Tuesday, August 30, 2011

came back

young woman, your hair's blowing up from your head like a fire... hair which is hurting your face and strapping down pain between lashes to your cheeks and neck... whipping you again and again... and leaves are in your hair young woman, dry and icy... crackling and crumpling, like a havana cigar all scrunched up... as it all crashes into your cheek hollows... young woman, you are standing on a knife edge ... barefoot... on tip toes... the edge of a cliff... with the urgent wind behind you, young woman... yet you stay upright... how is that possible? and how can you bare to look down, young woman? all that space and time and dead bodies eaten by tigers, ravens and disappointments... ? young woman, your neck is red. i agonize about this as i watch from my padded cloud... control... my white bright cell of total safety... my haze... and then suddenly there is silence. and i am able to see the other side of her; her legs are scarred raw... raw to the bone in places... looking like the flesh has been destroyed, some ghastly skin disease eating away until it goes bone deep? could it be such stuff of nightmares ? her bottom lip has an indent, half way up, in a horizontal line.  and she has tiny sections missing from her right arm and stomach... she is deeply detached, scratched and entirely damaged, but poised and beautiful... "tell me young woman, tell me"... there is a moment when everything is blue. everything. life. the air. my hands. my thoughts. my mother. everything. the clarity of this colour is sacred. exceptional.  see, sense, feel... and her lips move. during an utter lack of sound i hear the blowing of a voice to which there is a singing quality, as if water were talking thru the trees at sunset in utopia... i hear this "i stand barefoot on my toes on the knife edge because i think i can, so i must. i look down because i can't help myself... the marks on my neck are burns from the sun and from the icy wind. the scars on my legs are the gnawings of tigers. the marks on my arm are are the pecking of ravens. the line on my lower lip is from biting it. i bounced from rock to rock to rock on my descent into the ravine, miles down to where your eye can no longer see... I one thing I don't know is whether I was pushed or i fell... Though the miracle is not how i went away...it's how i came back. "

Monday, August 29, 2011


smooth, like a vanilla fur coat
but flesh... caramel coloured
warm skin, to touch it, like the heat radiating from comfort
skin all moist from the dew of youth
smooth skin, like butter
always gentle, creamy, always mild
a dandelion clock blows on the breeze straight into ones' most sacred space
that is the sensation upon one's first sight of this miracle of nature
smooth skin... to hold it
is to dare to dance before a king
yet, to be caressed all night long is what smooth skin so desires.
smooth skin is for a queen
a plaything, a delight, a sensual toy
a smooth skinned teenaged boy

Sunday, August 28, 2011

i only see in colours now

i don't understand what i hear anymore
i don't know the words used now
or their true meanings. I don't see how people use their words.
i understand the word 'console' but it has come to mean a different thing altogether
i see words as the enemy now
they used to be my friends
a panorama of sickening disappointments
as when one has the words 'I knew I shouldn't have got my hopes up'
sobbing in ones ears

i feel a cold and steely blue when i hear things with which i cannot connect 
i can only connect with colour now
words have lost their significance
i use them for getting by
no more

yes, i see brown for that, for getting by.
getting by means only just.
that there is so much more one lacks and is aware of lacking, and misses.
i don't like brown at all.
odd, because it's the colour of chocolate
my faithful-sinful love life.
i don't know, brown just doesn't feel good.
i have no brown clothes. 
when i see women wearing browns 
i see them as desperate 
no style, no taste nor sexual language...
and no feeling for what compliments
a woman's curves
and desirability
such fascinating beauty deserves lashings of true colours, not brown.
they even make brown underwear
the very thought...
Even the way it sounds it dull.
Brown. Say it out loud. Brown. Brown.
No, no, no. getting by has to go

i see computers in black
the mourning of a lost society; 
Social interchange and relaxed gatherings
of like minds, or hate minds,
it doesn't matter, minds.
But black boxes or envelopes,
apparently the font of all communication,
have nothing to say for themselves.
just blank
just ... blank.
and if they start making sparkley ones
i shall leave
and simply go and live in space
if it doesn't work out
so be it.
trying to sex up mourning
is to prostitute your daughter
hello kitty is goodbye emma, no dilemma
i walk

i see forums in ochre.
not bright yellow, a hopeful ray.
more like old bile
still in the pavement cracks
after saturday night in guildford,
the town that taste forgot.
ochre, the shame of all colours,
that tittle tattle mothers tutt about and
upon which husbands or butch partners
perform the violent hunting down that ochre deserves.
ochre, an affront to its neighbours, master s. o'pure cornflower and miss d. mure violet

i see toddlers as orange.
perfection in the glass of life.
the juice of humans
sweetness of time
oh, orange for brilliance
and laughing
my god, laughing!
the gift from God
i cry as i write
orange has become my favourite colour
but then, we know life is full of regrets
i have so few...
orange is a lucky one, too.

Grey can catch me when it pleases
In my past
grey was such a forbidden colour
I dared not speak it's name til last year
but now I have warmed to grey
it's moderately stunning
pretty perfect
it will never be called manic depressive
it will be left alone (great for grey)
it will just be
in is own way

who can say that?

I know that success is purple.
God bless our gracious purple
long live our noble purple
but we will not always win
grey again!
get that grey thru my door
make it yellow scones, dark red jam and amber tea...
no,we don't win consistently
but just a little does for me
just a little does for me
its all in theory, relatively.

failure I see as gold.
The lessons worth their weight
your better traits show up in gold.
I say it so much
for I like the sound;
and how you cope is the winners tool
go down, get up again!
fall, rise.
you get up again, over and over
Oh gold is the prize of failure!
there is a short term temptation to crave but
it'll never be enough to barter for your weight in gold!
you'll see what i meant by that in time...

if failure then is gold
and success, purple, as we know
then they team up tremendously!
Have them simultaneously
and you'll be a man
it occurs to me

pink is flesh
and pink is nature
pink is procreation
and pink is little boys
until mediocrity 
has firmly gripped
and wrung the uniqueness out of life, and into death
pink is a little boy to me
why can't a little girl be green?
i won't be dictated to
by books, or clothes,
and other media outlets of doom
about which colour means what.
they will control you if they can
and if one is susceptible.
stay pink. stay you.
little girl green.

I only see in colours now
I cant connect with words somehow
I hear them unauthentically
they don't show what they're meant to be

so...these are what words are to me.
not to you
for that's your poem, dear reader
write it, do!

Saturday, August 27, 2011

regal red city

in two days i shall live
in a different city
and i shall give
a going away kiss,
from my going away car
to those i will miss
to my crowd well-wishers
well, not well
for the crowd is none
but i make one.

i go from blue
into bright regal red
and i will eschew
cafe venezia, the beach
that sweet break dancer
i used to teach
my victories and
my mistakes
i leave them one by one
i'm done

i'm going to a place which is fraught
with history and art.
that rainstorm that we caught!
i'll sense the feelings
of those that went before me
their public and their private dealings
i'll not compare them
but i'll know more than a little
i assume to be dumb
is no fun

i want pescara to know
it stole from me, lied to me
three times though
i'll always love you
you were my first italian home
you helped me to be wiser, too
one always forgives
those one loves
i'm leaving, dear
(and you still want me here...)

oh bologna my squared city soul
my seven churches, my
life's romantic goal!
our lives become aperitfo swhirls
we waft around i'm glamorous
in high heels and pearls
san giacomo, santo stefano
san domenico, san insert name
i'm here with the best
i can finally rest

it's simplistic to think that to change ones location is always a life change
it may not change you, but changes where and how others see you. to rearrange
your food shops, priorities, banks, friends circle, clothes, delete your past
can be highly transformational, useful, a good thing at last.
i want to close the door on this years chapter.
...and drive away to our new home in rapture!

