Fruit Radiance

And she’s off again, dismantling the treasures from her sweet Camden bedroom. Postcards and posters peeled off, books taken off for light to shine on the dusty shelves. Staring at this four-walled shell one comes to realise how even the scrubbiest of flats can always become beautiful with human inspiration.

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I keep on dying, because I love to live

Happy Summer Solstice. Time to write something a little less mysterious.

As the years pass by I’m believing more and more in Vivaldi’s depiction of summer, and becoming less ashamed of enjoying the clichés. London was at a violent temperature yesterday – 34.C. Mosquitos have already made a dance floor of my legs: clusters of mini gunshots along my calves and thighs. Damn these hungry, inebriated beasts. I am forced to douse myself with fēng yóu jīng and sprinkle it on my mattress. I leave the tiny bottle open on my bedside table; hopefully the fumes of magic, anti-demon potion will keep the evil spirits away.

Each day we wake up as if we’ve been wearing thermals in bed. We are hot from the air and the weight of time, then we cover ourselves against the ammunition of the sun. Hot hot hot. Layers and layers of  chain mail.

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Chainmail, Amartey Golding

 

In the Four Seasons, Vivaldi writes of a summer that rouses our blood and our propensity for violence. Violence and conflict, like the friction of two sticks, rub sparks, make fires. That much we have seen in London throughout June. From terrorists mowing people down on pavements, hitting worshippers at mosque, to the fires of nightmares; not to mention the news that is overshadowed by the blazing headlines and the offences that never get reported by the public…

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Mafia Girl

exam hall to Soho
rainfall to ice-cream
scarf to scarlet dress

2017 saw the disintegration of the university.
The abolition of traditional restraints.
The radical redistribution of time and space.
The creation of new paints.

Sunny chaos.

Settings of rapid transitions paved the way
for the emergence of Mafia Girl.

She, the alleyway bridging the old town and new town, drifts on a raft.
Puts her hands in the water of time.

Unlike her brothers, her position is ensured
not through physical violence.
She pivots, laughing, in micro-degrees
between societal segments.

The silent buffer between the zig
and the zag of passing cars,
she saps the nectars of the world,
feeding her own honey jar.

The sweetness of this language
she will not translate
to the boroughs of people and ideas
that she connects and separates.

Mafia girl enjoys the gaps
between people configurations.
The very silence from which she drinks
leads to uncharted directions.

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Sutra of the Rain

The rain is green, a portal to China,
silver sequinned toes on Regent’s Canal.
The rain is serum transforming wrinkled faces
into pure leaves, backcombed hair and skin
succumbing to the climate
of a nightclub.

The rain is a carpet that fetishises
gravity and its contours.
The rain is under-sleeve visitations
wetting our understanding
of wetness. The rain is sand
pouring into the palm, making foie gras
with gutters and bodies and the underground.

The rain is a skewed compass
inverting the seasons. The rain is un-authored
pointillistic painting, artillery, shrapnel,
humanitarian crisis. The rain is the Earth
questioning the blood of her siblings.

The rain is a forehead salute, a search for meaning
on the high street. The rain is pavement suppression.
The rain is footsteps improvising
towards dryness,
nostalgia for the underwings of trees.
The rain is negative harmony,
people compression,
harmonising beings under brollies.

The rain is anonymising
tarmac,
window,
cycle-track,
eyes.

The rain is Iago,
the creature of insides.


Inspired by the incessant London rain and Robert Bringhurst. 

Marionette / Energy

Marionette

Knowing I’m a puppet
bobbing along the canal,
Someone’s pulling on the strings
controlling my wheres and hows.

I feel I have some say
on how to hold my arms.
Even at the mercy and sway
of unforeseen harms.

Rest assured,
I can resist
the forces in my wrist,
but not enough to break that solid grip.
Rotating fist.

Marionette overlord.
I can’t find you in me.
But, I hear your footsteps!
Pounding the balcony.


Energy

Somehow it’s much more simple
to style myself in ink
than play those notes,
and hear my voice
drowning
in the sink.

I’ll wait for notes – Enter my head!
– but hear these words instead.

I seem to love notes
less (much less)
than muttering words in bed.

Don’t get trapped within yourself.
I promise!
I’ll look beyond my eyes.
But really,
I feel much safer on the page
than in my musical lies.

I feel more present when I write
than when I play violin.

