Musik: Alejandro - Lady GaGa
Kleiden: Actually in my PJs right now...
Filme: As before, no new films recently
Buchen: Hannah Goslar Remembers by Alison Leslie Gold
This weeks writers group was hosted by Matt Black rather than Vicky, since she was on holiday, so obviously we did poetry. The brief was to write a self-potrait style poem made up of metaphors or lies (based on the idea that poets are liars). I quite liked mine so decided to post it on here.
Trains
I am a steam train sighing with weariness;
I have few passengers and even fewer have paid their fares…
Yet still I trundle on, wishing they were gone -
Perhaps they’ll be caught at the ticket barrier.
I’m red so don’t touch me,
The paint is still wet, sticky
But there is a thick layer of rust to be covered-
For I am weathered by the angry pistols of the sky.
Nothing is related to me; I am the last of my kind in this sandy desert…
As I yawn I swallow the dust and choke, choke, choke,
As a child I travelled straight and true, until I was derailed;
I lived in Middle Earth but was expelled like a noxious gas:
One day I shall expire entirely and be replaced
By gas powered trains that use no steam.
28 June 2010
27 June 2010
Too Hot
Musik: A La Mode, A La Mort - Angelspit
Kleiden: 60s-type top again with demin skirt and black lacy leggings. Basically whatever I could find on the floor when I got in this morning.
Filme: Silence of the Lambs (Demme)
Buchen: As before.
I'm going to whine about how much my face hurts from walking into a glass door, for starters. Pretty hilarious, though. I suppose.
I decided I'm going to experiment with surrealism for a while. I've tried stream-of-conciousness poetry and these are two of the results; the first is called Too Hot and is kind of nonsensical but it's pretty. The second is called Hayfever because I suffer greatly from it this time of year.
Too Hot
Too hot, too hot, too hot
Much too hot
Reality is slipping off, off, off
Reality’s slipping off of me
It’s melting down my face
My eyes, my hair, my teeth
Fall into my palms
With nails through them
For all that I have sacrificed
An antique cross
Oh, agony, agony, agony
Blood everywhere you look
The plants are bleeding
Crimson, soaked with it
Who was it that hurt you?
Whose blood do you weep?
Tears are salt
Tears compose the sea
Stop pestering me, stop pestering me
Like a tattered corpse
A zombie bride
Have you no pride? Have you no pride?
You are my shame
Shame, shame, shame
I shall prove to you
What real blood looks like
I’ll slash my arms, my legs, the skies
Even the skies are weeping for me
Little white specks
A million of them all coming together
A mass of hell, a mass of hell
So you are pure?
But how can you be sure?
Soft, virginal, dressed in blue
And bearing a screaming child
You bear me screaming
Clutching to the dregs
That weigh down my tea cup
A grim, grim prospect indeed
Doctors glaring down at me
I’m young, so terribly young
Then not, and kissing a pair of lips
That want more than just my lips
Roses frozen completely
In liquid nitrogen tubs
Wanting love, wanting love
Wanting hate, wanting hate
Lying still as death, as death
For hours and hours and hours
Pretending that I am dead
And a coward, a coward, a coward
Tears are salt
Tears compose the sea
Look at me! Look at me!
Fucking look at me!
Hayfever
Achoo, Achoo, Achoo!
Reeling, reeling
Closeness, rubbing desperately
Pain, stinging, watering
Running again from the nose
Quench my thirst
Like a dry bracken thistle
But too late…
Achoo, Achoo, Achoo!
Terrible throbbing in the skull
Unable to breathe
Tissues, tissues
The eyes again, again
Oh, exhaustion
Achoo, Achoo, Achoo!
Taking too much out of me
Restless, restless, restless
Streaming…streaming…
ACHOO!
Medication
Soften the blow
It cannot go on
Adieu
Kleiden: 60s-type top again with demin skirt and black lacy leggings. Basically whatever I could find on the floor when I got in this morning.
Filme: Silence of the Lambs (Demme)
Buchen: As before.