Friday, August 26, 2011

some ballad, same ol' same ol'

the painters bent brush
the smear of rank oil
that labour elation that
nothing can spoil

the pallet in hand
the smock that he wore
the key he had gilded
was strung from the door

the joy comes infrequently
pay hardly ever
and then you're derided
they're in it together

i sat for you daily
at my husbands will
knowing how hard it was
to smile at will

you asked me to look at
a work in progress
and then i first saw myself
thru your finesse

it's not how i saw you
it's how you saw me
the way you caught sensual
raw energy

my senses cold sparked in me
up thru my chest
each sunset i'll visit him
that suits me best

he'd paid and commanded him
for a portrait...
his wife must be captured
before it's too late

he knew that she had him
her secret was out
she wouldn't resist it
she wasn't devout

she slowly revealed to him
one laced up stocking
and pulled up her silk skirts
the stool gently rocking

solicit ecstasy
after each day
a painter all smug there
when she went away

he found them together
her seat on his head
''heres something else hot for you''
two bullets. dead

he'd flattered her vanity
she'd grabbed his lust
and now they're both compost
it was ever thus!

Thursday, August 25, 2011

tiny torch

like the ones you get in a christmas cracker
to see things in the black
to see who one is
and see what lies before one.

switch it on, direct it at a leaf
what can you see, children
little pathways, a little route?
which one shall we take today?

i think i see right thru this leaf
so things just there they lie in green
but is green a lying colour, no
i think of that as red

yes, this tree-drop femininity
is a boudoir full of moods
but there's always one thing in her life
she has to be free.
she must be free.

this tiny torch can help you too
the keyhole in the night
you get inside and there it all is
waiting for you. silent. still.

go out again! and interchange
with other folk whose houses also wait for them.
their tiny torches found the lock.
for me, when i shut my door
i'm so relieved i cry.
i just cry.

this tiny torch can save a life
something choking little girl
something stuck in little boys ear
take the plank from your eye...
then watch how mothers see if others
have a need, before their own.

oh tiny torch it's good and bad
to make the blind man see.
your rays of white are hungry
but don't ever shine on me

soul smarting lust

is it wrong to long for the sweet things in life? the glossy superficial neat things in life, that cost a lots of cash...

is it ok every day to lust after fine french chocs in a big stripey hat box, the sort they had in black and white films. to a starlette it never would occur, it would be neither here nor there to her, to have all my desire in her fine lily mit, and there, and now by the cue card, she'll throw a fit of the vapours in her, probably, silk night gown, as she pores over these dark treaures, one by one. they are so ravishing these chocolates, there is not a map to guide one as to which is what... that is only for my crappy lot.  

she plops them into her tiny rosebud mouth... with such disinterest, like she's filing her nails... i love her, she's great! but i hate her too... more attention to the chocolates, you!

is it wrong to long for an entire wardrobe of designer clothes... the cuts, the lines, all the fine stitches dragged over the thighs of ungrateful bitches, i lust in the window of YSL, i'd model their winter collection so well, but she gets to do it, and i do not... she looks like rhino squashed into a pot. but she's got the gold card, with or without taste, they just want her money, she just wants my face .

is it morally dubious to desire shoes as much as i...  little boats of pleasure, style and finesse
to match you in whatever style you dress, they slip onto your foot like a hand slips over your curves
and lets face it, high heels a brave man deserves! the leather's so fine, the smell is divine,
i'm stroking them now in their box. cos they're mine.

i swoon at the huge diamond ring she has on! to that bunch of bananas, it does not belong. oh you pyrana, pardon me do, you're carrying your ( big breath) prada, tiffany, louis vuitton, ferre, armani, givenchy, chanel, westwood, missoni, chloe, issey miyake, guerlain, shiseido, dior, dolce and gabbana, tiffany and cartier cardboard carrier bags, you cant possibly carry the weight of that, too... 

and they wear it all at once! their jewels and clothes and designer bags, like the kid on boxing days who wears all his gifts together, but with a lot less charm and little wonder. clockwork wives with their clockwork plunder.

i trail after these things... it must be wrong. when what fills me up is a poem or song. but there's this rich girl in me too... i want concorde and hotels and everything new. i had it the other way, second hand lil, but now i am grown up, and my cup starts to fill. from all my old attitudes, i am now parting and watch what you wish for...  i'm only just starting

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

keep calm...

i just wrote three whole pages
of iambic pentameter
it took me bloomin ages
but could not have worked out neater
it seemed to flow out with no block
that's every poet's heaven!
i started it at one o clock
and finished at eleven
now i'm not one to praise my work
i think its mostly crappy
but without sounding like a jerk
with this one i was happy
so satisfied was i at home
so heady in the heat
i meant to click 'save as' 'this tome'
instead i clicked delete

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

my beautiful life

i am doing the same things i do every night
drinking fine coffee
eating exquisite bread
watching great comedy shows on the screen
i still hear the rain beat down nothing at all
the same rain, always the same...

i still see my nightdress in undulations over my flesh
like a waves of ink, how nero loves rose,
attracting glances from the clock and my books
the shutters and my chairs
they all want to paint me!
i smell the same smoke from the houses of strangers
hear the same cries from the baby opposite
my legs as they lie on the table
same bellow-lunged baby, always the same

this house is protective
it loves to be generous and fold its wide wings
around anyone who needs it
and god, it was me...

my fridge and my freezer
are empty but for milk
this is quite normal
it's always the same

my bathroom quite perfect
white towels, white foot mat
and hand cremes and lotions
and soap from the oceans
'brush up from the bottom
and down from the top'
that rings in my ears
and will do forever

it's all so familiar
i wonder quite when it might slip from my mind
some things one simply remembers forever...
this would stand as a great time in my life

i lie on my lilacs and violet bedding
and turn on the air-con
it's so hot in here
everything's quite normal
in fact, is it today
or next week or last monday?
i never know here
it is always the same

and from this moment.
that one.
nothing was the same

the jungle and the city

jungle noises
different sounds

i am accustomed to sea speak and rain frying

birds i have not yet befriended or spoken to
it sounds green,
sounds like somewhere i have not had a space for yet
in my auricular memory...

will they push out the others, salt stored as stone?
i hope they push out the ones that stalk me
those that i heard from five to sixteen
ninety-eight must go as well
from two to five
and six to ten
and apart from the songs i wrote...

while we are culling, let me at it
what else shall i delete?
noises of weeping all my life.
my years, if added, don't tell me how many, but loved ones's tears too.

oh my blood of hearts to spill
and then rub out with turps!

