Mary and Mohammad (or, 5am poetry/prose/stream of consciousness)

INTRODUCTION to my 5am ramble

Early (very early!) this morning I read a poem from one of my newest, and now, dearest friends. Well, I read several stanzas. It was too beautiful. I got overwhelmed, and the night was fading and falling away before me (dawn was coming), and my room was lit in hopelessly perfect mood-lighting, and there was a picture of someone I thought I could have loved on the wall (see previous post: 'This is...') and so I started to write frantically every thought I had in my mind. I remembered  the time I 'took' his virginity on a similar 5am sunrise. I remembered the tenderness.  

Then I took some coffee, and with a cough, a hoarse voice and lots of tears (Don't worry all too much: it's terribly easy to make me cry. My star sign is cancer.) I recorded myself speaking these thoughts/verses/bull. I decided not to censor it at all -- as a testament to the strange, strange, strange things that a 5am mind produces. It's not beautiful, or nicely formed, but it is honest!

Enjoy, my dear friends.
Maybe one day I will take these thoughts, polish them, add some cillit bang, and make something gorgeous.

AUDIO FILE & TRANSCRIPT 

Listen to my ridiculous voice (if the audio manages to upload. It probably won't.) and read the text below at same time, maybe with some quiet music in the background, for example this clip: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l63o9ryHslA

Boy in the Blanket

You, you, you, you, you

You, you, you, you, you

Took it.

You, you, you, you

You, you, you, you

Took it.

You held it in your mouth,
  And with a word, all the love rushed out,
The bite pressèd to the lips,
The half-shone pain [lemon-stained pain, ash-table-candle-row]

You, you, you, you

You, you, you

Took it.

We could remember the dawn. 

We can always remember the dawn 

(Ha.)

But I want to hide, to lust, to fall, to disconnect from these desires. I want to live in the should. I’ve only ever lived in the should, before. 

And it’s comfortable. I have never let myself live in connection with [my] desires –

 removed from the pressure, the passive glances, of what [they] wanted.

 Let's keep the cogs timed in a pantheon – something for love, something for work, something for posterity. Just enough of every chemical mixed, and everything right. Just right! 

 Enough half-stretched smiles to keep life sustainable for an eternity of unsatisfaction [sic], faked orgasms and the stench of a dissatisfied Hausfrau’s cabbage stew suffocating her children in passive-aggressive love and CHAT MAGAZINE: 

yes, yes, yes! 

Sensationalist headlines keep us thinking that everyone else

  is mildly less

  happy…

  and considerably more FUCKED UP and EMOTIONALLY DISABLED

THIS IS THE WAY IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE!

OF COURSE IT IS!

Headlines: 

“The tumour that almost ATE ME ALIVE!”

“My father raped me with an upside down candlestick and then turned me into a dwarf’s ragged pimp”

“I only lived on a diet of pre-chewed radishes for 14 years”

“My mother is a Bulgarian transvestite!”

THIS IS THE WAY IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE!

OF COURSE IT IS!

Just accept it! 

BULLSHIT. BULLSHIT. BULLSHIT. BULLSHIT. BULLSHIT. BULLSHIT. BULLSHIT. BULLSHIT. BULLSHIT. BULLSHIT.

But. 

  You were more than this,

  [I know you were….] 

  I thought, I hoped, I wanted (oh, fuck, I wanted)

  But now I know not 

  What illusions, mysteries, particles we

Brewed between our eyes.

I have nothing but empty hummus pots.

 I see a printed-paper image of your face, glancing from under an artificially-lit sink, beside some chemical cleaning liquid to clean the shit of my constant disorganisation, papers everywhere full of Soviet bureaucracy to keep the human pacified and the files loved, some out-of-date gherkins in a jar, an aftershave bottle….

and fish pills strewn on the floor.  (Omega 3 to nourish the young and blind the scum!)

Leather shoes, coffee beans, an overflown bin…

  And yes, some forints in my pocket. 

And of course, sometimes, without you, in the melancholic self-conscious act of mutilating my own mind, I see the kitchen knife on a Cambridge desk, and the sweat it builds, and I imagine the narratives of what they would say, and I know it’s ridiculous, but I do it anyway, because  you are a symptom. 

And now, the half-cold, free and frozen, early morning return,

Without you.

But in you,

In you, in you, in you!

I was in you! 

In yours! 

In yours!

And now still alone.

But grateful.

My skin is bare,

And the blanket draped around my shoulders.

I stand defiant, and I remember!

But it's hard to dance with the devil on your back. 

With tears in eyes, and the hot-remnants of blond locks crowning my Jesaic messianic head,

Hair artificially spiked upwards, defiantly, definitely, hopefully, shame-embarrassed hope,

up-
wards.
up-
wards.

There are no doors. I have no keys. 

P.S. JAY BRANNAN 

I also rediscovered one of my favourite blasphemous songs today. It is amazing. Read the lyrics and click on the link in blue! 

Goddamned- Jay Brannan

"Mary and Mohammad are screaming through the clouds

for you to lay your goddamned arms down

rip your bigot roots up from the earth and salt the goddamned ground!"