eatartdaily

creative writing & photography

Dogs and other gods

20170906_183438Now
Betty and I
we run

through the fields
my god
and I

in Cyprus
when I was living
in London

I thought about Betty
everyday
worrying I would never see her again

and now
as I am writing this
she is sleeping

in a cushion on the floor
a few feet from my bare feet
and after I publish this

on WordPress
I will wake her
and rub her belly.
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Lonely bones

20170926_114124The world won’t leave you alone until it abandons you.
This is quite common. I’ve been left behind at a train station and I don’t have enough for the ticket on me. I feel like throwing myself onto the train tracks. I walk through Victoria Station outside onto the cold street. I am thousands of miles away from home. I go to the bus station. I show the bus driver my Oyster card and I forgot that I had one fifty on it, enough to get me home. I can’t believe it. Earlier I was noting muses on cocktail napkins. I hadn’t gotten a date. I was going home alone to cry myself to sleep. How would I not be ultimately intimidating to anyone else if I am ultimately intimidating to myself? Unless I destabilize this notion of myself as dead inside, I will not ever be able to wake up. They might call to me in my sleep with Aphrodite or Aristokypros. But how will I know, from deep within my sleep, which of the two names I am supposed to respond to? The dreams in which I am dying are the scariest I have ever had. They are nightmares.
Pinch me? I want to wake up in Nicosia, not London, anymore.

What I wrote on a cocktail napkin on a Saturday night whilst Mad World by Tears For Fears played from the overhead speakers

Marcel Proust was uncomfortable with dreams as a topic of conversation.

It’s not a switch so I can’t turn it off, or on for that matter, by its own accord

I lingered,
in lip lock,
liberated,
from within,
you on my lips,
my hips bruised,
broken ribs,
cracked skull,
I had clocked you,
across the club,
and I thought
That’s the one.
That’s the one
who is going to kill me
tonight. I was singed,
in moonlight,
in forests spinning,
on their own axis.
Not for any originality
or its lack
you brought out
the biggest axe
and hacked me down
like a tree,
and as you shouted timber
I thought
At last, someone
choose me, too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trees of elsewhere

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Inside me
there was always an elsewhere
I gave into reluctantly
but mostly overcame
through the years.

This caused me tears
and many sleepless nights,
standing outside in the rain,
praying for
the wrong kind of love.

Now I am older and have a more
fuck it attitude (courtesy of London,
these initial manners, too, if I may,
may I take your coat,
would you accept a cup of coffee,

some cake?
What kind of cake? The question
that always follows, my favourite
question, in the world. My favourite
answer) now I am older, I’ve grown

colder, bolder, and am as organised as,
say, a soldier, I’ve abandoned myself to this elsewhere.
I am always there now, so please don’t try
to catch my eye, it is vacant, as am I.
Lust is frustrating. Romantic love left me dead.
What man?

What woman?
I am an artist.
Therefore, I will make, only, art.
Wake and sleep, art.
Dream of art.
Not as escape,
but as a return.

Paradise regained.
Everything human
continues to overtake me.
Make me, but could you not
shake me
too hard? it really fucking hurts,
and I don’t think anymore
that it has to.

 


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Say When

21766570_717134698488075_2413204194724168776_nWhat is the answer?
What is the question?
is the better question.

If you see my answer,
I want it,
I need it.

I am obsessed.
cropped-2012-11-07-22-51-17
I’m confused
Sure, let’s go with
that.
If it helps you sleep at
night.
If seeing is
believing.
If this is what you choose to
see.
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Belief
Dear
God
tonight
I am clothed
yet nude,

dancing
with the muses

ten. Big
Ben
is silent
for four years.

I set out
with my dancing
in the hope it bemuses You.

I am not down.
Counting clowns.
Exiting.
A mini cooper.
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Loss
What was romantic love but a gateway drug?
Romantic love was a gateway drug.
To stronger, more addictive, more fatal kinds of love.
Ok, not so much fatal as the opposite of fatal.
But we were dead for so long when we discovered spiritual love.
Everything we ever thought we felt was as small as the full-stop following the word full-stop.
A gateway drug romantic love was.
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Stare at me for flowers
I feel the hours thicken with bleach.
I can barely reach.
Inward.
My senses are dense.
I feel like fainting.
Accompany me, to look at paintings?
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Acceptance of the things one cannot change in five drafts

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Simultaneously

One life, they say.
One!

All evidence is to the contrary.
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Treacherous

I remember,
I forget.

Everything bears reinvention.
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Spirit animal
I am a bear,
real,
and imaginary,
simultaneously.

With my great
paw
I catch salmon from rivers
unforgiving, and undercurrents

treacherous.
You call me lecherous, but I do not
know how to love.
Not a chance.

Let’s go out
dancing?
All night.
With the otters.
20171013_164230
Reinvention

None of this is really happening.
Hand me my drink?
Could you bring me my slippers?
What’s for dinner tonight, my love?