what now have we left?

i should like to keep the laughing space.
you can't touch this, never, no
for it is holiness.
you should not pray and moan in church
clutching your rosaries like kid-swing chains
holding on with muscle clenched need
and kissing it with fervour
like a mother who has found her child again at the fair
relieved and angry too.
but you should laugh before the Lord
i am sure he thinks
thats worth his joy
far more than wailing women,
their black lace words.
being sorry for... utterly nothing.
for in their penance,  and their lives of pain
lives getting smaller, smaller still
until they have nothing to confess to Him
they may as well be frozen
even laughing at something you should not be
it is a noble noise

i should like to keep every sound i ever heard with him
his bleat when he giggles
his voice when he weeps softly, soft...
his sniffing in the mornings
his gentle speaking voice
''what would you like to eat tonight, what can i get you? we'll need to shop''
''do you feel you'd like a bath?''
''how shall you have your hair today?''
''shall we have have a walk to our bridge and take an ice or aperitif?''
''i have to go to the driving school now''
''i wanted you to come to sardinia...''
and his little teeny tiny noises
little quavers, like hearts blown out of bubble wands when i give him the nod to commence
plup! plup! and plup again, for all eternity!

those can all stay please, Lord.

i sit here and i smile
to be with my jungle noises
those in italy every day...
alone, free, in a vast apartment.
to count the rooms is too much effort
when i could choose to do just this...
listen, write, and all the while to
be with him and Him.
i use no discipline at all
for one time in my life
work comes easier naturally
with less effort or time
i drift from one moment to the next
and laugh it all off laugh it all away...

i am bohemian naturally
i wear flowing sun dresses
i let my hair all tumble down
i wear no make up when i'm at home
i go from one part to the next of the day with no distinguishing
from here to here, not here to there, or even there to over there
i do not want this space to end
i want the next space to start

and i should like to revisit when i'm in need of calm

even though the natives are screaming and laughing in town
smoke filtering thru every pore of mine
yes from miles away!
i do so love it here
my voice, my watermelon love,
my most silent friends, give me ease
switched off when i want, gone when i don't
dear people who will take no offence
dear people
yes thank god for them

i smile as i write because i love my jungle noises
i would love to meet a lion
(from a very safe place)
could one ever be in a monkey lock
and cling to a giraffe's neck
in an embrace so tight it bruises me
(like the ones we make
so we feel safe
and mould into each other so
our cells don't know whose are whose)
or take in an elephant
majestic, strong and stoic in its stance...
should be wearing jewels
traveling in club class
in givenchy shoes
diamonds in its flappy ears...
now i am bleating too!

oh but,
it needs to be free and natural
to live its beauty properly
so i will take the chocolates
the adornment and the foot attire
i can wear them in the city
and strip naked in our home...

jungle life is not for me
i like square cuts, and sculpted heels
hair and nails very promptly fixed
to be untouchable
box jackets, or sleek long lines
(you don't get those in the green of green)
to eat four courses
watch french films
it's at home when i strip off
and am...just me

i'd like to go there one time though
to hear the jungle drone
i know it can't be really
but it seems to sound like home

Monday, August 22, 2011


roses are red
violets are blue
some poems rhyme
but this one doesn't
nor does it scan


roses are red
violets are blue
they're not they're mauve
but it'll do

cry for help

i an not awake.
but not asleep.
if i don't sleep tonight...

i am going to jump out the bloody window.

Sunday, August 21, 2011

i shall tell my love

i put my cup down... endless ladybirds everywhere i look... climbing and motionless stumbling all over each other... not in pain, not laughing, just there, a reality of ladybird life... how easy they make 'being' look... but they are all covered in sweat no... sort of bubbles... like foam but tiny and sticky looking... maybe they are in transformation into something else... flies or bunnies... i don't know... where did i put my cup... i cant stop this endless coughing and spitting up... it doesn't hurt... blood doesn't scare women... but it's the inconvenience of it all... really...where are the ladybirds, or were they chrysalises ,or do i mean fossils?... they are sticky i can't stand to look... but i do things i can't stand to do... mountains of them slowly tumbling over each other like the slot machines at the arcades... where the penny pushes the other pennies if you drop yours at just the right time, i always think that is so like show business... kick em out for your time, your time, you you you, my god it's utterly ugly... these cacoons or mini croissants with goo all over them, and i don't think its creme pattissiere, they are taking up all my room... all over my givenchy... all over my statues... my treasures... i think i have my head in my hands i can feel finger type pressure, it feels like relief to me... it smells of sweet... bubbling sweetness... too sweet...is it good or not good... i have no judgement... i am lost in it... i am ok i think... i don't know how i am... how wonderful... to lose oneself entirely... i wonder where time is... i want him here with me too... i bet he is feeling me whichever room he is in... he always knows what i am sensing... it's too sweet now, burning rope... no it's not ladybirds or cacoons, i wasn't sure, its bees, oh god.  i don't have my salon hair dryer on to protect me. why cant they be coming out of my mouth. why are they all over my room. so then the sticky is honey! now children, this can be looked at in one of two ways; honey is sweet and natural and a gift from god, or, emma hates it , even the smell and the taste makes her vomit, plus, she hates being sticky and however much you wipe its bottom, there is always a sticky drawer after you remove it. and it invades every other bottom in that drawer. oh no. i need to crawl naked with honey dripping off my hair... i need to be swathed and dipped into honey... but i can't, it will kill me, perhaps things we need to do kill us... oh it's utterly hopeless, even in this state i am analyzing, help me now! analyzing... now, the start of that word is anal... could be called arsehole-yzing....or sphinter-yzing... i need to crawl... my senses tell me to, i need to crawl... be like a baby... the bees... the bees everywhere and i am only protected cos i haven't made up my mind what to do. it's all stopped and joyful puffy marshmallows are flying around my head, thank God, making a big pink and white fur hat... ok... i am going for it... come on emma ... into the swarms... hey you can't sting my statue of mary... she wont be stung... she is perfection... but i will... i am a crawling sinner... a shit, a nothing, a smudge... oh god not one bee sting but worse. the walls are all coming in and my hair is coming out. like meat thru a meat mincer... little worms squished thru into unnaturally smooth shapes and fat buccatini of pink and white ''meat''... thats my hair... bendy hair. no... that is my identity... my beautiful blonde hair... it's all thick and minced i am losing it... there are wigs... you're ok...no, i need my own hair... glossy and full, my mad hair... i need to crawl with it all hanging down dripping in... oh, cant do that, where's the honey... i need tea, where is my mug... my body aches... looking at my statue of jesus. if i feel him. it will all be ok. looking. where did time go. i don't know where it is. and there is joy in the very real risk. and the danger. well! i give it to Him. i don't care about hairloss. or being stung to death. or having to be sticky forever or walk over ladybirds or chrysalises. i just want to crawl before Him and show him how nothing i am but His nothing. take my health. my beauty. my gifts, those i love... just have mercy on me and know that i want you to accept me.so take me, and my miserable life, take this girl. in her humility. i can be kicked , split open. slit. bladed. disfigured. cut my fingers off. sew me up.  i can be tortured. but know that i believe. and if i don't get out of this place, where time has no seat... i accept it, and will try to love it. perhaps i am so rejected that i cannot move mountains, though my faith is sure. but i can sing for those that can. i can paint them, and make duck a l'orange for them. i can hold them and mother them. i wish to mother this blank insensitive numb pain. to mother pain. i wish to strip myself to make myself perfect for you. nothing. just an anima. a blank my lord. but i shall tell my love.

