Just as the skirt needs the wind to billow, I’m not formed by things that are of myself alone. I wear my father’s belt tied around my mother’s blouse, and shoes which are from my uncle. This is me. Just as a flower does not choose its color, we are not responsible for what we have come to be.
I wake in pjs crenellated and badged,
my head full of 18th century French
battle strategies. My god! I’m Napoleon!
What can I possibly say to my creative
writing class now? How stop Heather
from deliquescing when I explain why
Ed thought her poem about her grandfather’s
funeral was about a fashion show?
Heather, good specifics but
you must attack in a pincer with the foot
then follow on the flank with the horse.
You must try to appear bigger than you are
when encountering the coyote. You must
move towards the body blow even though
it’s counterintuitive, then when
the baby’s out, dry it off and keep it warm.
No need to cut the chord unless
the hospital’s miles away.
All the wrong people are dreaming of Duchamp.
Art is one prolonged un-understanding
just as dawn is day’s un-understanding of night
and while suffering may not ennoble,
it sure sweetens the singing voice. Oh,
how I miss those small flaky cakes
of Corsica. Frequent urination
is often a problem for older men
but no one’s having the problems I’m having.
Retreat? Never! I believe this heart
will be my only heart, this mule my only mule.
A shadow races through me, profaning
the sky, and I walk without a companion wolf.
Ridges of high pressure, continued valley
heat, these wound are not deep
but go the whole way through.
In other news, I also got tickets for Monty Python today. There seems to be a theme here of going to see people you fear may be past it.
Hopefully they’ll prove me wrong. Pixies sure did.
Just back from seeing the Pixies!
They were relentless.
Nina Conti takes the puppets of her mentor Ken Campbell on a pilgrimage to Vent Haven.
Simultaneously hilarious, beautiful, heart-breaking and insane.