I'm going to whine about how much my face hurts from walking into a glass door, for starters. Pretty hilarious, though. I suppose.
I decided I'm going to experiment with surrealism for a while. I've tried stream-of-conciousness poetry and these are two of the results; the first is called Too Hot and is kind of nonsensical but it's pretty. The second is called Hayfever because I suffer greatly from it this time of year.
Too Hot
Too hot, too hot, too hot
Much too hot
Reality is slipping off, off, off
Reality’s slipping off of me
It’s melting down my face
My eyes, my hair, my teeth
Fall into my palms
With nails through them
For all that I have sacrificed
An antique cross
Oh, agony, agony, agony
Blood everywhere you look
The plants are bleeding
Crimson, soaked with it
Who was it that hurt you?
Whose blood do you weep?
Tears are salt
Tears compose the sea
Stop pestering me, stop pestering me
Like a tattered corpse
A zombie bride
Have you no pride? Have you no pride?
You are my shame
Shame, shame, shame
I shall prove to you
What real blood looks like
I’ll slash my arms, my legs, the skies
Even the skies are weeping for me
Little white specks
A million of them all coming together
A mass of hell, a mass of hell
So you are pure?
But how can you be sure?
Soft, virginal, dressed in blue
And bearing a screaming child
You bear me screaming
Clutching to the dregs
That weigh down my tea cup
A grim, grim prospect indeed
Doctors glaring down at me
I’m young, so terribly young
Then not, and kissing a pair of lips
That want more than just my lips
Roses frozen completely
In liquid nitrogen tubs
Wanting love, wanting love
Wanting hate, wanting hate
Lying still as death, as death
For hours and hours and hours
Pretending that I am dead
And a coward, a coward, a coward
Tears are salt
Tears compose the sea
Look at me! Look at me!
Fucking look at me!
Hayfever
Achoo, Achoo, Achoo!
Reeling, reeling
Closeness, rubbing desperately
Pain, stinging, watering
Running again from the nose
Quench my thirst
Like a dry bracken thistle
But too late…
Achoo, Achoo, Achoo!
Terrible throbbing in the skull
Unable to breathe
Tissues, tissues
The eyes again, again
Oh, exhaustion
Achoo, Achoo, Achoo!
Taking too much out of me
Restless, restless, restless
Streaming…streaming…
ACHOO!
Medication
Soften the blow
It cannot go on
Adieu
23 June 2010
A bit of nonsense
Musik: The dulcet tones of my sister's oboe.
Kleiden: This checked dress, another of Vicky's, and black leggings.
Filme: STILL no film watching for me, as I had to revise today *blanche*.
Buchen: Still reading Let The Right One In...The Great Gatsby is on haitus for the moment.
Yesterday I went to see a new adaptation of Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland at the Crucible theatre. It was pretty awesome; an interesting take on the story. I was going to write a review but, as is often the case, I became much more interested in my own work! It reminded me of Carroll's nonsensical style of writing, and inspired me to have a go at it myself. Though, I then thought of another idea I had been playing with - the idea that words themselves only have meaning in context. Following this I decided to begin with conversations of a certain length, and then repeat the same phrases no matter what the situation throughout the rest of the story and see if it still made any sort of sense. The jury's still out on that one.
Madness and (the) Asylum
“Three red crosses…just typical really, if you ask me,”
“I didn’t. Or perhaps I did, but I didn’t require an answer,”
“Require! Well, that’s another thing entirely,”
Mulysa wrinkled her nose distastefully at the smell emanating from the delicate porcelain teapot, handing it carelessly to Sendam who drank the thick violently violet liquid with relish. The two of them sat at the head of the table imperiously; absolutely identical yet entirely opposite. Mulysa’s shocking pink head of hair curled down her back over her lacy, white nightgown and in one hand she clutched a small, beaten-up old teddy bear. Sendam cleared his throat whilst stroking his equally shocking pink beard, totting his tall yellow top hat to a passer-by who happened to catch his eye. Their guests were a rag-tag bunch of perfectly orderly misfits, each flagged by a disgruntled footman with a charming little dove grey waistcoat. It was an altogether splendid affair.
