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Monthly Archives: April 2009

 

I AM PURE

I AM PURE

 

 

I’m dressed to impress as they say, brown leather jacket, hat, a dry face, a chill in the bones. I’m on a merry mission today making close contacts and then some. Wined to death and bad back bad headrest are the charms mixed up by the early morning birds tweetering away in the roof and the spiders on my arms. I went back to the beginning and began reading the past desperate for that one fire that will depress the rest and slay the sleeper. Doesn’t it feel as if life is just passing you by. The elections tomorrow the fuel, the end feels very very far away. I’ve come to believe I’ve no personal philosophy, I formulate snatches of conversations, books, magazines, songs, poetry, deep thoughts and not such deep ones but all I keep coming up with is the alarming fact that nothing works. Have a cult? Send me an invite. The only possibility of pills and powder that navigate the week so beautifully pull me forward. The decadence is the decay but so is the decency of the déclassé. I’ve successfully,I think, distanced myself from a lot of friends and acquaintances, and ya know what that means, but the hunger is still in the extreme. Essays and esplanades, maraud the minutes I have to wait for brief relief from this snake in my spine. I can’t stretch myself wide enough. I need to find an adventure or will adventure find me I know I just can’t sit here awaiting the sequence, nostradamus and refreshment to lead.

Birds nesting in the rafters

The smell of lacquer and afternoon Coffee on the boil

the daily toil the dust the love the light

I sit with a white woolen Jackson glove On my left

The hangover 3 days unslept

Just brief pauses in the night The nerves the past the fight

I read that I might just be the loneliest girl in the world, I wonder if they’re right.

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no nero

no nero

 

 

Head sore – saturated

From the bore dom dum

The kingdom cum the end

Of the line not this

Time my dear take

The pills the thrills that cheer

Reconstruct the bends

Navigate towards the pen

Write for tomorrow and

Think not of sin…again

 

Three little words was all it took, is all it takes. One body to believe, one mind to deceive

But sitting on the back of the van, feeling the warmth of the afternoon emanating from the man, gave silence the shoulder. I’m getting better, did you realize that? I’m taking the steps, shaky steps but steps nonetheless, am I to feel proud? Nervous? Brave? Totaled?  Ah the senses they can’t shut up can they. Well I tell you what when I got home, I didn’t need the light. I wandered out into the woods, near the lake, under the stars, and I lay on that bridge smoking my smoke and smiled up to Allah and said three little words. I thank you.

I’m not partisan to silent moments, lonely yes, but silence no. the brain is chattering, the sentences marionette like from the mind dance out the teeth, and only a sip of the old lager makes for an ounce of laconicism. Is that even grammatically correct. Aye think it just might me. How fast can you type? How fast can you write? I’m looking forward to the hallucination that is about to nauseate this young fin de siecle, no I’m not, its looming, it’s a date of death, bonjour dante, I read that dante is responsible for the Italian language. I have dante on my left arm, drawn by blake. These old heroes, these old tattered books that crowd my life, in my bag, under the bed, on the shelves, they are presently confabulating, copulating, cohabitating coke freebasing. Is that grammatically correct? The eagles woke me this morning, pulling me from the sheets the beer cans, the rizlas the pills, the deep deep slumber I found myself in. oh wonderful sleep thanks for visiting. Today there is a screening at a boys high school, truth be told, im fucking nervous. Nervous always of finding no kindred chickens to scratch in the sand with however I am generally wrong. There is always someone, there is always everyone.

