All entries for February 2011

February 22, 2011

Desperation, Performed by a Poem as an Interpretive Dance.

Rice Dream Boy

I remember this much

On good days we drank rice milk from scarlet cartons

Cupping the sweetness on our eager tongues,

And sank grateful hands into cereal boxes,

Running granola mulch through our fingers,

Like soft expletives round broken teeth. It was

A better time.

I remember this much

The velveteen truffle hound in a wicker prism,

Snuffling over ankles in the dusky afternoon.

The conservatory veils, intervals in sunlight

flickering across your face; a tinted lantern

Knocking against tarnished glass,


I remember this much

Painted eggshells on the Easter table

And the whisky-spiced musk of your holiday suit.

Crisp cinnamon biscuits with spun sugar constellations,

Parted lips at midnight, and finding home

In the taste of lucky strikes and raspberry,

Snaring bliss from the precipice,

I remember this much.

February 21, 2011

莊周夢蝶, or Zhuangzi Dreamed he was a Butterfly

莊周夢蝶, or Zhuangzi Dreamed he was a Butterfly

Is it a dream

when startled wings scatter livid dust

across an infinite sky?

Or is it when sticky lids unslick themselves,

exposing the midnight impotence

of some starless dark?

I cannot say; I can only hope

that delicate feelers,

softened by some rich fuzz

of dust or delighted fur,

might someday belong to me, again.

It is a Poem About Batman.

I am Batman’s apolitical elbow, restless-Lee

high-kicking to the beat of the Krakatoa dragon Heap-ing

hannibal piles of miscreants on the Gotham city floor-Ring

tossing with Robin for the rebirth of Marvel-Louse

picking the remnants of King Kong’s mane Concerned

about the barefoot vested ecstasy tablet discount-Less

than a thousand feet from ordinary; but I’ll jump.

Cause in the incandescent bat light of Gotham City Station

I'm a monstrous human construct or a misappropriation

Of the million million heartbeats sucker-punching expiration

To the underbelly innards of some mafia affectation

I'm no crystalline avenger or arachnid radiation

I'm a capitalist metaphor for phallic masturbation

I'm the wet-dream of geeks, check my bat-ejaculation

Or just subscribe to my blog, it's got all my information.

I am Batman’s apolitical elbow, shuttered in my bat cloak

Folded round a bat-ladder, practicing my tennis stroke

Brooding batlike vengeance in the gloomy batlike dark

Punctuating violence with my exclamation mark

I am Batman's apolitical elbow

I am Batman's incurious shin

I am Batman's black and grey basque

I am Batman's bat-rolling-pin

I am not walking home from a party at nine

Wishing I hadn't thrown up on the spice rack.

February 11, 2011

Miss Remiss

I've been a little preoccupied with having an actual life as well as a blog life in the last few weeks (hence the lack of quality obsessive blog posts) but I have also been a BIT productive. In terms of my webcomic plan, I've been teaching myself to use a tablet.

In case anyone was thinking of buying one of these tasty little dealies, which allows one to draw on the computer using a pen-mouse with the accuracy hitherto never reached on MSPaint, I would like to say that Bamboo, the somewhat ubiquitous brand which operates both on PC and on my (delicious gorgeous goddess of a machine) mac, is OK.

The programs on offer with the cheapest version of Bamboo (which of course I had to opt for, being a trampy student with an expensive sushi habit) are not, however, marvellous- although you can download LiveBrush on their website, which can give good results. Here's an example of what has so far been achieved on LiveBrush, my stand-in until I can figure out a way to steal PhotoShop from the ether:

Wolf by Kirsty Judge

February 03, 2011

Crouching Sniper, Hidden Flagon

His trouser tips just hovering

a hesitant five inches

above the parquet floor,

not quite touching, even


over trainers,

I think

he will stand too close,

Pisa-towering over;

and tuck his shirt into

his camouflage


I generally like to fantasise about the social behaviour of strangers-  I find the gap between the exterior appearance and actual personality really fascinating, so I like to spot people who seem a little out of place and imagine how they got there.

Uhhh basically I saw his man in an elevator, and I bitchily wrote this little description of his tiny trousers. It's supposed to sound a little nasty? I've turned it into a poem because that's the module I'm struggling with right now. So that was my today.

February 02, 2011

Sucking at Sonnets

A sonnet(ish) for an assignment, I can't really do the iambs but I've managed the rhyme scheme, good for me. I don't think much of it, but the story is at least vaguely interesting? Thoughts?

Wife! I Am Risen!

Having quit the business of living, and
With little else to do, Mr Gapdear
Boldly left for the undiscovered land
Wearing his best suit (though rather austere)
Sailing in his coffin, he reached a plateau
A lone pimply youth sat in a hotel
Spluttered Mr Gapdear: "Where did they go?"
"So sorry sir, but they all left for Hell-
Heaven's the dullest place to volunteer:
Hell's got fighting, sex, breast augmentation?"
(Thus Hell-bound softy swept Mr Gapdear.
Landing at what looked like Clapham Station)
"Oh" said his wife "What time do you call this?"
"Dinnertime" he said, bestowing a kiss.

I dislike the sonnet, even if the word sounds like a cross between sun and bonnet, two things I currently crave (I want some sun, but being fair I crisp up from ghostly to lobster in a matter of seconds- thus the bonnet). More bad poetry next week.

February 2011

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