Saturday, August 20, 2011

look what i found!

today i found a funny thing
it was a welcome little find
i didn't need to slave for it
or even to engage my mind

it wasnt hard it came with ease
i didnt have to go thru hell
it came to me upon the breeze
and just in time, it was, as well

i'd been so thoughtful for a while
and isolation drives you mad
philosophizing's barmy too
since endless thinking makes you sad!

so i was walking in the park
some hoodie bloke was acting daft
he slipped right over on some poo
and i just screamed out loud and laughed

Friday, August 19, 2011

belgian lover

i so want a box of belgian truffles... even in the big supermarkets now they have really lovely ones (all made by posh companies but relabeled) i want them i want them i want them... so much... my mouth is watering for them... i want to take in the look of them, the box, the wrapping, open them, smell them,  touch them, feel them, bite into one, look at what it looks like inside, my front teeth marks, put that half into my mouth and feel and watch it simply enjoy it with... love. i so want belgian chocolate now i actually have a tear in my eye... not just water in my mouth... i simply love them more than words can express and what makes me mad is that posh people with lots of money get these superb beautifully made and presented boxes of hand made belgian chocolates, and don't savour and enjoy them half as much as i would... i want them so much, oh god, i am literally desperate for them... the really good boxes you open and go ''wow''...you know, i can't even to describe the lust i feel for them. and when they are handed round after a meal, and people hover a hand over them and say,  erm, yes please... and slowly choose, i just want to grab the lot and say THIS IS HOW YOU DO IT and eat them one by one making noises. but i am a girl with little confidence and i need to stay slim so i am not having any chocolates or puddings until christmas. god be with me! but when i have one, i think i will... quite enjoy it. i can go without but it makes me want them so much... even more!. but i have to prove to myself that i rule chocolates, they are there to serve me not the other way round... oh i am a belgian lover...

i thought of you while i was having a cup of coffee

you are hallucinogenic
when i look at you
i am melting in a pool of bubbles
bobbing up and down
so smooth
my eyes growing wide
as i look upon your beauty
feeling so caught
so owned
so safe
OH! to be safe at last
and safe in a bath
of scented musk
and drowning in your gaze
in wonder
on a magic carpet ride
this real reverie forever
in your clasp
and in your eyes
your mouth is like a cave of treasure
pleasure me with
pearls and garnet
wrap me in gold chains and squeeze
look, your profile! timeless honour
you look proud and
i'm enthralled
all my passion spilled before you
i am wrapped in your breath now
in your spell i wont resist it
don't unlock restraints, no don't!
let me be bound up before of you
motionless no struggle. no.
when i look up
you are standing
taking me in tenderly.
i am no houdini, never
i don't want to try to, no
in your fix now i am flying
we are on our goose, we fly
magic spells are scattered freely
and we made this energy!
our desire it has
made physical
actual things appear...
you can do that it can happen
but only with a mass of love
you unwrap me now i'm spinning
chains of gold and diamonds fall
sapphires on my eyes you place
emeralds for my ears you think
rubies on my nipples, yes
diamonds for my hands and feet
and pearls are round my neck
you scoop me up
and wash me down
lay me down a bed of feathers
throw roses tracing round my body
put some in my hair
for memory
and you lie down now, looking at me
you don't touch me
i don't move
we don't need to do

Thursday, August 18, 2011

white smoke (painful tiara)

and out of her mouth comes all of the spirit
and smoke like white light 
making shadows on walls, 
walls yes to lean on for when she gets frightened... 
no need for fear, child...
but sense that forever
she's watching and waiting
and stroking your hair...

she sighs and it stops. 
cul de sac exhalation
in front of her lips
and yes, for they're open 
but not the same shape
as they were once before... 
breathe out round the t bar
the white smoke will squeeze round,
and get to the scent of the earth where he lies...

so breathe out to us here!

your breath can heal thousands
so you can't feel fear
throw your head straight back
don't let it hang down...
white smoke is dripping
down all the crowds' bodies... 
and you raise your hand
one more surging of joy.
their hearts open again to
this en masse communion
unfolding all lilies
to the prospect of gladness
in this sullied age

the other arm out
and your painful tiara
your love for them all
for you see them as clear

the world is within her
the world is without her
your plexus is open
to pillage or rape
your left foot en pointe now
it hurts like on nails
your right foot across it
you feel all our pain too
and as we watch all evil 
it's trickling all down you
it's water on oil
for it touches you not

you're all of our hope
and we've lost you, smoke spirit
and who will be here to
shine on when you're gone?
so breathe the smoke in us
and suck the smoke from us
a miracle swarming
and surging thru souls.
a beautiful light now
the high of a lifetime
we're filled up with love...

and still smoking, they
hoist you up on your cross.

cheap tricks

one can always write about writers
about wonderful works of art
name names and be terribly clever
and prove one is frightfully smart

one can quote from zillions of sonnets
and from the all of the war poets too
it's perfectly acceptable
reflects only well upon you

one can talk for a tome about homer
(not from the simpsons, the greek)
acknowledging all epic poets
of whom you're a smug thing to speak

i prefer to infer from the oevres
that the author of course knew his stuff
the work of refining, if mastered
will make it all sound off the cuff

years of study, exams and tuition
wordsmith genii make they do not
and cod-intellectual snobbery
it pisses one off quite a lot

second act

i am not beautiful. i just am a convincing actress. i always was. but if you act something enough you become it. this i know. i am also not a brilliant singer. but i am a great mimic. i can do anyone from joni mitchell to kate bush to madonna to fleming to crespin to kiri, but it's not me. however, when you sing it thru your own voice, it is you! it is not possible to avoid it! i am acting. i have often wondered, being of a reflective and introspective nature, whether giving it to the audience is the first or the second time of acting. do you act it to yourself to ensure you can act it to them. or do you act it to them then really almost become it? i am not really a good writer, i just believe i am while i do it and as a fraudster i am thus believed and applauded. i then believe it myself. nor am i am good dancer BUT if it's good enough for lindsay kemp, i am very happy. try it for yourself. when i was put on a certain drug with which my body violently disagreed, i put on 6 stone in weight in 6 months. every girls nightmare. but i bought new clothes and stuck my shoulders back and smiled good hair and make up, and honestly? it didn't matter. i still had a small waist and people found me no less attractive, indeed, i had more offers then than now (not that i want them now of course because of him. ) i was acting 'gorgeous, flamboyant and large breasts' . it wasn't me. but that was my act. as someone with as little confidence as i have naturally, i had no choice and we all know what no choice does to our will power. everything i have said is true....no, yes... it is the second act...


the neighbour who like opposite has beautiful knees. this is know because when i look out of my door which is open as i write at my desk, and as they stand on their terrace, that is where the cut off point is. i have never met her, and i wonder if the rest of her can live up to this incredible few inches of beauty. or maybe she looks like ET . (ah bless, but not a good look on a human)

