beth motherfucking kirby.

b thang.

SHUTUP in my boudoir

28.8.05

note the sly reference to sex, even though i said i don't talk about it.

Today i met a dead rabbit.
I walked, feeling my hips sway heavily, reading a cheque and thinking about money, and when i looked away it was directly into a glassy, velvet-brown eye.
I gasped. Gasps look like this: !. i dont know why i gasped.
So tucked under by the edge of the curb was the rabbit, a big fat soft sack of clean, uninjured fur. Its eye was all depths and chasms of chocolately glorious nothingness, inbetween straw-coloured lashes, like a far away shadow of my own.
First i walked on, and then i cam back to see him once, and then i came back to see him again.
For some reason i felt this huge pulling furry urge to watch over its squishy rectangle of cardoardy body. mainly to just, look. to just register the dead, perfect rabbit.
then, then really after deciding not to incase i saw it get squished and that would have made me sad, i carried on walking.
and as i did there was bright plasticish jazz on the wind as i walked under rounded scales of light and shade through woodland. It made me smile.
nowww i lie in my garden, sort of lulled and considering.
I have watched an aeroplane float around in the flat sky, along with some dandelion seeds, the kind you have to wish on, like dustly fairies.

you know when you look at the sky, and after some time your eyes begin to notice all these bajillions of particles of colour and light that make up the sky? well really what is it was ust all the hundreds and thousands of flying things that are there between our faces and the sun, like little gormless flies with huge eyes, or petals from trees from spring?
there might be petals too, from other springs. like i was just thinking about the sand which is probably in my brain hidden in my actual brain right now as i write this.
in something so big and ennnndless there should be more than just the obliteratingly obvious; planes, thoughts, life.

lately ive been thinking about writing things down.
alot of people do not write the saem things as me. i dont write about holidays, or friends, or sex.
i mainly thought about this after remembering an insanely old song and singing it. i was like:
"i remember when, i was five, and you were ten, boy"..what? i first heard this when i was about six. SIX for gossakes.
"you teased and made my cry! And you said.." How am remembering this? what?
"LITTLE GIRL, PLEASE DONT WAIT FOR ME," WHAT?
"WAIT PATIENTLY FOR LURVE SOMEDAY IT IWLL SURELY COME! OOH!"
and so i continue until i realise that the whole lyric-reciting chunk of my brain must be swelling with pride and will NOT RELENT.

so, what? why do i remember this? why do i remember this song from a very definitely MAY day in MAY, and why do i remember my PIN number by how it looked on its paper?
and why, why has an alarming percentage of my life dissolved away, most of my memories in the Recall and Association section, backing up things like No, we did not eat sandwiches, and Yes, i am alive?
how come the memories that are always floating around are a vague selection of people and faces.
maybe i thought it was comfort?
but theres bad memories, and embarrasing ones too, one especially that no one else saw and will be mine for ever, making me smile in exams.

one day, will my only memory be your face, in the dark, smiling, with blood on your chin?

commentz

17.8.05

today a bird nearly flew in my actual face.

dont you just sometimes really dislike the fact that life will just simply not comply with the mood youre feeling.
do you ever get that.

like i was wanting everything to go as smooth as the smoothest moving thing you remember feeling, i was baking a cake and i wanted some chocolate milk to drink. and so everything was fine but the lid wouldnt undo. like for whatever reason I DONT WANT TO KNOW, tesco, it just wouldnt undo whatever i did. and then it got reall hot and the cake didnt go right or anything.

and now. now i am a bit drunk and a bit sad. i went to get the milk and it came off easier than anything.
we have some buttercreamfrosting in a tin. a TIN. and i ate some and a night of being very drunk and very wet and very sad and very uncomfortable and very, very drunk all came back to me at once.

and now i am feeling quite blank and quite lost for no real reason.
DUSTBIN MEN SAY:
MAP: i dont know where that idea came from. you have a map in your room like that?
JAR: thats from that sci-fi film with the meteors which is called full impact or final impact or full final close impact of the third kind whatever.

commentz

13.8.05

empty dishes

the sex was silent.
we would press into each other night after sodden night, and each time her dark hair tented over squared awkward shoulders would make the rasping sound of silk over cardboard as it slid across our skin, so loud it near deafened you in the red-coloured room with red-coloured sex shining like ripe, taught berries in the last of summer's evenings, when it rains and the sky is the colour of gunpowder.

