I’ve been listening to Jeff Beck for weeks now. Nothing else. I haven’t done this in ages. Listening only to Jeff Beck for a while gives you a very distinct type of perception where your brain sees things like they’re extremely fluid but also very in control.
The weather during the day saps all strength. I sat with my girlfriends on cold stone, drinking a million colourful drinks. Our throats and skin felt dry as paper. Our shirts are paper-thin and the legs of our jeans are rolled up. We circle our ankles with our fingers.
We have nothing to do and we talk in fits. Beauty is a law. It’s a circle which can’t be broken into by those who have ever doubted whether they belong. It can only be walked into with a casual but rock solid awareness of one’s own beauty. Beauty is an absolute.

We sat like two dirty, sticky children who needed to be watched constantly to make sure they don’t start wrestling or laughing for hours over something silly and trivial. Like two children who have excluded everybody from our private circle, who just simply belong and refuse to let other people in. He said he thought he had experienced love earlier, but that wasn’t quite it. With us it doesn’t matter how right or wrong we get it. Like children who value their boredom and curiosity. Who wonder about every inch of the other and spend hours and days exploring and finding out. Days spent just sitting together. Just belonging.
There are too many absolutes in our lives. There are many circles I know I belong in. I have never had any doubts about myself. Somehow I’ve managed to escape many feminine cliques. Sitting with my middle finger meeting my thumb around my ankle. Bright eyes and warm arms.
He’s the red triangle that I’ve chosen to draw around myself. Blue squares that are meant to have a calming effect. Purple ellipses, fat as grapes. Brown polka dots, each the size of a pin’s head. There’s a lot of work to be done and some catching up. The distinct feeling that we’ll spend forever catching up. We’re the thick, luxurious taste in each other’s mouths. Confident of our talent, another thing we don’t feel the need to share with others. We’re the grey skies, that appear when we shut our eyes, with a million pink clouds. We’re the night and all the time that lies in between.

I passed a gaggle of pretty girls today. I don't think I've seen any pretty, short girls. Do they exist ?

The fury of guitars and sopranos

This singing
is a kind of dying,
a kind of birth,
a votive candle.
I have a dream-mother
who sings with her guitar,
nursing the bedroom
with a moonlight and beautiful olives.
A flute came too,
joining the five strings,
a God finger over the holes.
I knew a beautiful woman once
who sang with her fingertips
and her eyes were brown
like small birds.
At the cup of her breasts
I drew wine.
At the mound of her legs
I drew figs.
She sang for my thirst,
mysterious songs of God
that would have laid an army down.
It was as if a morning-glory
had bloomed in her throat
and all that blue
and small pollen
ate into my heart
violent and religious.

Once it was a boat, quite wooden
and with no business, no salt water under it
and in need of some paint. It was no more
than a group of boards. But you hoisted her, rigged her.
She's been elected.

My nerves are turned on. I hear them like
musical instruments. Where there was silence
the drums, the strings are incurably playing. You did this.
Pure genius at work. Darling, the composer has stepped
into fire.

Today with all the time in the world at my disposal (for a short time) I went back to Anne Sexton and realised how much of her was the fluoride in my bones.