Saturday, July 13, 2002

Back again - just spent three days with the lovely Tess and now feel absolutely knackered but also oddly refreshed - a change of scenery is good now and again, especially if you live in Canterbury which is a nasty bad awful place that makes me write nasty bad awful things. Now what I want is a nice cup of tea and to sit down and write some more of Bleeding White Rose.
Speaking of tea, why are out great poets so silent on the subject? Always writing about opium, laudanum, alcohol, all excellent writing aids - but what about the humble English breakfast tea?? It deserves a mention, and I'd do it myself if I wasn't such a godawful poet who has nothing better to do with her time than clamber about during thunderstorms and get inspiration that I can't use which will end up driving me mad when it tries to splurge out everywhere. Nasty.
Anyway - BWR - finally my writer's block is unblockaged! I'm working on pre-Beth bits at the moment, a good excuse to get mopey and depressive. Writing that way makes me happy, odd aren't I? May try and beat some decent sense out of some of my other older poems that lay festering until I can't stand the smell and rewrite them, but also may not. Need to find out who I'm studying for next year and vainly hope it's not bloody Frankenstein. See - I can't even spell it and I already spent too long studying it. Going to go look stuff up, bye all...

Monday, July 08, 2002

I'm starting to seriously think that my muse (the unseen muse that is, not my mortal muses) has abandonned me and comes back only when I have bashed my brain repeatedly with chemical assistance. Perhaps the muse is just as in need of help to stay at a sideways angle to the rest of modern thought as I am, and so must emerge only when I am suitably inebriated. Here's the last thing I wrote. I'd altered my consciousness so much that I am not entirely sure I was still conscious as I wrote this, but nevertheless, here is my last visitation;

All those of you who seek to create some brand new world, brave new fantasy, all those of you who wish to hear the spirit of ageless muse and rabid beauty sing her symphony in their pallid mushy mind. All those, listen and be seated and be attending to the words which I bleed.
Lay aside the tortured rags of human cloth which swaddle your decaying bodies, you creatures of flesh and excrement, of light and passion. Cast you off those pitiful coverings that writhe together upon the floor. The cobra dances swaying swaying through its rush of blood and lust, simulating cunnilingus upon the air which moves its senses, encompassing all of love within its dance, it strikes. the venom spills, vomiting forth concentrated death from pearl bone jutting toothypegs. Taste of semen, taste of death, taste of bitter laughing primate love in winding sheets in sweating sleepless night and day in troubled times in peace in death.
Simulation of coitus, garroted trouser legs make love to one another in the dustbunny twilight of your bedroom floor, before the very eyes (what eyes I see no eyes, look closer you will see its eyes) of the creature lurking there to pinch your brain when mummy turns off the light.

Put out the light

Put out the light

Death of light brings life to creatures slurping in the shadows and the shade and the darkness under there beneath you beneath your pillows and your mattress and your springs and fleas.

In time all points converge, in time all that is you and all that is me and all that is every fucking shitting breathing manwomanchild upon this green earth will be the same thing, the same shifting ball of matter in the belly of the universe. In time all points converge, in time in space in you in me all light converges on, is scoffed down gobbled up, by darkness.

All those who wish to see to screw to lick the seraph of literary marmalade on literary toast to feed you to nourish your tiny parasite muse, all those - behold, rejoice. Eliminate all meaning, ensure no meaning can be inferred and so no meaning can be lost. Endure you no truth suffer no true lie to live, suffer you no scheme no rhyme no jostling roughened clauses

Absolute prose, fugue and symphony and song of winged purveyors of toast and marmalade of divine foods and skin to make divine handbags to keep all your ideas in so you can make a pigskin balloon of your brain in lazy summer afternoons to let the poisonned children play at ball and catch. Empty away your brain in the drain and fill your bag with ideas and arias and pure unfeeling unmeaning written writing.

Slumping boneless written depression courses wordless through sluggish purple bloody veins begging - A RELEASE! A RELEASE! - pleading, but no words dribble from your spurting handendbits and fingers and mouth, no words but discoloured things no sense no feeling.

Sudden funny unwooden furniture, you caress you break, why so funny? laugh at your own action and feeling and thought the search for mummy's silver watch is over, thwarted by inexplicably amusing formica.

Kafkatanation Burroughsismising Thomsponifying nullify nullify nullify all inluence and meaningfullness all borrowed thought all thought your own caress the alphabet your weapon of choice, directed flows have flattened down whole city blocks rest you now must go return behind your mask of truth and meaning. Emergence has been hard on you, rest now your tired nerves pulled tight as cheesewire cutting.

Sleep must come sleep like death in clouded robes.

Well what can I say? I'm hardly Byron. In fact, I'm barely even Polidori.... Now that's a sobering thought. Sadly I intend to write tonight, so sober is not really on the cards. Cheers.

Sunday, July 07, 2002

Home again home again jiggety jig, as they say. Journey was fine - I actually enjoyed it, and I had a really weird feeling coming into London, like this was where I belonged and I was enjoying the smell of the air. I wanted to stay underground too, it was wonderful there. If you ask me it was Johnathan rearing his exceptionally beautiful head and looking around, why else would I feel such a compulsion to go to Mayfair instead of going to Victoria Station and then home?
So I'm here. I have a funeral on Tuesday, and I've left File 5422914 at home which is Ok I suppose, I can rewrite anytime. I've been looking at some old poetry and wrote a second draft of "Ressurection Of The Living" which is slightly better. Will work on a third draft of one of the Sonnets (Inf. I, I think) and am thinking of making all the breaking-up-is-hard-to-do stuff into a series. Have a weird poem involving lots of broken glass and gravity going round my head and a really awful come-back-to-me-I-love you piece of trash that came to me in the bath. May write at some point. Will probably then burn, but hey...
That's it I suppose.