“Did someone say require?” enquired a somewhat distressed looking man to Mulysa’s right. He wore a polka dot one-piece suit, a red curly haired wig and a mess of multi-coloured make-up appeared to have melted down his old, wrinkled face.
“Someone, or indeed…if you require your subject to be a somebody you will be sadly disappointed yet equally gleeful,” Sendam replied.
“I see,” said the clown. Mulysa glanced at him furtively. She did not like the look of him one bit and said as much to Sendam.
“My dear sister…sister dear my!” he chuckled, but did not continue; himself giving the clown a suspicious once-over.
Mulysa was fairly sure that this clown was an imposter, for he didn’t look at all like anyone she would have invited. Come to think of it, she hadn’t invited a single solitary person to this so-called event. It was all Sendam’s doing, the dandy fool.
“I’m afraid that I am quite drunk,” announced an extremely pale woman in a large, extravagant wedding dress; a veil obscuring her face so that Mulysa could only tell that she had jet black hair which contrasted terribly with everything else about her.
“What a shame,” said Sendam politely.
“Goodness! Is that the time?” said the bride.
“Three red crosses…just typical really, if you ask me,” said Sendam.
“I didn’t. Or perhaps I did, but I didn’t require an answer,” Mulysa replied.
“Did someone say require?” said the clown.
“My dear sister…sister dear my,” Sendam sobbed expressively.
“I’m afraid that I am quite drunk!” the bride shrieked.
“Require! Well, that’s another thing entirely,” Sendam was now rolling around on the floor, in an ever growing puddle of his tears.
“What a shame,” Mulysa said, attempting to console him.
The bride and the clown looked at one another.
“Did someone say require?” asked the clown of the bride.
“Goodness! Is that the time?” the bride nodded.
“I see,” the clown shook the brides hand, smiling sinisterly.
Not liking what she saw one bit Mulysa said as much to Sendam.
“My dear sister…sister dear my,” he replied, having recovered himself from his bout of uncontrollable sorrow.
“What a shame,” Mulysa whispered conspiratorially.
“Someone, or indeed…if you require your subject to be a somebody you will be sadly disappointed yet equally gleeful,” Sendam explained his plan slowly and clearly so that Mulysa could understand easily.
She approached the clown, fluttering her long dark eyelashes attractively. She placed her teddy bear onto the table just to his left, upon which his footman placed a saucer of milk in front of it should refreshment be required.
“Three red crosses, just typical really if you ask me,” she told him.
The clown froze as though he had been struck a blow to the head. The bride rushed over to him, for there was now blood pooling out of every crevasse.
“I’m afraid that I am quite drunk!” the bride said fearfully.
“Goodness! Is that the time?” Mulysa said, Sendam appearing at her side. The two of them smirked gleefully at their victim.
The clown breathed his last words out slowly and beautifully.
“I see…,” he exhaled before ceasing all movement and words.
“I didn’t. Or perhaps I did, but I didn’t require an answer,” shouted the bride, as she fled the scene before any further damage could be done.
Mulysa handed the porcelain teapot to her brother, a satisfied smirk upon her face.
“Three red crosses…just typical really, if you ask me.”
Kleiden: This checked dress, another of Vicky's, and black leggings.
Filme: STILL no film watching for me, as I had to revise today *blanche*.
Buchen: Still reading Let The Right One In...The Great Gatsby is on haitus for the moment.
Yesterday I went to see a new adaptation of Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland at the Crucible theatre. It was pretty awesome; an interesting take on the story. I was going to write a review but, as is often the case, I became much more interested in my own work! It reminded me of Carroll's nonsensical style of writing, and inspired me to have a go at it myself. Though, I then thought of another idea I had been playing with - the idea that words themselves only have meaning in context. Following this I decided to begin with conversations of a certain length, and then repeat the same phrases no matter what the situation throughout the rest of the story and see if it still made any sort of sense. The jury's still out on that one.
