Will I always feel like this? Like swamp mud Viscous, formless. I need warm, firm hands To sculpt me into something Recognisable Like a woman, or a tree. I wish I was a fearless Roman Goddess Or an African warrior with my Tits out. I would invite death To pierce my soft underside, And then…
Read More
Previously on ‘My Imaginary Dinner Party’… Now there’s a table, a rapidly depleting selection of wines, a tepid pasta bake, a smattering of Pringle crumbs in a bowl, Leonard Cohen, Lana Del Rey, and me. Leonard’s ramped up the story-telling and Lana is sitting with one leg crossed elegantly over the other, hand-rolled cigarette in…
Read More
Previously on ‘My Imaginary Dinner Party’… There’s a table, a selection of wines, a crispy-on-top pasta bake, Leonard Cohen, and me. Leonard is relaying a long-winded but droll story about that time he made love to a beautiful archaeologist in Tel Aviv who inspired his unpublished poem Beauty in a Burka. I’ve got a weird…
Read More
Seven weeks today, I’ll be a wife. It doesn’t really mean much to me right now. If I think too much about what it does mean I’ll probably just scare myself, like when you start to think too deeply about your own inevitable death, or stare into your own face in the mirror for too…
Read More
Sorry. I know it’s a trite title. Or tritle, if you will. It’s just that existential crises are all the rage this AW16 season, like bomber jackets and off-the-shoulder dresses and feminism, and I don’t want to miss out.
Read More
