London In A June That Feels Like July

90s music and 90s culture.
Finding someone with a prescription and no morality.
East end towerblocks dissapearing into blisteringly blue skies and the heat haze.
West end life.
Reckless acquisition of responsibility.
Smoking with the best of friends.
Nostalgia for the Heath, secret alley ways of impossibily good ice-cream and old world bookshops.
Student poverty.
Picnics of fresh bread and French wine.
Longing for the freedom of driving through the streets of Hackney.
Missing friends who gave you the best of times.
Frustrated arguments on suffocating sunny days.
Frivolous make-up sex.
Desperate youth.
Self-acceptance in girlish beauty.
Brave hair and cowardly desires.
Finding welcome in unexpected places.
Secret crushes.
House hunting and money making.
Expanding one's intelligence through intellectual interests.

From the couch to the counters in my kitchen.

This will be a summer of exploration and excess. I intend to take full advantage of my youth.

Let the games begin. I endeavour to win.

Why do I feel so destructive?

Music- Sneaker Pimps- Spin, Spin Sugar

xxx

Your Sex

Those hands, powerful and mighty and yours,
Bound emasculated wept in knotted silk duress
Long to reach out, clasp and claim the dream
Of those smooth white lines, hairless and supposedly
Beautiful. But you are caught, forever seperate from
Exquisite agony.

I wish for you to revel in violent laughter
Sexual and mine, so we will get high from each other
Intensity magnified like burning light spot under the glass
Burning so hot that the world is melting and
I am tiptoeing on molten desire.

Maybe we are a little love a little lust and a little lost
But caution doesn't care when scalding soft skin
Is under rosy red fingertips, finding you there and
Ballerina lips playing note after note after note to wring
From deep inside the core of you that chord of joy
That rumbles from the centre of being which is so private so yours,
Where not even I can go.

With a kind of gentle resentment I loathe this
Sex of yours, your sex always that I cannot join
In blinding intimate pleasure- the beast that steals you
From me heart and soul. This is what I am after, what I claw for
Yet can never reach, ruined in halted moment of cliff top climax,
Hated in silent brutal fear of disappointment.



Music- Bon Iver- For Emma.

xxx

Laziness

The slow stagnant movements in bed bog and
Deliberate tongue twisters procrastinate
Our many imaginary illusioned chores
Limp limbs heavy in unwashed filth
Sweat- slightly alcoholic and lazily vitriolic
- And the smell of old cake wrapped in
Belligerent blankets and a yawning mind,
It all seems insurmountably inefficient effort.
If only we were to draw draw draaaw up
The blinds; around midday it would be
Stupendously sunny outside and maybe
We would feel like going to the Heath.



Music- None.

xxx

I

Glowing growing haze like the life-blood
Beauty of fireflies burning explicitly gentle,
Knotted in gold wonder to lanterns of fragile paper,
Crimson in magenta god.

Then flying wave after wave after wave
Down brick brackish roads so earthy in
Warmed Spanish stone, burnt by sun-orb
-Out into antithesis of night insects
Internal in other world fragility. The

True truth

Free so lamentably free to find
Morbid white demise.
Gone, to forever be life.



Music- None.

xxx