My wife and three children love me and I love them.
20171017_172151
Contrary

Other lives beat their
wings, beat their
wings, and they
sing to me

profusely,
effusively,
mustn’t
be
guileless.

Mustn’t
be
lily-livered.

Murder
your other life,
take
a sponge

and wipe away the blood,
the ash of the house
you could
burn down.

No, not on this day.
Not in this town.

20171017_180704

The Trees That Dada Blessed

20170929_132527Do not lie
Art is truth
so do not lie
said the cloth
to the dye.

(I am not I
so much as I am
acting reacting
to my inner dramas.

Please don’t
say karma.
By all means,
do add canvas.)

Dye replied,
who I,
collide with cloth?
But I’m betroth’d!
20170905_135356
Avant-garde

Experimentation
is an act of daring.
Staring
at established limits
till they disappear. However

what if
the act
of disappearing
disappeared?

Deconstruction.
20171007_140935
Dada was designed to express discontent

Dada was a Brand New Start.
Marcel Duchamp was a Vitruvian man.
What socio-political-economic systems in impenetrable place?
Inundate everything concrete with trees.
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The One Half Versus The Other Half Of The Same Body, City, Earth

The One Half Versus The Other Half Of The Same Body, City, Earth
2017-03-30 13.42.18
How The Other Half Lives

I grow cold,
when
it is wintry.
Warm,
when
it is sunny.

I’ve eaten
all my honey.

I was full,
now I’m empty.

I was dancing,
now I am
perfectly still.

I am a broken lighthouse,
since the one
I love disappeared

like the ones we love disappear
disappear

disappear
and disappear.

Reappear? How lonely one feels.
Just so bereft.
My heart has been cleft.
And there’s no Zoloft left.

I am a mirror?
Pass me the scissors.
I am going running.
With the wolf.
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The Other Half Doesn’t Know How To Live

I bloom,
on the days of our lives.
Wither,
on the days we’d rather forget.

I’ve spent all my money.
My eyes are running

but I can’t call it crying,
since I am dead inside.

How poor one feels.
Very destitute.
I’ve spent all my money on whores,
American s’mores,
and wayward wars.

I am a naked emperor,
in an empty castle.

In a ghost town.
In the middle of nowhere.

I am made of pocket mirrors.
This is my eternal damnation,
and this is my hell.

Help me find the well?
There might still be a chance to get out of hell.
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MARVELLING IN RETROSPECT

Who falls in love with Hulk?
Someone self-destructive, that’s who.

But I found Bruce Banner
painting a portrait
of a landscape
from a photograph
on his desk.
He looked like Prince.

I asked him out to dinner.
You’ll have to ask Stan Lee, he said
jokingly. It made my skin crawl.
I took him to a restaurant which served
‘authentic Italian’ because he was
authentically Italian, a veritable mix
of bonhomie and aggression

which cannot be mastered
unless you live on the thigh high boot.

Who falls in love with Hulk?
Someone who loves a project, that’s who.

Guys mock girls because guys want girls
or want to be girls. Mars? Venus? Vaginas? Penises?
It’s a mess unless you are less intense about
what a woman should be, what a man could be in mid October.
I was a girl, then, for Bruce Banner.
He had his moments.
He tore open the universe with his observations.
But aging weakened me with guilt.
What is the difference between fourteen years difference?
Look at Hugh Hefner.

Who falls in love with Hulk?
Someone who hopes, that’s who.

I pushed his buttons, the mutton
dressed as a lamb,
in Milan,
Montenegro, Mozambique,
so the opposite of chic,
oblique,
deliberately obtruse,
in the bathtub.
Hulk the lover, Hulk the mother,
sensitive, caring, good with puppies.

Hulk the brother,
Hulk the constant translator.

But then miss thing showed up.
She was fifty five.
And a lifetime of drug abuse had made
her a monster too.
She claimed friendship with Vivienne Westwood.
But she’s still alive, and such a friendship could only
occur in the underworld, miss thing was a real thief.

A real piece of work.

He looked like a stork. Vivienne Westwood!

Never lie.

Bruce Banner and Miss Thing fell in love. They were both men.
They moved to Oxford to attempt male pregnancies.

I am leaving you two days before Christmas, Hulk said.
Because I really want you to feel my resentment, my vindictiveness,
and my utter disgust of you.
You are deplorable,
insufferable,
and you are manipulative,
and mean.
But at least you are a good artist, Bruce Banner said.

At least you are a good artist.

Who falls in love with Hulk?
Someone who wishes to change love, that’s who.

I should’ve kept my ambitions small.
I should’ve pinned them against the wall
and watched them wriggle till they died.

But I am alive,
and I have to try,
even if it means to fail

something prevails
a fact of gold
so boldly

through the experience.
I moved on, too.

We hope you enjoyed your stay in Great Brexit,
I heard as I went through the last revolving doors.

Cyprus,
my birthplace! I am
back!

Six weeks later
I am still confident in my decision.

And everything disappears
except a bit of a trauma, here and there.

But mostly
it is (for now) under control.

We’ve got soul.