4openned

Others = me, Sophie Robinson. Please come and hear me read, I'll be on for a few mins towards the beginning of the evening.

mal au coeur part 2 - winter

Of she and - . The dodo of civilization, the Marianne of modern consequence, three of you in me, freedom birds lip “crazy”, [speech. open. pounds.] feel your new lunar pigeon pulse crookedly beat, you’re no skeleton-powered culture, no business modernist; one musty window, one don’t-leave December, down with the future, for Baedeker, for poetaster, ending bubble of ‘i’, in my world of you a death, spit up skyward for half an hour. Face it you’re a syndrome, and with that we divorce, mutated. Arrive in decay in astronomy in willowy collaged biography. Touch becomes unclear binary, becomes meteor found east of bones, genuinely greedy. “Oh NO, Never exaggerated, never my unfairly referenced hell, I of hospitals, I who sings daily with fools, NO never I.” Joy, furniture, my own bohemian grouse they are all disappearing – that is to say, this is me, this is me at my best, this is me in my best light, in my sporadic light, my one blonde flight, subdued wounded sickening, late elephante beauty lustre, your clumsy wingbeat too. Blood, cut-ins. A preadator with a sure, close art. Naturalized ungainly, got no bronchial starting energy, guess we’ve been disillusioned since 1980, comedy disambiguation misspoken in Paris, with 8 Leonard Cohen songs including the one that goes ‘you’re living for nothing now’, i.e. we’re both doomed. You’ve gotten a bit smug and wanky, kodachrome princess of the pavement, let’s go queer, knee-deep in Bardot mousse, looking at you, little slippery eel in a planetary blouse it’s like so mistreated, in your mid-sixties now and sleeping rough through fall of oral majesty. Cold-circuited almost out of London at the point where I was cocked ready for ambitious leaps into yellow-beaked love of a kind. Educated horizontally, hydrocephalitic with cynicism of all things, stealing expensive soap with you but those days are over, not even on the phone. “I want to fuck and it’s my big dick. I want to write and it’s my big pen.” Thrusting remnants of a mouth, living destroyed publicly and taking on the gravitational role of ‘Blow Up’, noire hurt prettiest on camera, a neurofibromatosis in forever – limited ‘i’ was tense in lyric. Caught you on film, serrated with fondness I stood holding pure glass energy, the sky and grass having just enough space for you and flightlessness, poverty and physics all depleted even now when we are just hypothesized remains. What January killed, February might understand. Dr. Beautiful in a bête blue bikini, our last commercial on earth, the quiver of estates frescoed tiredly on laundrette walls, gasping for your sake. $1 of junk energy, magnetic yolk theory of possibility, my morbid was digested apathy, an x-ray void, a blue-grey wonderland destroyed, arose fat with clik-clak urgency like pavlovians to your scent. Self-parody of day-to-day living, fiancé links feeling to river-bed aquaintance: Woolfian fearlessness. Option #2 is bourgeois comfort: brokenheart syndrome pizzaboxed and heated on category 8 for 13 minutes.

mal au coeur 1 - body

Beneath is BODY: fertile as totality, a sensory abdomen, your proton-pump progesterone dissolving into mine. Who owns the beurocratic everyday? Material inserted from her night [vultures etc] into my crampy world matrix. Psychosomatic [incomplete] you are often scientific but attempt, diffusely, to exist within pagan counternarratives. In this ongoing laxative world there is deniable communal dependence, as well as tequila to lighten the mood. Antacids to linger in two subjects of division, professor to my thrush of longing, hoarding 90-95% of my anxiety, implications that aim hollow in bars and pubs, part-artist and moving towards menopause. I would swallow the nonrepresented content of your Darko days, only to be happily senseless and performing sexual processes. Your killing hound-dog and your neutralized soul and your crushed pituitary gland, all gone. Copyedited interpretations of your thoughts, cached. Clambering over to express mainstream [dis-]taste, you’re just frowning, unfamiliar with the art of groping. That gallery, though, was apparently the place where you chose to digest “life”, - [yoghurt, aeroplanes, all that shit] – and your boyfriend too with his tender impotent PM identity. Heart is now a network of scorched hair and dust and my cybermenstrual hormones are clots in the tufts, rotting in the reproducibility of my own rage and fear, merely the consequence of everyday poison and excess. Over-the-counter grids of doubt and omission. You have designed every action-still of my disintegration, chaque jour a blushing crucifixion of caffeinated artistry. Dream of us on the bed, experimenting with sensation ‘b’ and regurgitating prayers onto the duvet, far away from gestures of the clinical [both my puberty and your whitish-grey shadow of a pregnancy filed under discrete subdirectories] germinating information as “faith” and bathing in the acid light of migraines. Swabbed like political witches, bookmarkable and “yeasty”, mistakes blot our soft Fridays. Small wet-body, made night-black, licked like Situationist candy. Body – body made from Teflon and seaweed-swaddling, 24 hour fibre people pricked by me and others. Bored of gross-outs and painful women. Alien tongue with a spearmint texture, fatty overtime fantasies, pillowhugging of course. In part would like to be neatly gone, no funeral-song or memory, in part would like to be grinding on buses or at least eat fibre products soaked in dull green dairy and really taste. Climax cut thyroid-wise, scratching out of own skin. And if I should return, washed up like some administrative necessity? Silent printer-friendly skin, a doorway of disgust, how HIV of you. Kneading incalculable flesh of us, stomping it into the ground – history, identity, all gone because there’s a live wire from calf to femur to kidney and lung, molar, pancreas, palate and cortex that’s buzzing you in neon and it’s never going to stop. Desire – as is – all [indiscreetness], actually closer to a thin strain of song.