April, yuck.

April deserves its own long convoluted text post. I will write that soon, maybe. Or maybe I won’t – I’m no good at follow through. Also: does it matter, really, to anyone but me?

Here’s some noise:

 

The Jesus Lizard – Skull of a German

 

Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy – We are Unhappy

 

Ex-Cult – Knives on Both Sides

 

Henry Jamison – If You Could Read My Mind

 

Langhorne Slim – Changes

This month so far I have listened to a lot more Savage Garden than I thought was possible in almost 2 days. Next thing I know I’ll have only listened to Placebo for 31 days! Gosh, what a freak I am.

Jennifer Chang, “Pastoral”

Something in the field is
working away. Root-noise.
Twig-noise. Plant
of weak chlorophyll, no
name for it. Something
in the field has mastered
distance by living too close
to fences. Yellow fruit, has it
pit or seeds? Stalk of wither. Grass-
noise fighting weed-noise. Dirt
and chant. Something in the
field. Coreopsis. I did not mean
to say that. Yellow petal, has it
wither-gift? Has it gorgeous
rash? Leaf-loss and worried
sprout, its bursting art. Some-
thing in the. Field fallowed and
cicada. I did not mean to
say. Has it roar and bloom?
Has it road and follow? A thistle
prick, fraught burrs, such
easy attachment. Stem-
and stamen-noise. Can I lime-
flower? Can I chamomile?
Something in the field cannot.

Anne Carson, from “The Glass Essay”

I

I can hear little clicks inside my dream.
Night drips its silver tap
down the back.
At 4 A.M. I wake. Thinking

of the man who
left in September.
His name was Law.

My face in the bathroom mirror
has white streaks down it.
I rinse the face and return to bed.
Tomorrow I am going to visit my mother.

SHE

She lives on a moor in the north.
She lives alone.
Spring opens like a blade there.
I travel all day on trains and bring a lot of books—

some for my mother, some for me
including The Collected Works Of Emily Brontë.
This is my favourite author.

Also my main fear, which I mean to confront.
Whenever I visit my mother
I feel I am turning into Emily Brontë,

my lonely life around me like a moor,
my ungainly body stumping over the mud flats with a look of transformation
that dies when I come in the kitchen door.
What meat is it, Emily, we need?