Catégorie : Écriture libre

A Murder

They call it a murder

But no crow will harm me as much as an omitted breakfast of a snowy morning

When the warm oat milk is leaking from the cup along my frozen thumb, too numb

to press the doorbell.

But oh ah, imagine your face – and mine – if ever I had intruded your house

The stairs, the carpet soon covered by the white pain

To scrub at midnight when the foxes are foraging the garbage and drinking from the teacup

Look – there is a penny in the cup,

The fairies must have brought it from the land of apples

The same apples that fall from their trees, rotten

Consumed by the frenetic ants and the wasps

Filled with the venom that –

I got distracted

I was saying, the house, imagine

The roller-skates to climb over and the multiple doors to push until

Until I see the white body, meaty, of a lady

Is it a lady or should we serve her with the roast on next Thanksgiving?

You tell me, I’m not hungry anymore

I don’t have any merci left

The pastries are stale and the milk turned sour

My stomach is rising in my throat, asking for a place to rest

Outside my body outside the house

Would fly to another star with Elon Musk if he wasn’t that grim

Instead I keep it tight, need each of my organs together before I explode

All over the place

Will save the time by filling the holes the insects left in the walls

My legs are spinning like a mad carousel, are the kids on my back gonna drop like dead flies?

At least they would certainly stop waving at the wind

The bonfire

The bonfire is burning since 7pm. The faces of the men singing Sniper, are hiding in the shadow, left to find by anyone joining the night. You’re here, but no one notices you, you’re underneath the bright sun of the fire, you’re the embers. Grey and white, refined as a pile of burnt bones, a powder that the women would apply to their foreheads in the bathroom of a dodgy club in Essex. The bonfire is big, big enough for the whole village to dance around, the underage drinking from the bottleneck as if they were sipping breast milk for the first time. As lonely as a newborn you feel but oh, even a newborn is taking are of. Do you want to be a newborn? Opening your mouth to the smile and the milk. You never had the pure beverage, your mum was too tired, she said – I cannot. The embers cannot say I cannot. Their purpose as ashes is to celebrate the Leo getting up above Earth. Oh look at this majestic figure rising upon you, the face of the joy, that you can’t provide. I always thought that the great ashes would spoil the mood – am I wrong? You’re here, all grey and depressing, looking around, asking for anyone to save you. Do you think a sailor will come to pick you up? No sailor would be in any need of some dirty dust. He’s already trying to get rid of it on his dinghy. I was saying, the bonfire is shining and you can’t suffer it, you’re choking from the heat it creates. Think about it though, without you the fire would be a spark in the dark, a flame in the night and would be gone forever at dawn. But oh you, you want to last forever eh. You want people to rest their heads near you, when they had enough dancing and drinking. You want them to rely on you when they’re feeling the most vulnerable, when they’re asleep and can’t move their pinky toes. The bonfire is burning since 7pm. But you want to be significant enough to last until 7am. Fair enough, who doesn’t want that? The embers will never repose.

5 gr

_

Beside you I would hatch from my egg

A dinosaur egg,

adorned with an orange and white snake pattern

_

Beside you I would scrutinize the world like a meerkat

Do you know they have clear eyelids to protect them from the dust

while they’re digging?

_

Beside you I would swim into the silky canal at dusk

to catch the wee Spanish ball

_

Beside you I would lie down on the grass and

watch the royal poodle

or should I say the beauty dog

becoming a foetus

becoming a man on his back

_

Beside you I would be warm

under the curves of your eyelashes

long, so long, they cover me like a blanket

_

Beside you I would eat a chicken every day

and all the slushies of Clapton

_

Beside you I would turn into a giant

wearing 1 2 3 pairs of Crocs

_

Beside you I would be pregnant of my own life

and I would blossom

every morning

beside you

Sweet twat

–

Driving me insane until I don’t remember even my own name,

Until the gods cry a river on our heads

Until I’m drowning in your filthy flower pattern bed

While there is no sad chicken on the wooden table,

only the pickles on the pizza

and the hand in the pocket

and the odd man playing golf in the snow with an orange ball

that you can’t see

as you can’t see the way I’m looking at you

It’s easier to believe that nothing matters

because everything does

from licking the salt lamp to riding on your back

it’s not trust it’s foolishness

You would turn a fruit absolutely nut

despite the shape of your smile

and the sharpness of your eyes

despite the goosebumps on my forearms

and the kiss on my nose

despite the poems you recite

the spoonbait, the gangbang and the catkin

And the dogs, they make you happy the dogs

Until they bite my ankle like you did

not with your teeth but,

with your tongue

with the words coming off your mouth

Misleading me as you would do with a child

like the five one you killed for me to be trapped

Until I break the spell you’ve cast on me

Lettre à x (en anglais)

He was looking around, puzzled, as if asking to himself why on Earth he was in her bedroom. I mean, fair enough, that was a good question, she wasn’t sure neither. None of them had the answer so they pretended it was absolutely normal and she opened the curtains to show him the bomb shelter at the back end of the garden. The snow was covering it, like a dusty white powder, like cocaine. Slightly less exhilarating though. Later on, he told her that he was feeling empty, that nothing would fill the space inside him, not even listening to Molchat Doma, not even eating a garlicky urad dhal or the anchovies from a pizza, not even sitting on a bench in the sunny park, not even her. Firstly she was offended, because of course she was already planning to fly to Moscow and Sligo, to read the books at his mums, to teach him some verlan over a croissant filled with cheddar and raspberry jam and to hear again his voice through her phone when he was drunk in the bathroom. But suddenly he was another stranger in the world, someone she would probably struggle to recognise in a crowded pub, or like a ghost we prefer to avoid.

The man with a frog

_

There is no spark,

simply the darkness

of my scattered thoughts.

But wait,

is it a frog in those man’s hands?

_

Surely the world

is not such a dark place

if a man can hold a frog

in the streets of Dalston.

Various statements (both true and false) about myself (to be pronounced MEself)

_

Hot tough chick riding BMX in Glasgow

is looking for someone

to share taramasalata and vulnerability.

Sweet babe with a harelip and a broken pinkie

is seeking validation

from Irish losers with commitment issues.

Wee lassie with strong foreign accent

wearing tiger printed fleece

is ready to be emotionally detached, standoffish and sober.

Little forlorn fairy

wants to stop pretending

that eating a full bag of honey coated peanuts

is not to fill a gap,

and actually fill the gap.

Half savage half sensitive bird

is willing to talk about stand up comedy and Soviet literature

(Russian speaker is a must, comedian not so much).