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‘Okay, Boomer’
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and finds a home in downstream current. distance has stretched her stem-string taut : roots aching in the riverbed, but this kind of unfurling demands space. She blossoms in her lilypad halo, tethered and afloat, petals : twisting out like slow knives.
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A Hairy Situation
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Nursery Crime #3 Jack and Jill went up the hill For an hour and a quarter Jill came screaming upside down And Jack not long thereafter.
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KARMA Verse 1 I was your señorita girl Your “No I would never leave you” girl But you preferred your lying cheating girl (Her tab doesn’t need a cap she’s got you on tap) You can have it your way You know what JT says What goes around comes back around What goes around comes back around Chorus And yes I mean to make a scene ‘cos I’m extra as hell I’m a drama queen, you won’t fight for me I’ll have to do it myself But I’m still paying for your love, so send me the bill If karma doesn’t hit you first then I bloody will Verse 2 We can speculate, that God might be a woman And though sins may be forgiven You got a lot to take to take to confession I like to think The devil is a girl as well Honey be careful, we got it covered in hell Hell Chorus And yes I mean to make a scene ‘cos I’m extra as hell I’m a drama queen, you won’t fight for me I’ll have to do it myself But I’m still paying for your love, so send me the bill If karma doesn’t hit you first then I bloody will
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Bridge Can you hear that? Karma is calling Better pick it up quick she gives no warning You’re stalling It won’t be better in the morning Don’t sleep on it trust me honey karma is haunting you So tell me what you gonna do? When we’re part of a youth where lying’s the new truth Gotta find someone to pick you up before the current love falls through Chorus And yes I mean to make a scene ‘cos I’m extra as hell I’m a drama queen, you won’t fight for me I’ll have to do it myself But I’m still paying for your love, so send me the bill If karma doesn’t hit you first then I bloody will
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Helen First came the woman and then the story or maybe it was the other way around the name danced on the lips of the people pouring colour into the sickly blank marble. The travelling men of the western coasts of Turkey cannot tell me of Hector of Achilles of Priam of Agamemnon cannot tell me of the blood drenched dust lowering into the throat cannot tell me of the burning sage winding through slumped bodies the air thick, heady, humming: they scattered the great plain of Ilion. Yet when I ask them of her they can pull their hands together and carve vulgar arcs in the air, leering. The face that launched a thousand ships crooned the nurses to the girls the women to the sisters the mothers to the babies
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you see, in the beginning, stories were only carried by voices on that purple-threaded coverlet did she spread her white legs for Paris? Weaving, weaving wool weaving words weaving tales she stitched herself into the fabric of the story Helen, the bitch (κύων) Smelling, smelling like sweat smelling like sex smelling like the soft yellow marjoram her mother would brush into her hair. First came the story and then the woman her shoulders bent over the loom her neck glowing in the dark of the chamber she blames herself.
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FUNKY LIVING A PLAYLIST Got to Be Real- Cheryl Lynn Music is My Way Of Life, Dr Packer Remix- Labrats, Lisa Millett About Work The Dancefloor, Edit(Hey You) The Rock Steady Crew- Rock Steady Crew
Georgia Sunny- Boney M.
Finally, Edit- CeCe Peniston More More More- Dagny My Lovin’ (You’re Never Gonna Get It)- En Vogue Gotta Let You Go- Dominica
Levitating- Dua Lipa Last Night a D.J. Saved My Life- Indeep Nyuli- Mim Suleiman Upside Down- Diana Ross Groove I Like- Veno Emotions- Mariah Carey 48
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“Well the universe is shaped exactly like the earth/ If you go straight long enough you'll end up where you were” -Third Planet, Modest Mouse
They hated canned beans and pasta with butter. And they hated the bitter taste of paracetamol and the plasticy tang of bottled water. So they held hands. They drank gifted port and ate mozzarella and marvelled at all the rabbits in the countryside. They both felt it, but they wouldn’t say it. They only cried when they were alone or, sometimes, into each others’ chests. In those days the warmth of tears was a comfort.
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The streets were empty, but they wouldn’t say it. Instead they went for runs in a nearby meadow until they thought their lungs might burst. They’d fall into each others’ sweaty arms and laugh and laugh and laugh the breathy release of holding. They ordered pizza and invited friends over and got drunk and stopped worrying. The friends stopped coming, but they still ate the pizza and held each other tight. They read books about medieval history and drank mint tea with oat milk and danced in front of the windows and looked at art and spoke Spanish and had sex. They felt scared and went to therapy and wrote in their journals. They tried to breathe. The emails got more frantic and the men on television started issuing commands. She opened her mouth to say it. She closed it and they held hands instead. At sunset, they liked to watch the ducks perform their nightly rituals. Head down, bum up, fish out. The light refracted off the water at crooked purple angles and she rested her head on his shoulder. And they felt it and they felt and they felt it. A man who couldn’t stop coughing ran by. They pulled each other closer and wondered about who’s eyes their children would have, and where they’d be able to afford an apartment and what they’d have for dinner. The ducks kept fishing, hurtling into the murky water with reckless abandon.
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Week 1 CORONA Like others I am sure, this week I have been finding it a bit hard to get out the door (to walk/cycle/run - safely)...but each time I do things are better. Last Saturday in Nene Park I overheard someone saying "the hardest thing is getting out the door" and made this little drawing - as it is something I have struggled with during anxious times...and have again this week found it happen again... Anyway...putting this on my window and remembering to keep forcing myself out. And for those in proper isolation, I hope there is the back door to gardens...or windows for fresh air and views. X
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the thing is whatever poem i write will be shit because i don’t read enough poetry and i don’t write enough poetry and i don’t have anything important to say but that’s never stopped half the men whose poems get published in anthologies and whose stories get told in newspapers and whose songs get played on the radio so why should it stop me?
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Back Inside Collage
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CLHQ
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Back Cover