Friday, 8 February 2013

voice : documentation : Prue

When you read
your reluctant cunt
poem I find it
erotic:             all mystics
are brown she says
& I check my privilege
with a big white smile

& the problem with getting involved
with a witch doctor ethnic-box-ticked
kind of woman is she says
I want you
to be the
grinning skull
of my ritual;
hair washed in Malbec
& alcoholic tannin
dictionaries &
soon enough we’re in
on Wednesday nights
planning how best to
queer her outfits for
the trendy poetics

which has evenings South
of where she’ll go with me
but even if it’s egotism were
we to mix like a compass
breaking on the pavement
& resolve this mess in undress
it’d be fucking wonderful

I drink a lot of
cheap wine today
to forget who I
would really like
to fuck            and last week
his heart was the Tooting street
outside against mine beating back-
to-chest  with this London
historic palpitating all ours to hold
like being 21 & aesthetically
all this sameness
with hair colour nostalgia

oh baby                      --- why do you resent me so?
I just can’t leave you alone
you suit these stanzas like
a well-fitted three piece
& if I were all stone & compacted fat
do you think we’d flirt like fingers
type-writing Steve McCaffery style
because I’d like to redo the communist
manifesto between your fingers & more

maybe have a carnival all our own
if we’re prepared to cut between the
papers & make mistakes like Alice did
when she played secretary in an
elaborate game of sleep deprivation
& secretary/boss

& while I still  would prefer to be the poodle
Eley is drinking blood somewhere in Twickenham
Nisha is deciding on a new London locatedness &
Emma has forsaken technology for her fabricated
Northern living                      coal fuelled & bleak 

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