sometimes
I feel like a priest
in a fish & chip queue
quietly thinking as
the vinegar runs through
how nice it would be
to buy supper for two

ROGER McGOUGH

I have no imagination. Except my own life.
However hard I try.

Finally, I managed to convince you that my mind wasn't the finest place, and that perhaps you should shift on to paper. It would be far more permanent, in any case.

And yet, last night, like a cat that always finds her way back home, you crept back in. And then enticed me with words from the past, when you knew I was asleep and least careful.
You do know the slaughter of sleeping persons is never sanctioned.

Its been the strangest period of my life. I don't believe I belong anymore.
There have been wonderful songs in black and white that seem kind even when they talk of heartbreak.
There have been songs that spread themselves through genres.
Yet in the end it seems to come back to silence. Those uncomfortable silences.
And then my own voice seems like it has no belonging.

Except laughter. Its the only part that still belongs. Perhaps because its the only part that can't be let off.

The Mad Girls Love-Song plays.
How do I manage to make so many of them up inside my head?

Side step note- Take this post a few years back, you should get some splendid grapes.

This too shall pass.

I hate love.
People in love are gross and icky like lizards in the rain.
And, so happy too.
It must be banned. Really it must.

Playground love is a lovely song.
It sweeps into my head and digs up stories of girls who kill themselves for reasons no one can understand.

If only your tongue had been kinder.

I feel very much like a weasel.


Weasel
Pronunciation: (wē'zul)
—n., pl. -sels, (esp. collectively) -sel,
—v.
—n.
1. any small carnivore of the genus Mustela, of the family Mustelidae, having a long, slender body and feeding chiefly on small rodents.
2. a cunning, sneaky person.

I press my mind to come up with words that will make a story, interesting.
All my mind offers these days is porn. And soft at that.
So soft, it almost has feelings.

There are no more tales of wonder or amusement or hands with leather gloves or girls with chests, not so flat.
plain text. no curses even.

Maybe we could be descriptive and speak of the rain and the wetness, and the joke that could possibly go with that.
Or of the pain that comes with the dentist chair.
Of childhood and the diaries that were kept.
Love.
Kisses like eating chicken fingers.
Of little people waiting.

Bullet pointed thoughts that can't be construed as sentences.


And, yet all my mind offers is porn.
So soft, its almost not.

The Wisdom of Whores.