Thursday, 23 August 2007

Uganda and Her Mouthful of Dust

I am wrapping Christmas presents
in pretty pink and gold paper,

like the plastic surgeon

I fold old skins from last year’s leftovers,
smooth my hands over creases,

trim off the excess fat

to stitch with vines
of cellotape taut to my shelf.

Over my shoulder

a girl’s lips and ears are missing,
hacked off by a boy of 12.

She looks unfinished,

not deformed or inhuman,
unreadable but for her eyes

big and brown,

her lashes erect
write words her mouth now cannot say.

If I could I’d sprout her lips with texture,

a kiwi’s skin, a feather,
coax them back with a peach’s fur,

or a kiss maybe

to dress them up in a pout of wild colour.
But I wrap boxes here, useless,

separated by pixels, a million miles of skin,

her eyes frozen in Uganda’s civil war,
she queues for a plastic surgeon

with a mouthful of dust.

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Wednesday, 22 August 2007

'The pair remained on good terms and on 30 May she picked him up from a party in Crosby and went back for drinks with friends at Mr Jones's house....'

I can finally see why people find it so hard to leave jail - to regain faith in a way of life now alien to them. I can also see why people begin to live inside their job, becoming a slave to an invisible bar that isn't entirely there.

Meh.

You do this for money and nothing else.

I'm a barrel of contradictions. Before I quit I used to go into the job with some weird merge of 'fuck you I'm one of those creative souls destined for a greater destiny beyond the scanner' and 'hey, but what if I stick this out? I could create an envirOnment of stability in my life far beyond the financial arse-pit I'm currently in!' These two contradictions have been beaten into me from (the former) a poetry teacher I had at Uni and (the latter) my own flesh and blood red blood. They don't sit well.

>>>>>>>?<<<<<<<<

It's a weird feeling of wanting to kill the new temp who actually does his work (a temp has a responsibility to do as little work as conceivably possible) and a need to sample praise for your scanning, just in case you swallow the colostomy bag of permanent employment and need for the feeling of that you can do THIS.

The two contradictions of creativity and stagnant cripple altering pain finally came to a head on Monday and I decided to quit. Not before I gave into the managers whine of 'too short a notice' and agreed to end today. That's 1 hour of internet bore saving, 2 hours of lunch and 13 hours of scanning. I'm bored of absently pleasing you.

I can now afford a new passport though, yay!

What bother's me most though, is that I have taken the high ground and chose to quit mind numbing jobs for fear of this mythical creativity and I'm still not entirely sure how I want to express it. The music is finished in October. Maybe I should re-start the poetry, dust off the quills and pen a magical thesis on pescatarianism. I hate poetry though. Or maybe I should make more music.... I can't be bothered to write about music this instant.

I can create music but I am in no way a musician. I'm a writer but in no-way I can write.


OOOoooooooooooooooo Big Brother's on.



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