Friday, 21 October 2011

I've been so down in the mouth lately that sometimes when I bend over to lace my shoes there are three tongues

'...a century back
a man could be driven mad
by a well-turned
ankle, and,
why not?
there is hardly anything as beautiful
as a woman in a long dress
not even the sunrise
not even the geese flying south
in the long V formation
in the bright freshness
of early morning.'

Today is a Charles Bukowski day for me. I have read the entirety of his book of poetry; You Get so Alone at Times That it Just Makes Sense rather than doing anything remotely useful.

Marjorie Cameron and Anais Nin.
Both women I've been thinking a lot about today. Anais was an erotic writer coming to prominence around the 1940s, I am eager to get hold of Nin's journals. As well as House of Incest (not as bad as it sounds), and Delta of Venus. Bit of heavy-duty, post-grad, summer reading. Anyone who calls themselves, 'the madam of this snobbish literary house of prostitution' is definitely worth my attention. Apparently, her and Henry Miller (Tropic of Cancer, Tropic of Capricorn) were both commissioned to write naughty literature for an anonymous man who was known as 'The Collector' with as much smut as possible. Delta of Venus is supposed to be the most risqué of them all. 

Marjorie Cameron was an artist, actress,and occultist. Both her and Anais were involved in Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome, (1954), a short film by Kenneth Anger. Cameron was cast as the 'Scarlet Woman'. I don't even know where to begin with this film. It is absolutely insane. The music is heavenly (literally), and everything on-screen is sensuous, psychedelic, absurd, and alienating. I might watch it again soon. It is STRANGE.
Such incredible, beautiful, and powerful women. I am not a RAGING feminist I swear.

I Ruminate Best at Night

I am bored so
I grasp at options at
Night when I am alone
Not physically, but consciously
I reach out for comfort
Your tiny heart beats
In its puny cage 
Matchstick skeleton 
You are so foreign cupped
Gently in my hands
My brain might explode 
If I stay in this bed
Or worse
I might crush you for 
Something to do
You always said nothing was wrong
Canvas and tea leaves and 
Niceties and endless nights
Of other people's success stories
190 minutes or so
In darkness, behind my eyelids 
There are mad fireworks in red 
When I open them there is still
Some red blinking light, only, 
It is a mere pinprick, a message
Good night, it reads
I will see you in six months
So remember to make 
Arrangements before you sleep,
Good night and Good luck.
There is no one I believe in 
The people most real to me are those
Who have been dragged about by their
Own people covered in their own blood
Which has been dry for some time 
Just like their hearts have been static
Make a martyr of those I could love
They will never be as vibrant 
As when they have fallen
Perhaps then they might 
Stimulate me when sleep
fails to find the switch to 
Anaesthetise what it should.

This was not a short story, nor is it a good poem, I apologise. Lynch is sexy and I don't care who knows it, I am going to watch the Elephant man now.

No comments:

Post a Comment