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

i can see you

i can see you
standing by the bathroom
like a tall greek young homosexual fantasy boy
a sleek whippet god
in all you purity and smoothness

i can see you in the kitchen
carefully making art with melon and peaches
caressing those nectarines under stream water
as if they were rosy cheeks of some goddess
before whom in reverence you will fall tonight

i can see you in the bedroom
looking like a french film hero
as you stare out of the window
and the silhouette of your torso and penis
complements that of the arch of your spine
as you stand before her, all whiteness on gossamer
and you ask her to go with you
into the warm room
fall into clouds
and a manger of lust

i can see you
because you are here


hold me
give me something to feel
give me something to strive on for
give me your body to hold on to
give me your lips to lick
and taste your sustenance on them, from you to me
hold me and let me in
let me get my life my pain my self back again
i feel lost i feel scratches inside my anima
let me crash into you
like waves onto the shore, and let me hurt myself on the rocks and watch blood trickling down my pale skin and then feel the release of watching it all wash of and be healed instantly by the salty water
like your own you
that you pass into me
for love
for need
for desire to live on

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

a personal best

i made up for missing my night's sleep by sleeping a straight 18 hours last night...  did i wake refreshed? i felt like i was in another universe...  i mean, more than usual.... it was as if i were looking at everything for the first time... weird... no hang on, i don't think it was a personal best, i think i slept for 20 hours in london once when i had my horrid flat in green lanes... i had just done a series of exams and also eaten a lot of cake a friend had made me to say well done... hang on! i wonder what 'type' of cake that was... mmm... i wonder if sugar was the only drug in it... anyhow, i have slept enough for two days now, and very good it was two... i could hear my phones and my skype going mad in the night but i couldn't get together the energy even to pick up my iPad! so very tired was emma... being of delicate sensibility i have always really needed my sleep... late nights are one thing, but no nights are quite another... oh gosh now there is no internet connection at all, let alone slow... this girl of mine, miss magic, my connection with the outside world... the creator of all things... why is she only coming and going?... i wonder why... is she shy today or just feeling flippant and a bit mischievous like a female puck?...or...fuck as one might feminize... so... she flits about... i wonder what colour she wears... i bet its fuchsia...no, stop it emma, that is just a silly joke and indulgent too, i bet it's pale green ... so anyhow, it wasn't a personal best...

Monday, August 15, 2011

with a will and some absinthe

no... i know but they feel heavy and they are wanting each other... their union fanned in lashes, like the pull of the tide ...whatever you do don't float, don't drift out to sea on your bliss of finding release and fulfillment finally... that breath must not fan you as you lie down and rest but it must stifle you, make you choke, anything to keep you awake, for if you sleep... you will go under... under the brulee and into the creme, don't stab the hard til it cracks open,  like deflowering the coffee jar when you bash thru the seal... if you fall asleep you will fall under the earth and no one will be able to go beneath the surface because nobody ever goes through the surface...we live in a surface world where every one is an ice dancer, with their flesh coloured tights skating around the truth ...  nobody is brave enough to say i will. i do. i'll dare. it's such a shallow time. oh they are so very weighted, darling, i am here, stay awake, don't close your eyes... if you do they might take you there... don't go to sleep darling don't go there darling, they'll get you and you will see things you shouldn't see... you have to look as they locked open your eyes and cuffed you to a bolt of fire against your back... so you witness people ripping the skin off their faces in sections like patchwork (to a background of kittens miaow-ing), your skin to sew onto a fake robot body.. about 6 inch squares, the plump bits are better, its easy to do with a will and some absinthe... and cats turn to tigers, and rip up the churches and the the statues and altar, and tear all the fabric and robes  apart, and then see the old guy who helps the priest sometimes be eaten alive and still not be quite dead... as he's wriggling on the floor in front of the altar, calling out to the madonna to save him,  i heard the pope saying a terrible thing, it's horrific, don't go to sleep it will get worse...  i was scared and stay awake, we were staying at the vatican, trying to stay awake and the pope he is normal but then far too normal then a bit too loose with himself and with god. then he said it... no, i could not speak it not ever not ever, wake up, you, wake up! no i could not speak it... yes we will scare ourselves so much we're untouchable, ... and eating dog excrement on on fours on the pavement darling, and squishing and rubbing it into the palms of our hands... just don't close your eyes, if you do they will take me, drag me from behind til as i reach forward to you, til i am too weak to fight ... and a memory just came to me from the past, of being out of myself while i dance in the park... making it rain with my palpable dis-ease... i wont let anything touch you...  just don't close your eyes, they'll sew them up and you will see no more butterflies or my smile as you touch my face... there are screams to the south, bird song to the north... be vile just make sure you stay awake... god i'm lucky, awake, com'on... the baby... he's coming, he's coming, he's coming... the baby makes it out into the air... a beautiful bleet and some tears... the demons are gone. your eyes are so wide and clear... for all eternity. so look at my eyes... it' s safe now ... you can sleep now but you are not tired. when you go to the edge once you never go back when you go to the edge once you never go back when you go to the edge once you never go back


i really hate the word 'partner' to denote half of an unmarried couple... it makes it sound like they are off to a barn dance... whenever i hear that phrase, i always picture them in full outfit, imagine them dancing and snigger in manner of bart simpson...

a good poet

i'm glad i'm not emily bronte,
what a miserable life led she...
she didn't have cadburys dairy milk,
and nobody came for tea.

she sat and wrote and sat and thought
and contemplated sorrow.
her frail young body questioned
if it would get up tomorrow.

she had a bloke, but shut him out
along with fun and laughter.
she'd go for walks and spot a bird
and cry for ages after...

you wouldn't want her over much
at christmas for a party.
she wasn't what you'd call 'a goer'
or 'a laugh', or 'hearty'.

i'm glad i'm not emily bronte,
her life was just a curse.
she wasn't big on fun fairs
but she wrote some cracking verse.

Sunday, August 14, 2011


now, having not slept for one single minute of the night, lying waiting for sleep... nope... sleep not present... i am going to relax in a lovely hot bubble bath... rose scented with some petals sprinkled over the foam, a mermaid smiling softly in total calm... breathing in the floral steam... being so grateful for this luxury... oh bugger. i haven't got a bath.

the joy of writing

refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it...  refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it...  refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... oh for gods sake... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it...  refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it...  refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it...  refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it... refine it...

stale bread makes me smile

in italy it is ferragosto tomorrow where they all sod off to somewhere where there is even MORE food and drink, and celebrate with loved ones, whether they are family or mates... i like this culture,  they know how to live, and they don't care, they are calm... he is at the beach with his friends in sardinia including a priest and a cop... so they will probably have a far more raucous time than anyone else in italy! i cannot tell you how different italy is from england... when i went to the caribinieri about having my ex landlord steal money from me, they said 'there is nothing we can do', i said 'but i have video footage of his trying to break into my house', they said, 'does he show his face', i said 'no of course cos i was trying not to let him in!' they said 'so there is nothing we can do. even if you had his face there would probably be nothing we could do...my advice to you is to get four of your biggest toughest make friends to go there and beat him til he finds the money and hands it over.' i said, 'and that is your advice to me? 'he nodded and said; 'i would do that. it's your money. get it back however you have to.' i just cannot express to you how shocked i was. i had to sit down. truly. and what is the weirdest thing is this, this cop was actually being utterly serious and trying to help me.

