Had the weirdest dream ever in which basically everyone I’ve ever known and loved and fallen out with showed up in a haunted house. It wasn’t the pleasantest dream while it was going on (there were also some mice and a couple of gory deaths involving parents), but when I woke up I sensed it could be in some way cathartic.
A Post-Fairy Tale
Blood and sugar
Spiked the hunger,
And hunger blossomed
Into a fever.
The slow treacly burn
Of basic desire.
And soon it was dark.
And then it was darkest.
And then it was darker.
Black and purple and green and blue
Deep red welts and a faded bruise.
Give me your fists will you
So I could stay its pummeling –
If just for this moment
But you say –
Give me your lips will ya
So I could kiss you back
Never quite got the hang of writing poetry. Despite my love for the genre, I’m a prose person all the way through. (I think because poetry requires not only a sense of musicality, but also a passion for truth, which I don’t have)
But sometimes I do make occasional, brave forays into the land of verse. And ah, there’s nothing like bad poetry to lift the spirits on an autumn morning, eh?
It’s on nights like this that I miss S with a ferocity that equals the shock and awe of romantic love. Then it passes.
The last words she said to me as she sailed out of my life (unwittingly) were: There’s no way we wouldn’t see each other soon, anyway.’ It’s been 10 years, counting.
Trying to rebuild a burnt bridge with A, in the form of a mini book-club. Reading Capote’s In Cold Blood. Great books always make me tremble slightly, to the extent that I end up not reading it at all. Let’s hope it ends happily this time, and I’m not just talking about the book.