Saturday, 31 July 2010

"Reach the city steps tonight,
following the power lines,
and your skin is so white
underneath the black night.

And your voice cries out
for the Coup de grace,
and the lights go out;
will there be a trace
that I love Silvia.
That I loved Silvia.
That I loved Silvia."

Sorry, just have to big-up these guys. Miike Snow. Amazing sounds. Also, Lykke Li, a Swedish singer. Her songs "Little Bit", "Tonight" and her voice in Kleerup's song "Until We Bleed" are sooo good. Take a look!

Friday, 30 July 2010


I'm so ooooold! Aaargh!

Link :)

Friday, 23 July 2010

Blackout poetry.

So I have some poems! Wow. This was really quite difficult to begin with - the blackout method (see post below) is not easy. You're constantly getting distracted by whatever it is the article is on about..! But after a while I got into it and started enjoying finding the story within the story. Here are a few that eventually ended up being extracted from the text:

research shows/ that 85 per cent of/ advice
has been/ Rooted in/ Acknowledging the facts/
from the comfort of your own home.


technology/ is called/
the/ bitch/ Drug/
of/ endless/ men/ in London.

Red hours.
Red/ hours/ wrote/ my/ trouble/
in/ to/ A/ letter/
you read/ it/
You knew/ i/ mattered/
But not/ how disillusioned/
i were/
you/ Red reader/
how/ Will/ you/ help/ me?

Holy Grail.

There you are. 'Holy Grail' and 'Technology' both came, believe it or not, from an article about cosmetic surgery. I also have another one, not posted, that was made from an article about a woman's obsession with food. I turned it into a 'poem' about her love for her grocer. You can get the strangest things by doing this. I'd recommend it to anyone. Even if only for the laughs.

Thursday, 22 July 2010

Austin Kleon.

Austin Kleon is a poet-of-a-kind. He 'writes' by blacking out passages from newspapers. Click the links to have a look, I've picked out some of my favourites.
Deborah reminds me of my KeyChild. Replace the name "Deborah" with her name, and we have an almost perfect description. I'm sure many other writers out there feel the same way. Home Alone makes me smile, cause I know exactly how that feels. And Fireflies is almost a perfect memory in a few words...
I've been challenged by my Little Black Book (a gift from KeyChild) to create a few of my own. Only problem is, I have nil newspapers in the house. Will a magazine do..? I shall have to try it and see. Some of my attempts will be up here soon enough, I predict.

Tuesday, 20 July 2010


It's smooth under my fingers. Dark red and faulted, the material is thick and heavy. Gold glitters under the lamplight. Ribbon soft, thread sharp, beads cold. Lift, tie, turn. Mysterious, beautiful, alluring. Wearing it I am someone else.


Sitting in my room, in the middle of the floor, and suddenly the house feels so big... Like a cereal box that's nearly finished, or a cupboard cleared of clothes for a holiday, or, well, a house emptied of all the extra people. Only 24 hours. Sitting in my room and it's hard to believe that the abnormal, once-in-a-lifetime, thoroughly bewildering event actually ever happened.
Mum's old pen pal has been and gone. The family of seven that followed her like a band of ducklings have been, eaten, slept, talked, and gone. The moment I walked in through the door to a kitchen full of strangers to the moment they piled into their van again and were gone seems like a lifetime ago. An influx of unknown bodies, a rush of German words, a museum-collection of mattresses, clothes and belongings, and then suddenly it's all over...
I think I managed about ten German words. Oops.

Friday, 16 July 2010

"A friend of mine grows his very own brambles;
they twist all around him till he can't move.
Beautiful, quivering, chivalrous shambles,
what is my friend trying to prove?"

"I shall call him Squishy and he shall be mine and he shall be my

Butterfly lost.

A delicate, translucent thing.
It's easier this way.
The reality causes sickness;
a hurt that makes me sob.
She's trapped.
Between the fingers of her lovers.
Against the window;
one, two, three, on and on.
A desperate fluttering against the pane.
Damage done to soft, soft wings.
It hurts but it alleviates.
In that tiny body is a burden;
fear, worry, fear.
And this is my terror:
I cannot cup my hands around her.
Stop her. Carry her to safety.
Small, fragile and broken.
A delicate, translucent thing.
It's easier this way.