i am in day 8 of my migraine-sinus-infection-throat-glands-general-fevered-dying-ness. i feel terrible. but, what's the point of railing against it? i guess if i were a bug, and i could choose a body, i'd want to be in mine, too, right?

i think this year of total isolation in a large airy lovely apartment in pescara has been really helpful to me... i can manage alone apart from when i am ill, then i need my family.... well that is normal i guess... i can really be happy alone doing the same thing over and over every single day, and never going out apart from to get milk... i can do it. i really can do it. not many could. they would go mad but i do believe that i am saner than normal i think. when on your uppers, you get to know your metal, and your strength of character. sumo wrestler, me... well, thinner... and less balls. i am the one you want when the ship goes down. i am not the one you want when your friends want you to go to a crowded nightclub to watch a gig. or to go in with you, or watch a tv programme abut snakes... or shutting up when someone pisses all over me... or for a group camping trip, or for a long walk thru a city centre. actually i think i could go camping with him... i do like being outdoors and unfettered, and i would enjoy cooking in a field, and also being in a tiny world... a bubble, as i am here i suppose. gosh.

i am on my second coffee i think. it's good coffee. i feel so free. so boheme. so emma. eating a tiny very old crust of foccacia al latte from days ago, right now, even stale bread makes me smile...

Saturday, August 13, 2011

reflection, to be read with a brandy

you watch them come
you watch them go
you work it out
from what you know

wont let you down
but make you sad
and watch you frown

you knew her once
you loved her twice
but in the end
it wasn't nice

you feared you cant...
now know you can.
a wiser
and a sadder man

upon looking back at 25 years painful struggle

i just had someone who i have known forever and longer, and loved very dearly, saying to me ''emma, i read that piece in your blog 'worth a look'... what will people think... ?''
and i had a supreme and golden realization that finally, i didn't care.

worth a look

suddenly i shoot up all erect and shocked... forget why...  it's all murky now... another day of being me... the utter ease and joy of it all... for i am the girl with everything... beautiful room, sunshine streaming in and shutters like i'd always dreamed... and smiling because he was here... and he will be here soon once more... dancing round my room with me, both on tippy toes... laughing... painting magic circles in the air...  the room is spinning round ever faster, and yet a glass of water never spills! but not this this time, not with joy and seduction do i play the whirling girl... more with pain in my eyes and jaw... i cannot lift my arms at all... and foggy sounds, i hear doves crying... i am dripping golden stuff from my arms, my eyes feel blue not green at all...  they're getting wider still and wider... don't let me be one of those japanese cartoon girls, i do hate them so... and hello kitty? kill that bitch! just watch me dance and dance again... i suppose i'm staggering, i don't know because the mirrors don't reflect me or even what might have been and please God, please don't let them reflect what is to come, for i don't want to know... whirling emma... dizzy girl dancing... gotta find a doctor dear... hushed tones, sound like smashing glass... louder than a scream they are unto my hedgehog ears ! i hear some sounds but they're all discords, just cant please my ears today... it's not horror film, it's worse, a grazed despondent fairy tale... like a 1950s woman, picture perfect then smearing her blood red lipstick all across her face, her eye black dripping down onto her white taffeta frock... and in the ballroom all the women are like it... hundreds and thousands, doing all the same, you see... all wearing white... all in taffeta... still dancing but all over each other on the floor, men are watching, terrified as women take over their pole positions... for them, it's hell on earth, you see.... one big stepford atrophy... one by one their futures spike as i am dancing... lost my red shoes, bare foot's hardcore... i am going higher and higher. my ribbons, intertwining, gosh my room's a maypole now... ribbons pulling round my neck and hooked round the door knob, round the hat stand, round the standard lamp, round the bed post round and round my throat now... but i am a singer! i'm dancing, dancing, fizzy inside... but i tell you every tiny bubble, electric shock... it's pricking me inside my skin, ah molten lava stabbing hard into my veins while i am dancing, imogen dancing, where's he gone now... dancing, dancing, emma dancing keep on dancing then it will go... give it to me, let me grab it, give it to me, all of it, now!... the grace to stop. the gift of calm, oh! all i want is some control! dancing girl afraid and hating, i think she'd quit to make it go. who's that girl i see in my palm and why is my hand reflecting now? i try to find my body, i cant, no, i cant feel a hip or a breast or a jaw line, it's just a long pole of hot metal and white stuff... all this dancing is driving her mad... the playback is worth a look

Friday, August 12, 2011


the reason i have been entering my blog less today is cos i have been refining... reff... eyeing... rifining... yes i think that's what he said... (a word that means nothing to me thusfar) ... my lindsay kemp piece cos it's gonna be put in a book... therefore and ergo and therefore whomsoever whererandwhatwith... it has to hold together at least half ok... i have just had a day of watermelon, salad, parma ham and peaches... gosh it was great... ''high energy, your love is lifting me higherrrrrrrrrrr'' hahahhhhhhh, my sister sang that with the los limas dancers about 68 years ago... she thought it was hilarious, and so it was... good times... well, for her, anyway. i am watching french n saunders 'still alive' tour... i have honestly watched it about 100 times, maybe more... it is just perfection. they changed the face of british comedy. they totally inspire me. they are utterly equal in their prowess, it seems... i just wanna kiss 'em both 'mwah'... cheers your fabulous women. they have saved whole years for me

i forgot to shower today!

