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33 days until enlightenment begins
✚Dickie bow and pearly whites,
Skipping unto August nights,
Ripe red cheeks, flowing locks,
Dipping toes into the docks.
Showing ankles, leather shoes,
Air-trombone, smoothing blues,
I leant in to, oh nevermind,
Saving questions, for other times.
✚My chewed fingernails, torn hair,
puffy eyes, torn hair, torn hair,
To where do we go from here?
Belt tugs and flimsy shrugs,
your summer skirt, flower in your hair,
that flower, in your hair.
Poseidon rose and we were drowned,
damp and in the lost and found,
found, and lost again.
✚Chelsea I hate you
✚
Bon Iver is oiling the weathervane, which has been squealing in these spring winds and frightening the dog. The sky behind him is richly red, an odd color, unsettling. We know the storm will rattle the house tonight and we will hold each other close as the trees groan and toss. He calls down to me from his perch on the roof. ‘I don’t need this old rooster to tell direction,’ he says. ‘You’re my compass. You’re my everything.’
- Classic travel literature
- Notepad for my new novel
- Fannypack
- Jean shorts
- Flannel shirts
- Boxers
2 months today and I’m leaving England for 11 weeks
✚Yearn to flirt,
Mouth moves like an extrovert.
Feet move like a ballroom dancer,
Gin and tonic, solid answer.
Pirouette and grind some thighs,
Babble verbal exercise.
Hallway, stairs, dirty mattress,
Burning up like scratching matchsticks.
✚Bought a plane ticket to Portugal, going to live there for the summer, pretty rad
✚I can’t wait to get out of this flipping country
✚The only time we know we are truly alive, is when we are killing ourselves
✚✚the space between your lips
makes words which change the sun to neon
bleeds color into worn out photocopies
scratches the finish on old photographs
makes timeless aphorisms seem almost relevant
when painted across the walls of battered old houses
I march to your cascading phrases
swimming into the current with my words
quickly running out of breath
fortunately your sentences are oases where
I can rest in the soothing tone of your voice
the rhythm of your heart lulling me to sleep
We are trapped inside our own heads.
Brain cells.
We are controlled into limitation.
Walls of our mind.
Do my body and soul work together?
Or do they wage a war of wisdom,
Burial is my afterlife,
Save the heavens for the children.
Save the world, that dream is dead,
Young, and wild, and not so free,
Caught in a fatalist one-way society,
That’s not the road for me.
✚When you go through a period of writer’s block, as a writer, it is like temporarily losing a limb. For a while, my life felt saturated with shit, my senses were bland, things were ugly, smells were bland, tastes were lacking, I didn’t want to talk or listen. It all started with a girl, a horrible girl who I had the misfortune of knowing, and it ended with sausages. As the sun arrived for our little British heat wave, my friends and I headed to the park, where I cook way too many sausages, and strolled around offering them to strangers sat near us. The sausages smelt great, the smiles of these people, and the warm kiss of a late march sun seemed to lift me from the depressive state I have lounged in. The writer’s block seems to be over, and a host of great ideas have come streaming into my little bonce, I can’t wait to write some down and share with you.
I apologise for being a pariah, I hope my poets and pals can forgive me, it is a curse most of us struggle with at one time or another.
Thank you.
Gully
✚