Madness and (the) Asylum
“Three red crosses…just typical really, if you ask me,”
“I didn’t. Or perhaps I did, but I didn’t require an answer,”
“Require! Well, that’s another thing entirely,”
Mulysa wrinkled her nose distastefully at the smell emanating from the delicate porcelain teapot, handing it carelessly to Sendam who drank the thick violently violet liquid with relish. The two of them sat at the head of the table imperiously; absolutely identical yet entirely opposite. Mulysa’s shocking pink head of hair curled down her back over her lacy, white nightgown and in one hand she clutched a small, beaten-up old teddy bear. Sendam cleared his throat whilst stroking his equally shocking pink beard, totting his tall yellow top hat to a passer-by who happened to catch his eye. Their guests were a rag-tag bunch of perfectly orderly misfits, each flagged by a disgruntled footman with a charming little dove grey waistcoat. It was an altogether splendid affair.
“Did someone say require?” enquired a somewhat distressed looking man to Mulysa’s right. He wore a polka dot one-piece suit, a red curly haired wig and a mess of multi-coloured make-up appeared to have melted down his old, wrinkled face.
“Someone, or indeed…if you require your subject to be a somebody you will be sadly disappointed yet equally gleeful,” Sendam replied.
“I see,” said the clown. Mulysa glanced at him furtively. She did not like the look of him one bit and said as much to Sendam.
“My dear sister…sister dear my!” he chuckled, but did not continue; himself giving the clown a suspicious once-over.
Mulysa was fairly sure that this clown was an imposter, for he didn’t look at all like anyone she would have invited. Come to think of it, she hadn’t invited a single solitary person to this so-called event. It was all Sendam’s doing, the dandy fool.
“I’m afraid that I am quite drunk,” announced an extremely pale woman in a large, extravagant wedding dress; a veil obscuring her face so that Mulysa could only tell that she had jet black hair which contrasted terribly with everything else about her.
“What a shame,” said Sendam politely.
“Goodness! Is that the time?” said the bride.
“Three red crosses…just typical really, if you ask me,” said Sendam.
“I didn’t. Or perhaps I did, but I didn’t require an answer,” Mulysa replied.
“Did someone say require?” said the clown.
“My dear sister…sister dear my,” Sendam sobbed expressively.
“I’m afraid that I am quite drunk!” the bride shrieked.
“Require! Well, that’s another thing entirely,” Sendam was now rolling around on the floor, in an ever growing puddle of his tears.
“What a shame,” Mulysa said, attempting to console him.
The bride and the clown looked at one another.
“Did someone say require?” asked the clown of the bride.
“Goodness! Is that the time?” the bride nodded.
“I see,” the clown shook the brides hand, smiling sinisterly.
Not liking what she saw one bit Mulysa said as much to Sendam.
“My dear sister…sister dear my,” he replied, having recovered himself from his bout of uncontrollable sorrow.
“What a shame,” Mulysa whispered conspiratorially.
“Someone, or indeed…if you require your subject to be a somebody you will be sadly disappointed yet equally gleeful,” Sendam explained his plan slowly and clearly so that Mulysa could understand easily.
She approached the clown, fluttering her long dark eyelashes attractively. She placed her teddy bear onto the table just to his left, upon which his footman placed a saucer of milk in front of it should refreshment be required.
“Three red crosses, just typical really if you ask me,” she told him.
The clown froze as though he had been struck a blow to the head. The bride rushed over to him, for there was now blood pooling out of every crevasse.
“I’m afraid that I am quite drunk!” the bride said fearfully.
“Goodness! Is that the time?” Mulysa said, Sendam appearing at her side. The two of them smirked gleefully at their victim.
The clown breathed his last words out slowly and beautifully.
“I see…,” he exhaled before ceasing all movement and words.
“I didn’t. Or perhaps I did, but I didn’t require an answer,” shouted the bride, as she fled the scene before any further damage could be done.
Mulysa handed the porcelain teapot to her brother, a satisfied smirk upon her face.
