Thursday Night Poetry Corner

'Well!' you cry. 'Seven o'five p.m., that's hardly 'night,' now, is it?'

I am sorry. I am sorry indeed. However, when you are seated, facing out to a matte sky lurking beneath the rain-tear-stained window - punctured sporadically by street-lamps, room lights and the glowing-strip-base of Canary Wharf's pyramid point - 'night' is what encapsulates it in your hungry, unwilling mind. The thought of dinner almost pains me physically though I appear to be constantly hungry. MOODSWINGS! PAIN! IRRITABILITY! SEMI-QUASI PSYCHOSIS! Hoo boy, it's so enjoyable being a girl. Virginia Woolf has made me come over all idiosyncratic and contemplative, but she exacted a heavy price from me first. I spent the whole day, more or less, reading her and T.S. Eliot - occasionally bursting out laughing at her. Though Eliot irritates me somewhat, I do enjoy the cut-glass conciseness of his critical writing. Boy's such a Libra ;-D.

I feel filthy and unclean and slightly wild, like I could run out into whatever remnants of the rain may resurface and wash there. Instead I will settle for putting up this, which I wrote early this afternoon, and attending to my hungry frustration.


Natural (As The Coming Of Age)
Quivering lightly -
oh, so tenderly! -
here I am

A little soap-
bubble perched upon
your lap, so

Fragile, so apt
to be lost
at any moment -

There I dance,
safely couched between
the slight curves

Of your dream-
shell; breathe me
In and hold

Me safe at
the back of
your throat, only

Releasing me in
small, half-munched,
lip-smacking murmurs -

Not smashed between
your palms; not
flattened like road-

Kill; I pray,
if you will,
kill me softly -

Let it seem as
natural as the
coming of age.


Song of the moment, for anyone feeling similarly grandiose and combative: Terri Walker - This Is My Time. Ironically enough, though, (consider the song's title!), it was cancelled before it could really get anywhere. Damn shame, since it's MARVELLOUS.