late afternoon rosicrucian dream state collapse

late afternoon rosicrucian dream state collapse

I’m becoming incredibly slack. Slack in thought, slack in appearance, slack in action. I’m a half blood, half breed with no video camera, vice, question or answer. Big thoughts spiral in the sequence of release, entrap, snare, let go, forget and relapse. The first lesson they tell you is also the last. Heavan and hell, 7 stages of reaching either depending on your type of party, happiness or sadness, the giant melancholy, the small divide. My crown falls off. So I have a few school gigs coming up, an interview or four, the looming medicinal plant interpolating with the cadaver of my will. I snap and smoulder the dead wood in my eye, looking for a drink, thinking about the sounds of smoke. Elephant man visited a couple of days ago bringing a couple of hours of relief we drank jagermeister cheering the gods, questions and writings and tales of white sangomas and long discussions of the sky. The night before me writhing in pain, the night before that me writhing in pain. It eludes me how he scalps so deftly the root,hangs it in front of my face and laughs, ‘ AAAAAAAAhhhhhhhh Claire, be good girl, be stronnnnnnng.’ Yeah strength interesting concept that, like dropping me in the middle of the sudan, as foreign as a foreigner reading the signs on the back of the door in a ladies toilet. Mind over the matter my dearest, but this is a material world, right. Those thoughts that preceded us have been crushed and shoved and made askew. There is no time there is no space there is no contemplation left for this common race. So we indulge in our juniors mooch them as leaders and serve them a meager meal. The gauntlet has been handed over. I am not just a piece of mercy. Yes sir no sir. I can speak long and hard of politics. There is a fire inside, the guests are sweaty with the fumes, we bump into each other on the stairs, you pass me a small piece of plastic and all I can do is smile. Concussion, the third best feeling in the entire world. I’m running into walls on purpose, such is the absurdity and smallness of my big life. The words I’m told are evil, so is the music, so are these bad thoughts. I’m a condition. I deserve more. Been playing with characters setting them up on the table and shooting them down. Fifty thousand scenarios to plot, plan and administrate. Toy soldiers are these little glimpses, these damn jinns that need genie or genius to unlock. I am intimate only with you dear digital, for now. Soon I will have to resort to the living and then there will be no hope left for this world. I’m my own penologist and your kind comments steer for minutes the wounded deer away from the headlights. The truth is boring and I am no Nazarite.  

i feel as anne frank

i feel as anne frank

Oh oi  there dear god I lie, today was the most confusing and destructive, mangled, two timed dive of a day, thoughts flashing through the eyes, hands a tremble, the dragons claws on my spine. Mixed messages, friends phoning demanding that I help them because they’re staying in shelters, driving to Dr Jeewa’s this evening for relief from the shakes, my father is totally pissed off and mad at me all over again. I’m being labeled a dirty, fucked up shameful disappointment and the tears just run dryly down my face, hat down girl and keep on walking. What a to do…to die today a minute or two to two. Selective readings, no concentration, 3 books, 23 pages, I’m bored, ramble down to the nursery, walk through the fir trees and slam down a beer, so much zuma news, politics, heretics to consume, but its all drifting on by, I’m uncomfortable, people are staring at me. I try to jolly up, chin up but to no avail, the vultures are closing in, the sun relentless—back home on the bed, on the grass an awkward conversation, I’m out of here, can’t sit still cant think still, up the road to the dreary little hotel, and just now thankful to be the only patron of the entire place, slide another few down, and make the decision. I need drugs to get off the drugs that I am taking to get off the drugs that I was taking and now am still. You get? Heard of ibogaine? I came across it a few years ago, a natural detox from Cameroon, I think. Its um, an hallucinogenic kind of voodoo plant guaranteed to as the doc would put it, ‘refresh and rewire the mind’. I’m poppin in on Wednesday to discuss it, god knows I’m trying to do the right thing then why am I meeting with such resistance from those you gave me life, I’ll take it away, I’m not afraid to die today

pussinboots

pussinboots

 

 

I don’t know what to do about my mother. Along with the chemo pills I’m losing her to lunacy.  she is the worst version of herself and I am battling to love her. Well of course I love her but I’m ../. I did an interview on this Islamic station for an hour yesterday in sheer agony, god the sins of the body and all that, funny that the show was called Fools Paradise as fool I was but paradise it is not. Cruddy night of no sleep, tossin and a turning, like my mom and eye duckin and divin the cops yesterday on the numerous road marks scattered through town.went on a proper date last night, with this unruly impish angel, he gave me an ivory trincket oh the damn fine glorious art of conversation. I’m much indebted by his graciousness seeing I was like an old lady hunched at the bar, smoking a fag and trying not to throw up. All things considered I’d like to think I’m doing quite well at the moment, did I mention all things considered. Now if I could just get me mum to turn that frown upside down, keep my warped and disturbed addiction in check, write some damn cheque,s learn to fall in love and remember to wash all is well with the world. salut

