“I know I slept then though I can’t remember how I got to sleep & you’ll laugh when I tell you I had a great dream about sex in which it was raining milk because of the snow in a movie & next morning when I saw the sun I knew I remembered something that should fill me with either pleasure or fear but I felt like I do in dreams all the time & I couldnt be scared or notice any other sensations in my body, I just felt even like a body with a mind moving”
(Bernadette Mayer, Utopia).
The cleaving occurred one soft April night, with the Meadows all blossomed and calm, evening smell of other people’s auroras. The year will only be as specific as it will be. It was in the thwack of the tennis players twisting their muscles, the smell of yesterday’s rain. In an instant, I lost a sense of how hungry I was, bound to this sense of unfolding. It was in the air and the grass and the warm, elastic muscles that tightened inside me. There I was, moving forward, around, backwards; I became liquid in the split that tore, slowly, one portion of sky from the next. It was in the peach and the lilac, the reddish tinge of a blood I’d not recognised before, tainting each streak of cirrus. It was a vegetarian feeling, delirious and light; I wanted to taste the air and the grass and the new elastic muscles, which were hardly mine.
It was labyrinthine over, with an extra syllable.
It soon became sore, the raw sensation of this change, this tearing. Like when you start to eat and can’t stop, and the eating becomes something that is done to you, an automatic pull that works by a tensile hunger whose origins refuse to shake or cease. I would fill my mouth with snow and sigh, naming the curious pastel works which shimmered their way from existence. I would be hot then cold.
Time passed as it may into May, I forgot the French word for gold and ate less chocolate.
Every pin on the map looks like a jewel, but these destinations aren’t mine. I find myself in the Tower again, lonely and drinking tulsi tea. A false moss wall of a semi-colonic eve, the time before the time I can see you.
The slow train tastes less of its names, we drink things pale & bubbled & tall in the fading eve where everything around us starts to riot. Someone breaks glass, then breaks it again. Why is anything happening.
Mind the gap between paragraphs. She didn’t say please.
What do we think when we cannot think beyond each other.
We left all the art in the garden to melt, but wax resists water. Time was measured in sultry smokes. All of the paper became dessicated rainbow, a very good slug line. I was so sure of the day ahead that I drank all day to be further inside it. If you could just swish me around and around, I would spit foam on the grass, a blueish blot of it, like brushing your teeth at festivals.
Brushing the dark with your teeth in UV.
I felt a sort of grief at the edge of my senses, the vaguest outcome of the three-hour workshop in which they implored us to think very quickly in numerous phases. Do your worst to yourself, the woman said. I drew a diagram of knots and whorls and archipelagic clots of line; that was my PhD. Drawing felt more like flicking my wrist for performance’s sake. Okay so there may have been purpose. I saw a man on the Lothian bus, reading a catalogue of diagrams pertaining to pipes. He must’ve been some sort of plumber in training. His long silver ponytail reminded me of cat’s drool and other liquid enthusiasms.
‘I was interested in the silence of writing’, ‘We stopped talking about the poem as though someone were inside it’ (Renee Gladman).
Some of this month was not typed, but written. Especially dreams. This marked a deviation. I bought a new laptop but did not open it, for fear the words would not come within clear windows.
The months before the months that happened, happened.
Afterwards, I went to the waves.
The air here smells different. Hyperbole of salt and sand-scrunched toes, a whole new hunger. Short dark coffee of morning, cats around, slinky trees. What did I sketch of the sunset, the clouds you liked?
The month was something of a dream conundrum. I go to see the advanced practitioner.
A GLITTERING QUINTET.
Who calls out the lyric word for petrol? & all biodegradable tears and things?
All changes saved is the litany I could only respect.
