February 2012
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‘I’m sitting in the chair writhing in agony. A demon.. a minor demon, is pinning me there, fucking with my head. “Abraxas,” he says “I’m Abraxas, the demon of lies and deceit.” “So, what do you want to know about lies my dear?” I’m not a liar. I try again to get up, this time I’m flayed, splayed. I feel myself screaming. “I will tell you about lies. There are white lies and black lies…and...
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“Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a...”
– Sylvia Plath
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sitting in on a friday night to write an essay on Charlotte Bronte’s Villette, really is the worst thing. i actually quite liked the book when i read it, completely not what i expected after reading and loving Jane Eyre, but i did. Villette, i feel, is a braver Jane Eyre, not so afraid to break away from the norms and ideals of early Victorian women’s writing. it seems more eager to...
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“I almost wish we were butterflies and lived but three summer days — three...”
– John Keats
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MAD GIRL'S LOVE SONG by Sylvia Plath
“I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again. (I think I made you up inside my head.) The stars go waltzing out in blue and red, And arbitrary blackness gallops in: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.) God topples...
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“You’ve ruined me for anybody else.”
– Jodi - The L word
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VALENTINE by Carol Ann Duffy
Not a red rose or a satin heart. I give you an onion. It is a moon wrapped in brown paper. It promises light like the careful undressing of love. Here. It will blind you with tears like a lover. It will make your reflection a wobbling photo of grief. I am trying to be truthful. Not a cute card or a kissogram. I give you an onion. Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips, possessive and faithful as...
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today i have written two hundred words of my dissertation, now i need a break/nap/cuppa tea. at this rate my dissertation will be finished in about 2076
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POEM by Carol Ann Duffy
I tend the mobile now like an injured bird
We text, text, text our significant words.
I re-read your first, your second, your third,
look for your small xx, feeling absurd.
The codes we send arrive with a broken chord.
I try to picture your hands, their image is blurred.
Nothing my thumbs press will ever be heard.
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TWO sleeps till my birthday
just saying
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