has anyone ever taken codeine for pain and then 'flown'? i have it in case of pain and occasionally have to take it at a high dosage... then, have found life not quite as hard as half an hour before, i feel i probably can manage another day, i pick up the phone to people i usually just can't be doing with us... no wonder people take them recreationally... woosh, nice n relaxed, i probably like normal people feel on wine... if only. i would love a glass with him right now... 13 days to go. i cut my fingernails for the move... boxes etc... i was leafing thru pics today on facebook, and i saw some very beautifully manicured nails... i saw a load of pictures from this one person with whom i went to school,these were pictures showing james bond film or 'dynasty' type luxury... flowers... roses, the most superb you ever saw, harrods at about £400 a box in 1994... i know, i saw them when i worked there... and chocolates all hand made in wonderful boxes, like from a 50s films, in hat box type affairs, and desserts of just dreamlike design and stature... cruises, designer clothes... and i remembered that she was an estate agent but i couldnt remember if it was in fact holiday cruises she managed. there she was, on fb, so i asked her. she said ''oh darling, you know i have never worked and nor shall i, my role in life is to live the one everyone else has never even dared to dream...'' and i thought she was joking, so i replied ''haahhahahahahh'' and then i saw that she was being serious. someone had commented on one of her glamorous hand made french chocolate nouvelle cuisine magnificent desserts, really the most pretty and delicate i ever saw...though big! and i saw this comment, ''it's amazing, none of the other girls in monaco were eating them, and i was eating two a day, one after lunch and one after supper and i am still an extra small. i suppose looks and keeping slim are just in my genes.'' now, something very bitter .i then read how sad she was to be posting her simply beautiful - truly, edible, big welling up eyes -  11 year old little boy all suited and booted with his trunk, to go back to stowe... i thought to myself, she does nothing but have coffee meetings and eat cake and go out for lunch and go out far drinks and go out for supper, why does she have to send him so far away if she misses him that much. i am sure she misses him, i do and only saw one pic of him for a nano-second. she is always boasting... her pictures are of diamond rings, huge, million dollar ones, the size of a 50 pence piece but spherical... she wants more n more n more... one post was of a huge REAL bling and it said ''who wants to make a girl's dream come true'' it is transparent that she is unhappy and lacks confidence. i know she divorced soon after she married and is ''engaged'' but clearly she is not a happy bunny. every single picture is of her looking really happy a big smile, in the same pose, right leg slightly bent in front of the other... big hair, nails, lipstick, designer bag showing, big smile, perfect colgate teeth smile... i wonder if i could help her. i am good at bettering people's lives. i am good at caring. but she will, don't you think, drive people away with her incessant ''look at me, aren't i rich'' theme. something in me tells her she would be happier with a loving man looking after her and less talk about the hermes... you should have seen theses hand make chox, i was literally salivating like pavlovs dog. or did he have more than one dog. i bet they weren't called robert. which is what i have always wanted. a dog called robert. i think i 'll give her a call. she is so spoilt, its just never good for people is it... i saw one of her pictures was a photo of the cash till register when she was paying at harrods and it was, i jest not, £22,465.55. who would take a picture of their cash til register? who?

now i must try to sleep, i have been to la richoux for coffe and brioche, had my massage, had my hair done, been to fortnums for luncheon, bought flowers from harrods, had my nails done, done a bit of shopping in harvey nichols, gone for tea at *the ritz* then cocktails then flown to the top of the eiffel tower for supper... only thing is, i did it all alone...

that's her.

it's hard to be funny when your wife just left you

to walk out front onto the boards
and boldly face the dim lit hoards.
there are no walls there are no doors
and what if there is no applause?
your colgate smile, your funny face
it's your job now to lift the place.
it must be hard, the pressure's on
if you're not in the mood, you're gone.

Thursday, August 11, 2011

My experience of lindsay kemp so far

this man has truly influenced my life... he is a one off... he does, so masterfully, what all artists wish to do... which is to push back the boundaries of what is ok and what we are afraid of... when I was very young and I went to see his 'onnagata' show, and at the very end, as he ascended into heaven to the sounds of 'beim schlafengehen' from strauss' 'four last songs', inspiring me to sing them, which I now do, they are firmly in my repertoire and I always think of him when i perform them. and then, to the the bach b minor mass… i mean, to be honest I think I nearly fainted. or died. or something physical, brought on by something spiritual that just can't be described or quantified, i was just crying and smiling and shivering and my eye makeup was rolling down my face... i looked like a horror film, the friend with me said afterwards. i couldn't have cared less! for once. i was finally at home. i knew this art. It reminded my anima of something that connected me with... God. high art just takes me straight there. drugs don't work. drink is the rubbish. and, however toned, fit and powerful we are, ultimately, our bodies are frail. but this was heaven to me... i started to write songs at the piano, started to move more experimentally round my room in my body (i had been a dancer, til i went to music academy)... and i started painting and the endless poetry writing began...  anyhow, anyhow, anyhow...when i saw lindsay at his 'talk' a few days later in a little ante-room at the sadlers wells theatre in which 'onnagata' had been playing, he was wearing a mickey mouse sweat shirt in salmon pink which i found irresistible. he was answering questions from the little audience and my then boyfriend whispered ''have you seen who is about two metres away, opposite you?''... goodness heavens! it was my then idol and other inspiration, kate bush. she looked like a tiny luminous doll. she has the art of being invisible totally down pat. she says she wants it, and she has it. i am witness to this fact. and i, surely her greatest fan in my teens, would not even have noticed her, apart from as a tiny woman who banged my boyfriend with her tote bag as she went upstairs, exiting right behind lindsay, with such insouciance that he nearly fell over, also being of dolls house stature. in those days i had dyed chicken yellow hair in a bob, i used to dress like madonna, my final co-idol to this piece, and i had on black italian leather ankle boots, and a black mini skirt, a bright pink sweat stop slashed wide open, and to top off the visual agony, a biker's leather jacket... i know, well i was very young! lindsay was talking and floating around generally, and he seemed to be rather shy of the attention as a speaker... though he spoke well, he was at times very witty, often putting on a show of being one thing or another and generous with both information and time. he certainly spoke very fondly of his time growing up in south shields and spoke so warmly, and delightfully about his mother and of his street, I remember quite clearly... he was showing true fondness and loyalty to childhood dwelling, south shields. this name of a place, of which little emma had never heard!

lindsay was always in my life from them, but i had no idea what to expect! i guess prayers work, readers. think on.

i went to italy to expand my art and learn to sing opera... and now can and do, the final addition to the artist's circle, and I saw on the great hub of all modern culture... facebook! an advert for a lindsay kemp ''show'' in rome, which was, translated, to be a dance and mime workshop... well! i hadn't properly danced for at least a billion years at this point, but i could move and though i wasn't stupendously fit, having been very ill, i knew i could hold up, you know, the cure of dr. theatre and all that... and so, the next item on my agenda... you had to write a letter to go with your photo and cv for lindsay's attention... and i just thought ''right...words i can do! ''... and basically i gave it to him in word form! i expressed what had been pent up in me for all that time... and what i felt when he performed, what i got out of the very breath between his curved movements, the fluidity which eased my searching and painfully frustrated soul, and readers, blow me down! i was accepted onto the course! i was giddy with excitement... terrified. this really was a dream come true, even to meet him. let alone spend two days with him. i was asked very discreetly ''why are you more excited about this than the compliments given to you by this maestro and that maestra about your future in opera''... i mean, i just shut up. insecurity silenced me. it often does.

i went to rome, stayed in a bed n breakfast... and turned up to first day. my heart was thudding. oh God. when he drifted in to the changing rooms, my eyes filled but  i pretended to be cool, something i have never really mastered, and he beelined straight for me and said ''you're emma'', i said yes and had a heart attack on the spot, he looked right into me and said, ''your letter was just wonderful, yes. i knew i had to have you here. thank you.'' lindsay was thanking me. i said, ''gosh, thank you'' rather softly and slowly for an expressionist such as myself. i felt like a little piece of happy insufficient nothingness. a dot of wanting.

the course was wonderful. a mix of mime and basic dance, but what made it special was how giving lindsay was of his art. ''not for me, he said, but for you.'' for you. i so know that feeling. i just want to give to people too. an audience. the public. my lover. my family. the world! he was so giving. of himself, within his heart. here was giving from within the very centre... the nut inside the stone inside the peach. from himself, from showing the moves to watching us move. there were about a dozen of us, i cant remember. when i think of the violence, the utter dirtiness, the tragedy and ecstatically expressed sentiments his art sometimes portrays, he seemed a very peaceful soul. i cant imagine he tolerates being thwarted much. i am smiling as i write this. he is such a dear.