I feel like I can show the world
the girl that lives within

the spectacles and photographs
suffering from lethargy,
until words come to rescue her.
Dancing. Energy.


Since I read Kate Tempest
I can’t help but rhyme my words,
and structure them in rhythms.
Pretty chirping birds.

Sword and Dagger

Poise, bend, analyse

Tennis samurai,
orange-shirted tai-chi,
disciple with strong knees.

How to best move through the air
to get to where you want to be.

You have your Way,
I’ve my coffee (and cigarettes
zipped in my bag) it’s
all I have,

plus this green pen,
to fly through life
with the skills and brain
and body, we have
to get that ball
to hit your bike
parked in the corner of the world.

Poise, bend, analyse

Trace the process step by step.
That’s technique​! Joyce ‘Donato said
to the young soprano, ​Mix and mix
inside the stomach. Open!
The snake of air whose trajectory
must not, by unnecessary
bits in your mouth
and mind and body, be
encumbered.

Legato, le-gaaaaah-toe!
Legato vowels​, then ​go go go
and follow through​ be Ursula the
villain who is you on the stage,

for there is only true
and only false,
and everyone can see when you are true,
and everyone can see when you’re not you,

says, Tap-Tap-Tap​ the racket and the ground
going ’round the ball to contain it in two
worlds, but the ball just giggles
away, pulls her tongue out and says,

Hey! Hey!
Imma listen to the man,
so let me roll
and let me play!

Come ​ON​, yells the samurai
when he fails to shape the sky he wants.
Gotta listen to the man,​ says the ball, You see,
‘cos he wants his stripe of movement to fall​.

Maybe
he performs for me now? says she.

Stabs her dagger in the bench,
Smells her own blood’s stench.


Written to be read aloud. Inspired by a man practising tennis in Cartwright Gardens called Tom, and Joyce DiDonato YouTube videos. 

vélo-boulot-do-do // other word vomit

vélo boulot do-do
boulot do-do vélo

do vélo do boulot
do boulot do vélo

boulot de vélo
vélo de boulot

boulot de do-do
do-do de boulot

do-do de vélo
vélo de do-do

do lot de boulot
do lot de vélo

love de vélo
love de boulot

love de do
do de love

love de lot
lot de love

do love
love do

love
love

love

lol


a girl around LSE
carries great quantities three
offensive boring dams to
the current of her fighting
walk a snail-trail of droplets
whilst the trees falling sorely
out her hands save the trees don’t
let them go she thought as he
asked to help the dam problem
don’t leave twigs behind don’t mix
leaves up as she searched for her
silent library card


Glowing laptop screen –
my thirsty eyes in search of
a fresh cigarette.


General trivia

It was a few weeks ago that I had the idea of mixing both English and French in a poem, and wowee last night it just appeared out of nowhere from the depths of my difficult slumber. And when I started reading over this patch of unexpected word vomit I broke into a laughing fit, which has also never ever happened to me with regards to my writing. I’ve rarely written something this strange, so please share your thoughts about it with the Noggin.

The events in the second poem did not happen to me personally.

I’m not very good at Haikus. That one there was a last minute addition.


Endnote

Look after yourself and one another.
Take some time on your balcony.

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Ode to Exams / The Balcony

Hello exams.

My old friends.

I know what you do now. You change us.

You grab the frogspawn of the cosy pond and chuck it onto the ground like a bunch of black marbles. You take our friends away with a click of the spiky latch of the door by sucking the air out of their bedrooms; the only syllable I’ll hear from them and not even uttered by a human mouth. Continue reading

Three Word Experiments – 3 April 2017

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Puppy

Sometimes I feel like a tired, hungry puppy
Pulled at the leash to places in positions
That no longer make me look like a doggy.

Oh why do humans do this?
Can’t you see
I like to stand on four legs
not just three. Continue reading

Talk to me

I tried so hard the other day, but
The city would collapse.

Bridges severed
Lamplights shattered
Pavements splintered
And, crouching inside my mouth
Crushed by bricks, choked in dust
I am nothing.

I tried again the other day, and
I made it to the stage.

The whole town watched
The whole universe listened
I opened the wound
And we saw the little slice of pink raw flesh
That needed love
Space to breathe
And us to breathe with it.

But once again it slithered away…

Under our sleeves
Every time we move
We feel it.