132/2023

Crisis point now, in the
Launderette, dead flesh
Roasting in the dryer,
Flies on a carousel in
The deserted chamber,
Where we danced our
First imitation matrimonial
Ceremony, the washing of
The stained double sheet
In public, finally, and the
Sheet glass window out
Onto the Harringay
Sunshine after we’d walked
The few doors along to
Put our shared money
In the slot to celebrate.
Nothing now but the
Critical mass of hate,
Love buried like a
Hatchet in my head.

R 12/05/2023 20:06

Sometimes the past crowds its way into my mind, even though I’m trying to write about new things. Blame Taylor Swift. Blame the past. There were some bright lights there somewhere, but the now remains better and best.

I’m still only halfway through that transcription of computer poems into journal. It’s been a short but very busy week, and M and I are both so exhausted we both overslept this morning, and have no recollection of turning off our respective alarms. Cue swearing à la Four Weddings and a hasty breakfast and a wiped-out me driving into town to drop her off. Thank God A had already agreed to do my Radio Stradbroke show this morning.

Marina has made a brilliant video for Expectation, and there’s been a lot of gratifying feedback on the song (tune and lyrics) already. Have a watch. I love it.