer up anything you can so long as she’ll keep singing? When the bass and the drums melt over each other and beat into your chest and take over your fucking heartbeat?

Why are you all standing there and not moving a fucking inch?

This is music! This is something that, even if you’ve never heard the bloody band before, should beat in your fucking soul!

Dance like there’s no fucker watching. Dance like this says something to you. Dance like you’re fucking enjoying yourselves, you cunts!

*errata – this was written while I was a little drunk. I fucking stand by it though.

(Edit: I was indeed drunk here. Drunk enough to use 'errata' when I obviously meant 'caveat'. I still mostly stand by it.)

Sunday 6 November 2011

Blasts from the past

I finally got round to converting old files from clarisworks and found some poetry from aeons ago. Most of it's shite, of course, but I might play around with it and cannibalise it into new shapes. But this one I won first prize in a local poetry competition with and I still like it in a nostalgic way so I'm putting it up in its original form.

I won a £50 book token, in case you were interested. Spent it on Miroslav Holub and William Carlos Williams collections.



BLACKBERRY AFTERNOON

            It’s summer.
            Afternoon,
            sultry, decadent heat.
                        Lying on the grass,
            a bowl of blackberries between us.
                        You’re talking
            and I am listening to the sound of your voice,
            watching your lips.

            (and touching those lips with the tip of my tongue
            unbuttoning your shirt kissing your throat)

            and we’re talking of books read,
                        and music heard.

            (and I’m whispering in your ear brushing lips on
            your eyelids running hands across your chest)

            No.  I’m not staring,
                                                    just looking at that bee.

            (I’m sitting astride your chest pulling my t-shirt
            over my head watching your pupils dilate)

            You go into the house.
                        I’m not blushing, just flushed from the sun
                                    and, if my mouth is dry,
            it’s from the tartness of the blackberries
            lying beside me,

            untouched in the sun.