Monday, 12 July 2010

The Mad Hatter's Tea Party!

The Caterpillar came with bubbles instead of a pipe, and spent the afternoon drinking red nectar from a teacup. The White Rabbit was at one point spotted up a tree, and ended up marrying the Queen of Hearts. The Dormouse didn't fall asleep once, and was the children's favourite during our stroll through town to our Tea Party area. The Queen of Hearts left felt hearts almost everywhere she went, and beheaded everyone at least twice. The March Hare was shockingly late, and transformed before our eyes from normality to apparent insanity. Alice finally caught the White Rabbit, and even remembered the prizes for the Caucus Race.
The Mad Hatter danced with wild abandon across the grass, scattered invitations left and right, and was wished a Happy Birthday by three complete strangers. Silly people. Did they not know it was my Un-Birthday..?

Kudos to you, my old friend, whose idea it was to celebrate an Un-Birthday in such a way. I can still feel the cold touch of my teacup handle and the jolt of each and every *Clink!*. I can still see the colour and variety of the costumes and the laughter on every face. I can still hear the cries of "Taaaaaart!" and the terrible puns that circulated. I can still taste the strawberry jam and the pink icing on the cupcakes.

Here is an offering: Snapshot images of parts of a Mad Hatter bedecked in black and grey and blue, and covered in buttons and ribbons and lace.

Fob watch - an early Birthday present - and waistcoat.

Hat! An awkward angle, but there it is.

An old pair of black heels, especially decorated.

Finally, here she is. Dancing in bare feet on sun-dry grass, the Queen of Heart's fan in one hand.

For once in my life, I had a real excuse to go completely mad. I loved every minute of it.

"... Auntie's wooden leg, Auntie's wooden leg! Dee da, dee da, Auntie's wooden leg..."


Four days. Four whole days! Fourteen pages in my journal are dedicated to this time. The celebration of my Un-Birthday gathered together the most important people in my life, and spun such a colourful, insanely beautiful celebration my eyes dance with the very thought.
A Mad Hatter's Tea Party. Dinner at Maxwells with my girls. Bad tv until one in the afternoon. A picnic in the park that brought together nearly everyone who was special to me. An all-nighter (!!) in which three films were watched and brownies made. A sunrise watched, cuddled on a stone in a park with cardies pulled tight round thin pjs. Coffee drank whilst sat on the kerb at 5:30am. A very early morning trip to the playground. An afternoon supporting a new piercing. Impromptu naps mid-afternoon. Fish and Chips in the garden, and poems and laughter and tears exchanged.
The best birthday (sorry, Un-Birthday) celebration with my darlings I have ever had. And yet my real birth-date awaits me, with promises of a family day still waiting.
My life is good.

Sunday, 4 July 2010

Quick post - No. 3

A very special PostSecret that nearly made me cry. It means next to nothing if you don't know the context (ie. haven't read last week's Secrets) but to me it is special.


If you don't know PostSecret, I suggest you click the name and go have a look.

Saturday, 3 July 2010


Ach, I can barely contain my excitement! Slowly but surely my birthday celebrations are creeping closer... Only four more days to go. Only four! The costumes are completed (with the exception of a velvety-red crown), the plans have been made, and the invitations circulated. The teacups are wrapped in tissue paper and stored carefully on my shelf, along with a teapot decorated with pink roses. The picnic blanket is... nowhere to be seen. Hmm, have to fix that. And the menu is pretty such sorted. In four days, the four days (oh, how conveniently balanced!) of early celebrations will begin.

Bring it on!

Sweet summer Rec

Ten pence apple pie. An icecream apiece;
sticky sweet fingers and chocolate cold tongues.
Tarmac-hot air swirls around our bare arms.
Park sat on cricket mat. Watch them boys stare;
a football kicked high and six pack showed off.
The first drops of rain land on open palms.