 

in the garden of the stones

in the garden of the stones

I woke up to a morning that made me forget the past night. How simple things seem, bring money and due carrier brings me lenses, hand money over, obtain a small white bag, wait 7 minutes realize the lens is not returning and then head as fast as I can to the highway, how ambiguous. Arrive alive they tell you, I just want to arrive. Steeped to the brim with volatile juice, picking fruit, pictures in the fields, hot plates in the microwave, gravy is his adolescent self, snapping pics, laughing at my misdemeanous, all the photos I take are blurred, will I ever get the hang of it. Ive been thanked thrice times thrice this morning for my endeavours but how far is the conclusion I seek, the needle was present yesterday and I fell fast fell asleep on the toilet, a nurse helping me to bed, oh where be thee ibogaine. Full throttle and full life but asleep, a few steps higher than the elite. I ponder the return of the dragon man, the sun shines in my eye, the roses lilt their seductive scent up my nose where other murky chemicals and nirvana sit. Things are going well I’m told, I’m a centerfold I’m told. So many little girls are looking up and I in my sorry state lie and lie and lie again, not for me, not for self again but to make sure they never know the pain. And why is this so, dear rant, why separate the scorpions and ants. Because the ants they thrive, my old life must die and addiction must pull up its pants. Can I be a speaker for those dear souls who know but don’t know. Can I? Can I be a leader with a gold heart and forsake the black and the crack. But powder and dust, my will and my must, is fleeting and flighting untamed.

There’s a wedding here at my hospital on Friday, I must film and I must write love poems for those who can fold paper, fall in love and handle life in the adult lane. For your enjoyment I will print these to you dear readers, only out of self doubt, Helen Steiner rice eat your non tainted heart out darling, I am more lonely with you and more hysterical for writing this slosh

 

The last time I thought

About love

A butterfly closed my eyes

I woke on slopes green

I remembered what love means

A promise, a life with

My husband, my wife

 

The say new love grows on trees

But they’re wrong, love grows on thee

I see your reflextion

Your and my direction

And I feel like the birds and the bees

 

I used to think love would never

Hit me

An obstacle, a roadblock is love is she

Then the heavens they broke

And my heart duly stroked

Loves timely devotion

To thee

 

When I m not like you

You’re so like me

We’re forever, the horizon, eternity

When you smile mines a smile

But upside down

When you frown, I’m the

Frown the other way round

 

We’re weird and different

But how this glue binds

Two renegade hearts by her

Love defined

I know you’re my keeper, my

Believer, my life

I’m you’re seeker, you’re my fever

My husband, my wife

 

silicone face

silicone face

Walking on water, real time, gelatine and dark horizon, initiation and baptism, the trees shuddered and the night held off. Wakened by reason, when junkies desert you, tell you you’re looking better today than last night, then let you run out of a bar with a beer and get nailed by some slimy manager. I’m still battling to see in the early hours the point of sleep. I sleep yeah, I walk on water, I wake, I dribble the dreams, switch on the light and merely switch it off as it was on. The rooms are filled with wreck and ruin, cameras on the floor, bits of pieces of thoughts on paper, elephants, bubblegum balls, cowboys and hats. I felt the feeling yesterday again, its middle stomach, born out of fear I think, that nauseating nervousness, too many people are looking at me, pull the head down further, shades and a giddy step. The first words that come out are mumbled. The video is a foreign nationals flat and I can’t get it out. Muslim ladies screaming at me across a confused hall, I’m studying the mole on her cheek, tie my shoelace and begin again. Then the girls school and ghosts of clippity clap shoes, gurgles, giggles, wide eyed, hands on my tattoos, I slide across the floor and try to explain. 7 seconds and I’m stuck reading the Zimbabwean in a coffee shop, head even lower, coffee cup filled with gin, run back to the hills, light the weeds and wipe my face from the mirror. Things are getting better. Thanks for the support.