well i rather embarrassingly got a cheeky video deleted off the private blog i have for the boy. do you think the moderators watched it first? how massively awkward.
Ok so my night out and talking to my sister’s friends have provided a lot of clarity on the readership of this blog. To provide clarity on the content, THIS BLOG IS MINE. I post what I post, and that includes, on occasion, some graphic descriptions/photos of my relationships. Not dissimilar, I might add, to thousands of other blogs on tumblr. I should not be hounded as the county’s easiest fuck as a result. I should not be judged. And I really don’t want to start moderating my posts in order to stop this happening but I feel like it’s heading that way. Just, ugh. SOME PEOPLE, INCLUDING ME, HAVE SEX. Can we just deal with that concept and move on please.
This is the desk I sit at
and this is the desk where I love you too much
and this is the typewriter that sits before me
where yesterday only your body sat before me
with its shoulders gathered in like a Greek chorus,
with its tongue like a king making up rules as he goes,
with its tongue quite openly like a cat lapping milk,
with its tongue — both of us coiled in its slippery life.
That was yesterday, that day.
That was the day of your tongue,
your tongue that came from your lips,
two openers, half animals, half birds
caught in the doorway of your heart.
That was the day I followed the king’s rules,
passing by your red veins and your blue veins,
my hands down the backbone, down quick like a firepole,
hands between legs where you display your inner knowledge,
where diamond mines are buried and come forth to bury,
come forth more sudden than some reconstructed city.
It is complete within seconds, that monument.
The blood runs underground yet brings forth a tower.
A multitude should gather for such an edifice.
For a miracle one stands in line and throws confetti.
Surely The Press is here looking for headlines.
Surely someone should carry a banner on the sidewalk.
If a bridge is constructed doesn’t the mayor cut a ribbon?
If a phenomenon arrives shouldn’t the Magi come bearing gifts?
Yesterday was the day I bore gifts for your gift
and came from the valley to meet you on the pavement.
That was yesterday, that day.
That was the day of your face,
your face after love, close to the pillow, a lullaby.
Half asleep beside me letting the old fashioned rocker stop,
our breath became one, became a child-breath together,
while my fingers drew little o’s on your shut eyes,
while my fingers drew little smiles on your mouth,
while I drew I LOVE YOU on your chest and its drummer
and whispered, ‘Wake up!’ and you mumbled in your sleep,
‘Sh. We’re driving to Cape Cod. We’re heading for the Bourne
Bridge. We’re circling the Bourne Circle.’ Bourne!
Then I knew you in your dream and prayed of our time
that I would be pierced and you would take root in me
and that I might bring forth your born, might bear
the you or the ghost of you in my little household.
Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed
but this is the typewriter that sits before me
and love is where yesterday is at.
I have ruined relationships for fear of ruining those relationships.
Still the days are boring here and I can try to convince myself of other causes until the cows come home but ultimately, you’re not here. You said yourself, you’re at loss as to what to do without me. And I try to pass this off as a non-committal thing (we’re only 20 for Christ’s sake) but I’m going back to Uni early to see you and I need you as a part of my day.
“… to have kissed
your mouth with the force of language,
to have spoken your name at all.”— Greg Watson, The Distance Between Two Hands
Anybody else in the UK massively annoyed that the two panels in the University Challenge final were entirely male? Ironic, considering one of the Colleges was entirely female until 20 years ago and was a huge advocator for the advancement of women in academia, and also that the woman presenting the trophy was a queer/feminist theory novelist.