I want to own beautiful things.
A hardwood floor
to sprawl about in summer.
that peaks on vinyl
that animates the air
before it has been seen.
I want to reside as a dangling bra strap on your shoulder
My eyes to default to the furrowed creases between brow and bristles at your moment of O
My mouth to savour the bare breaths
when you part
I want every pen indentation
to arrest with intonation
that mornings lathering of soap
The groan you couldn’t help
And that era when my name
sounded like love.
I don’t want
to see the lakes surface quivering above her privates
damp clumps of moss mat beneath my bare arse
And to curl
as they drop
in the air.
If I had a $ for every time I’ve been called a muse… ‘inspirational’.
I admit. I’ve enjoyed your desire & my ego has been sufficiently stroked by what you’ve created from me. But I’m no longer content. I want to a-muse myself now.
I am After all The Fertile one.
So I’m going to impregnate the fuck out of myself.
I’ll start with jazz ( a woman likes to be woo’d after all). I’ll vibrate between all those polyrhythms and be titlated with every scratch off the record.
I’ll then dress myself in the kind of fabric that will rub up against my skin enough All eggs will release themselves in the belief something is coming.
I’ll run myself a hot bath so I can return to the womb Talk to it and say Let’s birth this baby
I’ll fire up my gut with cardamom, chilli and cinnamon so instinct will say
Yes Yes Oh yes
And no. will come with a resounding full stop.
Artists have never needed money to create. I don’t need your dollar coins.
I am the Fertile one after all.