unless it's fictions

i have a bit of a thing about kitchens at the moment. i think it's because i spend so much time cleaning mine.

The kitchen is a six-foot squared box of utilities James does not know how to use. He contemplates the science of it all; of ovens, kettles and tumble dryers. The unseen processes which occur within them to make them work, like a body. The image of his mother at the stove superimposes itself over the scene, stirring a saucepan which boils steamily at the closest hob. He marvels at her magic.

i am having fun in my life.

(a haiku)

everyone thinks you're contemporary but i think you're an avant-'tard

i wish there was a
postmodern theory for your
pretentious bullshit

i'm back, i think

small apples

on a lunchtime squeezed
between vinyl LPs he saw
them together and said she
looked dour, with a frown
that would taste sour
like small apples,
puckered and brown.

comforted by the concern
of his angry words -
“i could have killed him”
made moralities blur, as
i practised my sneer
in the rear view mirror
thinking how nice it would be
to soften in the sun.

the best thing for you would to be queen, so be queen

i am alive. i worked a lot, created bonds, had an affair, wrecked a home, got fucked around and left alone, bought some arts and crafts in a disused mill, got a tattoo of a raptor on my wrist, became ill.

there was a time when every day was marked on the calendar which hung on the wall above my desk. blackly inked X's told me what to do and my energetic, organic flatmates herded me into a pattern of how to be. i drank strong coffee and spread rumours inside my head to pass the time.

i am an angry young woman, i think.