This is a story about a girl called Brie. She is the erased one, but all girls tend full pelt towards that status. So anyone said, soft and milky. Brie would shoot holes in the blow-up dolphins to make the children shriek. Her exposed neck, with a fluttering of love-bites. Brie dropped pills in the pond to clear the water, so everyone else could swim in its fizz. Her friends knew all about the marks, the club, the dumb jazz soundtracks. Brie drank strawberry shakes that matched her cheeks; she did not go to the gym. On beautiful, vintage blouses, she’d hemorrhage money. Out on the porch in dragonfly season, the weekend, she was everyone’s hero. Brie could slip off a ring and swallow it. She knew what they meant when they mentioned halos or heros, the neighbourhood kids dealing hash on the side. She could sing the high notes alongside Joni Mitchell. The village green replies with hostile bunting. Everyone lies down by the fountain, regardless. It’s like it never gets warm here. She’s always finding rhymes for cunt and it’s funny. The story bisects with a strip of light, gilded circle that caught my glasses in the library toilets. Sliver of visible lashes, spiderlegs, shortbread of sugary spectral. Deja vu in the palace of plastic trees. It all made Brie want to puke. Let us breathe between neutral errors; Facebook says Create. I had to say sorry about the way I knew this. Anyone could sink their teeth into her, add ten pounds to their bellies. The dolphins existed in lieu of a virus. I mean they insisted. None of the children could actually swim, but they bobbed along in the watery dark like stars. Brie could care less; we all could more.
The playlist does not exist. A lavender-coloured succulent instead.
I thought of my body as a nexus of enzymes, a fricative intersection. Many little collisions buoyed the days, and sleep became a pharmakon.
What I dream of is poison or cure for you, or anyone really. There is the limerence I’d scrawl only on the back of an index card, the card to a fruit I could not write.
Some of us wear out the vacuum better.
She would soften between bread and ventricles. The yeast creeps into your sleep again, departures of salt and sweat. My nails grow long and strong again.
Brie sings, Sometimes I think you’re a filler. She dyes her hair blue to look like mould.
Why were there oranges all over the table?
full throat of constancy.
One of many several triplets.
“I was just so happy.”
My alarm goes off at 09:09.
He ate a whole grapefruit on the train, sticky excess of determination. The hills swept green and unreal behind us, I wanted to fuck up the clouds again. Where is my lilac pencil, a lack of regret
(Old friends bond over yonic fruit).
Love is a kind of echolocation.
Sometimes what we say or send is only what we could not know.
I remember last year when Scott died, A. messaged me a picture of the Finnish sunset, from her forest residency. It was good to know there were other places to be, places where news like this set on ice and spread into beautiful pinks and citruses and tiny changes.
I feel like I glow around you.
There has to be a word for increment, sweetness, immediacy; this 1975 song that uses the word ‘entropy’, why is it always stuck in my head?
Why are we arguing about the intensity of cinnamon?
Futurity looks crinkle-cut, thick and delicious.
It is fucking cold, man. I bleed out
something cardinal and sigh.
I like this, I like this;
maybe just gladness.
You enter a door
and forget the internet.
Every hour devours this sand.
I was sending these messages
like frisbees or something,
pop hooks. The aeroplane
we love ascends from the sea.
You can shake out the salt crumbs,
pour gold on me. Forever is silent
so awkwardly sweet.
‘[I]n this time song holds loss. […] It travels as something layered, infiltrated, unconfused’ (Juliana Spahr).
Something to believe is a baritone, a pack of miniature bricks; expensive cigarettes, a crest of summer dawn.
So we sucked the sky back together again. It stuck in your teeth. Time hardly even passed. There was this cocktail called ‘Lollipop’, there was this oddly specific green tinge to the light, an almost-velvet, collapsible sleep…
Snapped Ankles – I Want My Minutes Back
Metronomy – The Look
Aisha Devi – I’m Not Always Where My Body Is
Lana Del Rey – Doin’ Time
Amen Dunes – Sixteen
Devendra Banhart – Daniel
Cate Le Bon – Daylight Matters
Karen Dalton – Something On your Mind
Frightened Rabbit – Holy
Alexi Murdoch – Orange Sky
Jessica Pratt – Back, Baby
Bob Dylan – I Threw It All Away
Gengahr – I’m So Tired
Elliott Smith – The Biggest Lie
The Pastels – I’m Alright With You
Angie McMahon – Pasta
Joanna Sternberg – This is Not Who I Want To Be
Weyes Blood – Seven Words
Rhye – Save Me
Talk Talk – After the Flood
The 1975 – I Always Wanna Die (Sometimes)