what made me really giggle privately, looking down,was the knowing looks lindsay gave to me a couple of times very subtlely...  about a certain thing that kept happening that i think only he and i noticed. oh i will never forget that look. not ever! It was mischievous, child-like, ''i've stolen some humbugs, and i'm going to eat them one by one and savour them in the garden on my own'' it was a fabulouos moment for me. we shared a little something. anyhow, at the end, it was my favourite bit, where he simply put on some wonderful music... i don't recall... vaughan williams? no i think it was debussy... something more frenchy sounding... oh anyhow, and he just said, 'do what you feel', and I did what i felt. turns out what i felt was to kneel down and simply use my arms and trunk... he was watching me. and he liked it. and he saw. and of course he saw himself in the mirrors and in the people watching him watching them. because all through his giving, he was exuding his own warmth, his sex, his power. his...self.

anyhow afterwards, typically graciously and generously, he let us have pics taken with him and posed for some on his own, in groups etc, and drew for us his own art, his drawings. that is kindness. his pen was drawing the curves of a bending figure with a japanese fan, because i had told him I had bought a lindsay kemp art fan after onnagata, in the merchandise place after his life-changing show at sadlers wells, and i told him I not only have it but still use it. of course i will keep my picture in a special frame and place forever. when we all went home, i told my father: 'something has changed within me. and the wheels were in motion. my intuition soars.'

my memory of lindsay at that weekend was of a dear gentle man. very graceful and very inspired. charmingly wilful and with a very dry wit. a man who notices everything, every nano-detail. someone dear, in whom you could find layer and layers, like a really good french cake. a pass the parcel man, if you will! layers and layers. the truth is, you don't have to unwrap this endlessly hidden prize. because lindsay's energy radiates so strongly, that even through a billion layers, you'll see him... a dancing angel...

conversation with a caterpillar

'i am a little bug on a tree
i see things through a verdure hall
no one asketh anything of me
normally nobody sees me at all !

i'm almost nothing, an all-seeing dot
i smile to myself, i enjoy being me.
i love to eat, alone in my spot...'
'oh caterpillar, how i wish to be thee! '

not doing it

i am not going to UK... i have been so poorly for 5 days...i don't feel a long trip and facing ryanair (and then a long trip home) is going to help me get well (if i ever do) plus which, i just went totally dizzy... oh my god i feel like shit on a stick still... my eyes look like those plastic models of vaginas that sad men order from dodgy catalogues ( and then presumably try and poke themselves thru) (vomit) printed in cheap ink...  oh christ, ryanair... reminds me of a time when i was still smoking, and i was doing this  just inside the door of an airport... and a cleaner guy said to me CANT YOU READ and i said ''yes i can, which is why i am not mopping the floor'' he was enraged and i thought, 'yeah'... i guess might have gone dizzy cos i am eating so little... i can't face food... i like thinking about it but don't wanna eat it... maybe i have a brain tumour... no, i bet i just have to suffer for about another 90 years... yeah that's my role...

anyhow, paragraphs are working well for me i think... easier for ones eyes i am told... everything is about being easy on the eye isn't it, about making eyes not have to work or be upset ''she's easy on the eye''... maybe eyes want to work, maybe it's their purpose in life, maybe it's an illusion that they like being lazy, yes, maybe its an optical illusion about a lazy eyes... i don't like that poetry that has to look pretty and is in shapes, there is a word for it, but i think it stinks. for it to look pretty, it suffers (don't we all) and thus, so do it's readers... life is pain, think on, haha... my mum said today,' i didn't like the rose poem, cos i thought it was sad'... i laughed myself hoarse, when i was on skype with her, reminded her that sometimes poets do write when they are sad... (like 90% the time that they write), she of ''i'm walking on a tightrope '' poetry fame in the 1970s... oh dear i am smiling just rethinking it... she said 'it makes me sad cos it sounds like you are sad', erm... anyhow, i was able to right her, the fact was, it wasn't about me, it was about her... she said, oh great... it is about me isn't it... i said, ''a long time ago... , mum, we forget,'' meaning that she largely has, because he totally has, due to his senility and insensitivity, but i haven't... it shaped me life, i will never forget... and i cry now remembering... moving swiftly on...

i used to  think that it was the most talented people who had international acclaim and fame... how wrong i was. what silly notions i have held for so long. what utterly naive thoughts i have had. i thought because i was nice everyone would be nice to me. i thought you had to do something bad to be bullied or resented or even disliked. how funny, to think of that now. how we learn. then when we are ready, with our knowledge, to live life...we die! weird. you see, i only just thought that for myself. most people know that at 18 apparently. 18 i am not. but apparently i look younger. i think it is all the tears, i think it keeps your skin nice. do you cry with joy, too? ooh tea, good... coming ! (talking to kettle ...is that a wholly good sign?) sometimes i spend the whole day without having spoken a word. living alone. you do that. BUT moving in 14 days ... ooh two weeks. i will miss my apartment... spacious, concrete tiled, light, shutters, nice bathroom, fantastic shower a bit like a bath really, i am sure several could fit in it... don't wish to try... it's such a lovely day here... not that i shall venture out of my door into the outside world, i am still afraid of my stalker... sooner or later i will take my rubbish out, buy milk and fizzy water (which comes out as 'dizzy water' on sms text ,which i love)... soon i shall be walzing around my room singing ''wonderful day'' it possibly wont be today, i am thinking... plus ca change...

today i look like a long twist of uncooked pastry... and my hair appears to be falling out, my nightmare! coming true! wahhhhhhhhhhhhh! oh sod it i feel too unwell to worry... if i go bald i shall wear wigs, gosh they are so good these days...apparently more women than you know wear them and have had boob jobs... god i want mine SMALLER i don't want my breasts to be the only subject of scrutiny... i want people to look at my face when we are talking... its why i always wear black... black the great minimizer of attention-grabbing things, apart form at funerals when they wear black to signify ''we are miserable, look at us.''

this IS your life. you are not waiting for it to start. it's this. i am waiting for it to bloody start, i tell you.

i am drinking my tea.. sainsbury's red label. one of the wonders of modern life...no monkeys involved here, and workmen too are idle (not change there, either) it is just gorgeous. i love tea. with biscuits, the best. but a cup of tea can house about 350 g of vanilla rice bickies and 600g of cadburys dairy milk, so i try not to. all or nothing. that me. tea tea tea tea. i had a woman come into my apartment once and she saw a padre pio picture on my wall, it was here when i got here but i kinda like it...and she said 'oh i don't like that, its not well done and sentimental' (oh they are not afraid of saying what they think...'oh you are too thin now emma, you don't look as good'... ) anyhow she came in recently and said 'oh, what a lovely picture. isn't it done well?'  now, is this normal behaviour or is she a fucking nutter? if i did that and somebody pointed it out, i would worry forever...

i am not going to england today with my puffy eyes and migraine, there are flights on other days and after all, and i say this literally laughing into my screen, this is to see a mother who was happy that i left home to go to live in london for music academy...