Tuesday, 7 November 2000

BY WHICH I MEAN EVERYTHING

By Jonty Tiplady.

All girls should be unstoppable, especially ones
that read Prince or believe
in an answer to death in fact. But I see that
you don't hang with the extremely fat ones. Music day
and music night. An angel-toothed clown. Yours,
a crazy softness. I used to think he was my friend, and
maybe he was, but later I thought perhaps he just beat my
sweet-ass at chess for the nurse. It would take years
for this vast acceptance to come off. I spend too much
time surfing, as if the end will come
on a wave. Maybe it will.

I am sorry, so sorry, that, to you,
I wrote that. Sometimes I think nothing would
have been more loving; less Joycean Popeye-spiel, less
pretending I was not a cunt. The wall that stopped
everything then suddenly turned into a glowing
telephone with your golden voice in it
is always also sludge. But babe,
affirm our famine. I go
hard. I need your. By the end you are sucking it
through a child's window, your legs shaking down
next to the dignity plate.

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