Note to my publisher

I don’t want to be that

sad spinster in the attic

parallelograms of sunshine dissecting

her heart’s labour

over which she sips tea and dips biscuit

carelessly and now there are

crumbs all over the page

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Mushrooms squeaking in a field of teeth

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there is no such word as unseeing
but I wish there were.

Angor animi
killing each other
what’s that all about filling and killing?

youre teeth are hard
youre about to learn
something about me youre
about to learn something
about me.

difference
tring   first dust

go on, last post
bed post
back
neck
dogs on the floor
pick up that wrapper
it says ‘switch/solo’
I did that.

there is no such word as   but
maybe not.

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What are trees made of?

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biscuit worlds and biro smell

I am in a town called Linda. The sky is the same colour as the ground and the roofs. The man sitting opposite me ate too much at lunch. I am guessing this is the reason that he has unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his fly right there in front of me. We are driving through the countryside, cutting across the dense trees pinned to the ground like a mass of quills on the back of a porcupine.

I hate to be cliché, but I can’t help it. I am a teenager in a woman’s body, and the cliché of being cliché stifles me like a wet sponge. You write a metaphor sometimes, and it is dead on the page like an image of a corpse. When I say a tree is like a quill, or sometimes a trumpet, or sometimes a crooked old man bent double by time, or sometimes whiskers or foxes’ or rabbits’ tails, or a stripper’s legs, or a dense funereal entourage following the coffin of someone well-loved, or a buzzcut, or a billowing petticoated skirt, or a peacock’s tail, or zebra’s legs, or a lollipop, or fine rain, or tangled hair, or thrashing octopus arms, or a church spire, or a bearded face, or a silent winter, how can that be so evocative? Surely the closest thing to a tree is a tree, not a quill or a trumpet or a man bent double.

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Mono no aware

 

My grandmother (approaching infinity) meeting my first kid (2 weeks)
My first kid (two weeks) meeting my grandmother (approaching infinity)

(I’m spending less time on posts these days as I’m kind of busy, and I’m hoping that writing the ideas down in an experimental way at least will help to solidify certain things in my mind. I haven’t bothered researching anything or backing up my ideas with actual philosophical foundations, but we shall see whether life goes on in the absence of lofty quotations. Expressly: standards are slipping.

“I’m also trying to enter more narrative into these whatever they ares,” she said, putting down her espresso cup, laughing in irony at all of life, teeming outside her cold silent writing room, that she is attempting to capture at the expense of experience.)

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