the point's that there ain't no romance around there....

hey there. it's me. someone who used to write in this blog once upon a time. i have no excuse for not updating, except total teenage laziness. and i forgot.
wow. berengere's party. raw drunken emotion and too many cookies. happy birthday berengere. hip hip hooray etc.
i feel all tuggy and achy today. my brother is making a rather dubious concoction for dinner, he calls it 'sausages and butternut squash'. interesting. my hair is dripping onto my shoulders and jasper and poppy are mewing impatiently. their lean black legs are gangly. they cannot retract their claws properly. they think knocking over plant pots is a highly amusing pursuit. they eat felicity's food. they cannot see the link between going outside when it is raining and getting wet. soon they are going on an incredible journey to america. i will miss them.
i love it when the nights get longer and the days get shorter. i love luscious rain that pours for hours. i like seeing the streetlights on on my way home from school. perhaps i should move to iceland.

i love carol ann duffy.

The bed we loved in was a spinning world
of forests, castles, torchlight, clifftops, seas
where we would dive for pearls. My lover's words
were shooting stars which fell to earth as kisses
on these lips; my body now a softer rhyme
to his, now echo, assonance; his touch
a verb dancing in the centre of a noun.
Some nights, I dreamed he'd written me, the bed
a page beneath his writer's hands. Romance
and drama played by touch, by scent, by taste.
In the other bed, the best, our guests dozed on,
dribbling their prose. My living laughing love -
I hold him in the casket of my widow's head
as he held me upon that next best bed.

i want to dive for pearls.
x