“Three red crosses…just typical really, if you ask me.”
22 June 2010
Asylum
Musik: The Last Song I'm Wasting On You - Evanescence
Kleiden: This awesome '60s style top that Vicky gave me, denim mini-skirt and lacy white leggings
Filme: As before, not watched any new films today
Buchen: Let The Right One In - John Ajvide Lindqvist
The whole Emilie Autumn thing yesterday got me thinking...I have some friends who go 'urbexing', which is basically going to abandoned buildings where they take photographs and such-like. It's pretty cool. But yeah, in particular there was the idea of going to an abadoned asylum that seemed really creepy but interesting, too. I mean, there's got to be a lot of bad memories there. So, I wrote this poem about it as I do.
Asylum
A noxious stench
Congeals the air
Though it cannot be seen
I know it’s there
Yet can I know
With certainty
When forced to doubt
Every sense
I’m aware
Of fresh blood
Oozing everywhere
Along the bars
All down your chair
It tells of all the life you drained
It is a stain
You cannot refrain
From touching me
Can you
Doctor dear
I; your greatest love
I; your deadliest fear
Lock me up
In your asylum
Where you can stare
And let me
Let me rot in there
Tell me I’m quite mad
Plenty of evidence;
Bet you’re glad
In my spare time
I like to let the world
Overcome me, chill my spine
Then scream along
In thrilling sadness
At how very wrong
And bad
Things are
But not for long
You see
I plan
To leave here soon
Someday
When death
Can be no threat to me
What, then, do I have to lose?
I think as I stare up upon
The blackened sole of shoes
Kleiden: This awesome '60s style top that Vicky gave me, denim mini-skirt and lacy white leggings
Filme: As before, not watched any new films today
Buchen: Let The Right One In - John Ajvide Lindqvist
The whole Emilie Autumn thing yesterday got me thinking...I have some friends who go 'urbexing', which is basically going to abandoned buildings where they take photographs and such-like. It's pretty cool. But yeah, in particular there was the idea of going to an abadoned asylum that seemed really creepy but interesting, too. I mean, there's got to be a lot of bad memories there. So, I wrote this poem about it as I do.
Asylum
A noxious stench
Congeals the air
Though it cannot be seen
I know it’s there
Yet can I know
With certainty
When forced to doubt
Every sense
I’m aware
Of fresh blood
Oozing everywhere
Along the bars
All down your chair
It tells of all the life you drained
It is a stain
You cannot refrain
From touching me
Can you
Doctor dear
I; your greatest love
I; your deadliest fear
Lock me up
In your asylum
Where you can stare
And let me
Let me rot in there
Tell me I’m quite mad
Plenty of evidence;
Bet you’re glad
In my spare time
I like to let the world
Overcome me, chill my spine
Then scream along
In thrilling sadness
At how very wrong
And bad
Things are
But not for long
You see
I plan
To leave here soon
Someday
When death
Can be no threat to me
What, then, do I have to lose?
I think as I stare up upon
The blackened sole of shoes
21 June 2010
Inspiration
Musik: Emilie Autumn - Shalott
Kleiden: This ancient orange top I bought in France when I was around twelve, light blue jeans
Filme: The Reader (Stephen Daldry)
Buchen: The Great Gatsby by F.Scott Fitzgerald
This is how I plan to begin every post (the film, by the way, being the last one I watched whilst the rest are all current). Don't ask about the German. Unless you want to, of course...
On Saturday I went to a Young Writers festival in Sheffield, featuring poets such as Matt Black, Rommi Smith and Dorethea Smartt. It was one amazing day - I was very inspired by all of the extremely talented people there. In particular, my conversation with Dorethea Smartt was very enlightening. I asked her for advice on how best to perform my poetry and she asked me to think about performers I admired and what it was that made them great. I immediately thought of Emilie Autumn, whom I went to see perform in March and found to be utterly breath-taking.
That's kind of the back-story to this poem I wrote about Emilie, eponymously named.
Emilie Autumn
I
What inspires me about you?
