First glass of beautifully smooth Remy Martin fixes the blues; the second one is liquid Lethe. Who needs reality. Home cooked poetry and performance curry married to discipline encourages confidence.
Remember 'woman must write, just write' said Cixous. Well Helene, belle Helene, de longue haleine, here are the words, words, words, wors, wors, wors, rows, rows, rows, dros, dros, dros, drows, drows, drows. Ah the power of three. Ha, ha Perseus, it's all yours. There you go!
Monday, 26 November 2012
All mechanical things are done.
There is nothing left in me now.
Laughter is a betrayal.
In which I want no solace.
Surrender is the imperative.
Raw, open wound into which
blows dirt, grit, spit, pain.
Into this vacuum, a new bedfellow
comes - joy thief of my years.
Friday, 2 November 2012
There's no voice more powerful than the first voice you hear but is it yours or your mother's? And when your mother's is gone whose voice is left?
The stars and I come out
And hang from up above
The stars shine down their light
I shine down my love
The perfect place to be
To watch you from afar
Do you ever see
How beautiful you are
For those who have a mother still, Allison Mooorer, 'The Stars and I (Mama's Song)'. Indulge your sadness for without it how can we know when we're happy?