Friday, 14 August 2009

King. Check Mate. Crown Me Queen.

It is only fitting that I met my O.H in camden, home to a wealth of beautiful women, colours and fashions.

Bitch, where'd you think you're going?!?


I think I have fallen in love, she says as the last can rolls underneath the TV. No one really understands, as her eyes blur tears and her heart sinks solid, that she cannot possibly explain this bizarre drugless emotion that still feels like the best fix she's never paid for. She slumps over the stove with pots a'boiling, tins empty and torn skin from amalgamated vegetables scattering the work surface. Alone, she can recall a time when she heard the counter being called a work surface and understood, beneath those big brown eyes, that the kitchen was a place of work. This was a room of dedication from birth until death. She decided then that this room was her haven with her mother, tiny fat toes on a kitchen chair balanced, knife in hand, all her own. She learned of the differing ways of slicing vegetables. That hot was steam and fire and pans left on a high heat, cold was wet fingers and tongues stuck to ice cubes and frozen fish.
Her life flashes before her eyes. She remembers her roots, then remembers her shame.
She recalls the time she was four and could not make it from the garden to the bathroom in time. She recalls the most inappropriate thing she said aged six, straight to her mother in front of her schizophrenic uncle. She recalls falling dressed as a candy bar and how safe it was to hide within that stupid paper bag and cry in front of forty or so people, no one could see. She recalls every lie, every embarrassing and perverted thing she has done and hides her face.
Suddenly she is older, no longer climbing up hills but in her room listening to her first metal album and swigging beer, cigarette in hand. She is her first lighter burn and her first shard of glass. She is well beyond her first period. Everything is encrusted is anguish and she cannot comprehend why or what.
Everything become overdoses, bottles of spirit and bleeding limbs. It is alot of lost friends. She can't decide between being and bleeding.
She is seventeen. She grows suddenly into a real person, an adult of strange proportions and strange propositions.
She decides everything will be ok.

Wednesday, 12 August 2009

Predator

I am predator woman, pinning you between the sheets.
With my hands on your wrists, I am your violent queen throwing you down and tearing my way towards bliss.
Yes, predator woman who has her hips in the small of your back and a thigh on your thigh -
I dare you to escape.
Teeth at your neck.
Hands at your waist.
I am poised for the kill.

Friday, 7 August 2009

So, It's Like This.

My words fail me.

I'm hurt. No more, no less.

I will not respect you for taking drugs, but I am trying to respect your decision to take them.

I'm cooking you chicken Nasi Lemak. I'm not sure, but I think it means tasty/curry rice. It's Malasian cooking and soul food, one of my favourite things to eat, and I got in SO much trouble for taking the legs from the chicken for it. Jan was NOT pleased :P.
The curry took me hours on a slow simmer. The rice contains coconut, and there is some cucumber and fresh lime as well as peanuts and fresh herbs. I have no sambal. And I know you won't eat fish. Or egg. It's as close as I can offer you to my hidden side of the family. But I tried for you.

Jan just almost choked to death, quite literally. She tasted the curry. Oh dear. Apparently the amount of chilli made her whole throat swell.

Enjoy honey pie.

Thursday, 6 August 2009

I Reply. I Expose.

Charming, but on the contrary I feel I am not being a retard. I am exposing the most fragile parts of my soul to everyone I love and I only ask not to be hurt by those I have entrusted with this almost-impossibly fragile information.


I know how you feel, but not exactly because I am not you and your emotions are your own. I can only respect that. I believe every word you say, and that is the truth. And you are my truth, I will always believe you.


I know I am destroying myself, but I have never been better and with you I have re-discovered the nature of life and all its joys. I am truly happy.


Please, I ask only that in return for this most fragile information -

Be delicate with my soul
Be ruthless with your love
Be honest in your words
Be kind with your anger


Tuesday, 4 August 2009

Paranoid

I am paranoid.
It stops me from sleeping.

I am paranoid that I am fat. Every woman will say this, but not every woman will sneak away to eat food. I am paranoid that when I walk everyone turns to stare at my thighs. And that when I am seen from the side or lying down, my chins threefold. I am paranoid when I move my arms because I feel arm fat shake and I am paranoid that this is ugly.
This makes me cry.
I am paranoid that I am ugly. I am paranoid that because I am fat I am ugly, and that I have been getting fatter and hence uglier. I am paranoid that because I am ugly my friends will all leave me, and that some of them are choosing to already. I am paranoid every time I am not touched or held because of this ugliness. I am paranoid when I expose myself for attention and I am not recieved with adoration. I am paranoid that I will never look like the women that people want, in the movies, the pornos and the magazines. I am paranoid when you turn to sleep, and I am paranoid that this is because I am too ugly to be touched or kissed. I am paranoid that people cringe after they make physical contact with me, and some of them go and wash afterwards. And that I am undesired.
This makes me cry.
I am paranoid that I am useless. Everytime I cook, clean and fold that it is not enough to be noticed. I am paranoid that I will become invisible and my triumphs will dissipate. I am paranoid that my food will not forfill any expectations and will fall short of being passable, to be thrown in my face. I am paranoid that I cannot be perfect. That no one sees if and when I try.
This makes me cry.
I am paranoid that I am weak. And because I can admit my weaknesses I get only weaker. I am paranoid that crying is the ultimate defeat, and that I am not strong enough for human relations. I am paranoid that I will cry infront of people and when I do, I am paranoid that they will ask questions which have stupid answers. I am paranoid that people will find out I am paranoid and weak and I will be shamed only further.
And this makes me cry.
And now I am crying.
And I am still paranoid.

Tastes like Witches.

Purple soup is amazing. I just thought I'd share that with you. No one else really likes it, or else feels indifferent to its alluring sweet mild spice and creamy texture, coupled with a beautiful purple colour. It's a soup that would have appealed to me all the more aged four, uncomplicated in flavour and easy to eat. It is also quickly brought to foreground as an adult dish when coupled with sour cream and a few stilton rye wafers. Delicious, a perfect flavour balance and completely from my own juicy synapses. No recipe for you.

Saturday, 1 August 2009

Come, And Be My Baby...

Once, there was a poet
Whose words had gone astray,
They did not linger in the air
Nor at the dim doorway.
This poet called out softly
But alas, there was no sound
For all the words had dissipated-
None could be found.
Entangled in the branches of
The slowly swaying trees,
Caught in lovers' lullabyes,
Choking on the breeze.
Not one poetic utterance
Not one apt word of truth,
Forever gone, the poet's words,
Forever gone their youth.
And now the poet all alone
Can seldom move the lips
That once sung out of beauty,
Of blushing ivy crypts
In which there may lie damsels,
Weeping in distrust.
No, these words lie dormant
In the ever-moving dusts.
Take heed, most weary traveller,
Allow yourself to see
That all words hold potential,
Any word can be.