March 16, 2012

diary of me

Ok. Let's start again. Let's start again might be a recurring theme in this diary. This is the diary of me. Who I am, who I was, who I might be. Actually, I don't know who I am. Do any of us? Who we are changes from day to day, minute to minute, year to decade. I'm not even sure who I want to, be. Used to. When I was fifteen I wanted to be Veronica Lake, you know the peek a bout (?) girl. Peek about, peeking from under her sweep of silky hair. How do you spell peek'. a bout? Must look it up but peek a bout sounds mysterious however it is spelled. She was slender, like her slender hair and looked at life sideways, the curtain of hair providing an alluring ... allooooooring.... one more time, what a word, alluuuuuring (takes long drink of Scotch and lights cigarette because she can't think of appropriate analogy for what is represented by Veronica Lake's alluring head veil. Hair is a woman's crowning glory. Hair, if you are brought up as a Roman Catholic, must be covered in church. Bit like hair and Moslem girls. Hair, my English teacher, Mr Cardus - one of the first men I felt for sexually and by that I mean, God, can hardly type the word ... did actually, no, still can't type it ... but you must know what I mean; well, he said, 'all men are trychomaniacs'; didn't understand the word but understood instinctively what he meantcompanionably . Men like women with glossy, flowing hair. Why? Care a little about men liking long, flowing rivers of hair. But I like hair. I like my hair. Today, post hairdresser, it is gleaming and streaming and swishy. Sounds like a TV ad. But I like the feel of my own hair. It is scented and I can run my fingers through and it falls back into shape, sitting companionably on my shoulders, only needing a comb if I feel like making it move, silkilyobediantly. Face framingly. Let's not think about the face. No. No. No. Puffy, eyebaggy. My fault. Too many fags, too much booze. I hope I care less about my face than I did. Some hope. I do but lack the will to stop the booze, the fags, lack of fresh air, pulling too many faces. Oh, to be without expression on the face but everything I see and hear is registered in my face. Eyebrows up, lipsup, lips down. Stop it face. Learn to be impassive. Fixed and accepting. Time to go. Go and walk. God, I do like to walk. Waste paper basket to pay for, dogs dogs dogs more of my little dogs, babies, to telll. Time to go.s


January 02, 2011

To Die or Not to Die?

To Die or not To Die, now, that is a question.

Not quickly or too painfully or out of the blue.

And what does death actually mean?

Like the idea of a young man's death

Shagging, boozing, falling through the ice

After New Year reveleries.

But as you are drawing your final ice chilled breath

What if you have a change of heart?

In a flash, the idea of warm custard and Aretha Frankin

Might make you change your mind.

And if you throw youself from a tall tower

There's no way of defying gravity

Deciding gravy served with roast spuds are worth living for.

A big plate of pink beef and braised celery won't magic itself

And act as a platform for you to soft land in buttery mash just won't appear to break your fall.

The slow way, like slow cooked lamb has its compensations.

Are school dinners the only way to save you?

Or starting each day with a swig of Henry Weston's cider?

Better than a bowl of cornflakes.

Warming and apple tasting, this vintage product has its apple peel.

And there we have it.  Bad puns - apple peel, appeal.

That is the best you can do when it comes to what you really, really need.

To be a mistress of clever phrases;

Why, oh why, oh why?

Everything that is worth saying has already been said.

And anything worth saying that hasn't already been put into words

Won't be articulated by me.

Bob Dylan said: nothing succeeds like failure

And failure is no success at all.

Failure, failure, failure.

Let's not go there.

One woman's failure is subjective, of course.

But I know how failure tastes and looks and smells.

What of success?

What is that really like?

Success, success, success?

How does that taste and look and smell?

Don't know.  But willing to give it a go.

Your starter for ten.  Tell me what it is like.

I do so want to know.

It is having a face like Annie Lennox and a voice like Billie Holiday and a figure like Marilyn Monroe?

Being able to drink champagne without suffering a hangover; being able to walk for miles on legs like elastic springs?

Being Tina Brown or Ophra Winfrey?

Having ten children clustering round you on your fiftieth birthday with home made gifts?

Is it soaring through the glass ceiling in your Channel size zero suit?

Is it suffering but writing poems like Emily Dickinson?

Or is it just snuggling under the duvet, listening to Woman's Hour and making resolutions to be a better person?


August 05, 2009

poem

Follow-up to poem from Pauline's bitofbloger

JUNK

A skip outside my house is filled with junk.

Junk bought with money I didn't have.

You know the kind of crap.  Shoes, booze bottles, stuff made in China.

Books too.  Read from front to back.  Not an answer in a single one.

In that skip, mighty and metallic, there's strata after strata of toxic, jurassic junk.

Poisonous emotions, seven deadly sins.  Stone commandments shattered into gravel on the skin.

Years of sloth and envy.  Greed and suppurating lust.  Coveting my neighbour's looks.

Her joy, his Jag.

And at the heart of it a vacuum.

Belief in nothing at all.

Pity and self-loathing, the sticky centre of it all.

Blame the parents, blame the genes.

Blame everyone but me.

And sit back a few more years, imbibing cancer mix.

While somewhere a hole is being dug.

In a steaming rubbish heap.

Gulls screaming wheel above it.  I hear them in my dreams.

A land-fill site for the junk.  The junk that is already me. 


poem

Writing about web page http://www2.warwick.ac.uk


May 21, 2009

Bad Lucy's Depression Blues

Writing about web page Prompt response

BAD LUCY'S DEPRESSION BLUES

LUCY was a woman of few words.  Most of them were yes.

Credit card in hand, she was mistress of the mall.

Yes to new shoes, yes to blue sky holidays, yes to silver slivers for her wrist.

Yes said Lucy, yes, yes, yes.

Until a big fat NO appeared in her sunny, yessy sky.

NO glowered down on her after Black Monday, Terrible Tuesday, Woeful Wednesday and Thundering Thursday.

By Friday the Footsie had fallen and was hovering over her head.

On Saturday she'd be lowered into a lead-lined coffin of toxic debt.

In walked Steady Steve to save the day.

He spoke fewer words than Lucy.  His best loved word was NO.

NO more silly shoes with heels half a mile high, no more party frocks with petals like petunias.

NO to fizzy pink drinks from long, crystal flues.  No twinkling lights on her fingers, neck and ears.

No to clouds of scent that smelt like midnight in July.

No, Lucy, no, no, no, Steve said.

But Lucy was a stubborn lass and wanted her own way.

She snipped her heels, trimmed her frocks and took to two wheels to wobble around town.

She wove daisies through her hair, bought a dark brown chicken and ate its eggs.  Grew strawberries, lay on hay.

Orgasmic became organic.

And when steady Steve said, I'll have you now Lucy, you are a girl good enough for me.

She delved into her home-made handbag and pulled out her new-found word in reply.

No steady Steve.  No! No! No! Goodbye.


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