The theatrical abandonment;
The utter sincerity with which
You give yourself entirely
To the moment
As though every one
Might be the very last-
You hold onto it tightly,
You scratch and you claw,
So not a single second is let off lightly.
It is as though you and I
Were the only beings living.
And you stare blankly;
Screaming like all hell let loose,
Not caring that, in fact,
There are so many other people there,
Thinking the exact same thing-
That you are singing for them
And only them.
II
Your soul is laid bare.
You are naked,
You have not a care,
As the passion erases
Any shame that was there.
It makes you more beautiful,
More perfect, more unbearable,
More awe-inspiring, more intimidating,
More breath-taking, more shocking,
More melodramatic, more controversial,
More…more
More than I can stand.
III
There are so very many lights,
A magnificent set
Of a quaint Victorian asylum.
And the fantastical costumes,
Of corset, tights and garters.
The great clock of rats head
And the theatre mask you wear.
The shocking bright red of your hair.
Your girls; sexual and sensual.
The enormous exhibition of it all.
And I stand there mouthing every word
That exits your windpipes,
Marvelling as you play
With a demons aptitude;
An electric violin
As though it were a sin:
Oh sweet love, give me my sin again!
For I could listen for all eternity,
And never tire.
IV
I can only stare
And long for your confidence…
The way you just don’t care.
For I can claim it all I like,
But it is not so,
That the people’s eyes don’t scare
Me to the depths of my soul.
I like to bottle it all up;
And I don’t ever want to let go entirely
For I do not dare.
I can only stare.
Kleiden: This ancient orange top I bought in France when I was around twelve, light blue jeans
Filme: The Reader (Stephen Daldry)
Buchen: The Great Gatsby by F.Scott Fitzgerald
This is how I plan to begin every post (the film, by the way, being the last one I watched whilst the rest are all current). Don't ask about the German. Unless you want to, of course...
On Saturday I went to a Young Writers festival in Sheffield, featuring poets such as Matt Black, Rommi Smith and Dorethea Smartt. It was one amazing day - I was very inspired by all of the extremely talented people there. In particular, my conversation with Dorethea Smartt was very enlightening. I asked her for advice on how best to perform my poetry and she asked me to think about performers I admired and what it was that made them great. I immediately thought of Emilie Autumn, whom I went to see perform in March and found to be utterly breath-taking.
That's kind of the back-story to this poem I wrote about Emilie, eponymously named.
Emilie Autumn
I
What inspires me about you?
The theatrical abandonment;
The utter sincerity with which
You give yourself entirely
To the moment
As though every one
Might be the very last-
You hold onto it tightly,
You scratch and you claw,
So not a single second is let off lightly.
It is as though you and I
Were the only beings living.
And you stare blankly;
Screaming like all hell let loose,
Not caring that, in fact,
There are so many other people there,
Thinking the exact same thing-
That you are singing for them
And only them.
II
Your soul is laid bare.
You are naked,
You have not a care,
As the passion erases
Any shame that was there.
It makes you more beautiful,
More perfect, more unbearable,
More awe-inspiring, more intimidating,
More breath-taking, more shocking,
More melodramatic, more controversial,
More…more
More than I can stand.
III
There are so very many lights,
A magnificent set
Of a quaint Victorian asylum.
And the fantastical costumes,
Of corset, tights and garters.
The great clock of rats head
And the theatre mask you wear.
The shocking bright red of your hair.
Your girls; sexual and sensual.
The enormous exhibition of it all.
And I stand there mouthing every word
That exits your windpipes,
Marvelling as you play
With a demons aptitude;
An electric violin
As though it were a sin:
Oh sweet love, give me my sin again!
For I could listen for all eternity,
And never tire.
IV
I can only stare
And long for your confidence…
The way you just don’t care.
For I can claim it all I like,
But it is not so,
That the people’s eyes don’t scare
Me to the depths of my soul.
I like to bottle it all up;
And I don’t ever want to let go entirely
For I do not dare.
I can only stare.
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