in your mind you can see a girl's face.
it is pale and pressed upwards, perhaps as if it is rising from a milky depth.
it is smoothed over, the way memory paints, and you aren't quite sure of the lines of her nose.
the imprint of the girl's face reminds you of handprints in rolling flour. dry and powder and stuck.
you see black-rimmed eyes and dark hair and red matte lips and all you recall is the rain and the silken pavement studden in chewing gum, and the sex.
her rough skin was always tepid and dry, and you smell the memory of suffocating powder. the smell of talcum reminds you of lilac decorations and tins of hairspray. using the word tin instead of can appeals to you still, even though she never noticed such nuances.
she wasnt beautiful and her lips were square and filled with crystalline shapes and patterns where they were left to dry as she slept. you never watched each other sleep, and you would sit on trains and in cafeterias fretting obsessively over whether you could be sure she ever actually closed her eyes, your mind filling rapidly with the image of a curved row of eyelashes swathed like garlands as you fuss with your teacup.
your teacup had a dark red line marching about its rim and out of focus lamps dance against the petrol raining sky.
there are a million things about her you know and she never told you, things she had forgotten and romantic reminders could not fulfil your sense of deflation at discovering a forgotten childhood.
she never interested you after that, or was beautiful to you, and yet you fucked her every night.
one thing you remember from your tenth birthday is a dinner table with blurred faces in yellow paper hats topping them, and pots of jelly. although it was noisy, you pulled your first spoonful from the jelly and in one of those accidental moments of utter silence, the vacuum of the red shining jelly combined with the upward motion of your spoon made a pop, like the sound of bad kissers, a grotesque sound under the warm sixty watt bulbs that were on because it was raining outside, and in that moment your birthday perma-smile fell from your face and landed on the table cloths, wobbling like your spoonful of pinkish wet jelly, and you suddenly felt despair at knowing the feeling of age and explicitness and obscenity.
you never told anyone.
so she reminds you perhaps of knowing sexuality. she is reminiscent too, in association, of cheap watercolour paints and the taste of them, as you were too scared to leave your bedroom to get a glass of water, so you licked the insipid blocks of colour that taste the precise same way it smells that smell the precise same way it feels.
you had sex together every night for awhile. a long while.
the last time, you think, it was raining outside and the lights were on. well, a lamp was on, a sixty watt bulb high-lighting the squareness of her hips and her black lace underwear and making her eyes smooth balls of shadow, the inside of her mouth waiting wetly and pinkly beneath a surfeit of powderly lips, for nothing in particular.
it wasn't sex like that, though. it wasnt pink, or designed to make you feel too hot, it was honest. the sadness of the honesty is what made you come back, you think. her honest stare and my honest hands, you explained once to a friend. the thought of your hands on her is horrifying and you wonder how you can ever do the same again, and so you didn't.
painfully honest, she sat as if a block of powder with dark hair in your bed, holding your gaze as you had sex.
images of your childhood and association flick through your mind as it's nerve endings are effected, like the moments when you are falling asleep and everything is important.
or a good idea.
and so it ended, and you didnt notice until some weeks after. you didnt notice. your powder mannequin of frowning plastic had burnt in a haze of listerine and paper towels and it hits you.
it hits you so hard you stop in the street as people run past in the rain and the grey and your camel overcoat gapes open in the wind and torrential sprays coming from everywhere, and you can't move.
you stood there for hours and hours letting colours of evening and night sink into you with the rain. you start to cry and you realise you don't need anything.

you found the cafeteria with the blood-red rimmed cups.
you found the pharmacy with the talcum powder tins.
you found the lie when she was seven she told to all her friends.
you found the photograph you tacked to your wall.
you found the map with arrows to your house, and hers, and the italian restaurant.
you found the image of her face in powder, falling away in your mind and at last, at long fucking last, you find peace.

one hour and one minute later, you recieve a phonecall.
you hang up instanty, tear down every scrap of paper you see, push your belongings to the floor including a jar of screws and keys and the one girl you ever loved was a collection of everything you hated and it only goes to show
you think
with a smile and your chest begins to hurt and your mouth twists in a smile like two handle bars
that you still love every girl and every boy you ever had sex with because they make you realise how much you treasured, collected memories of, cherished, loved
sex with her.

commentz

8.8.05

IN REPLY, SLY

hey baby THAT IS ME.

you are silly.

you must know the answer to all of that.
so you never said "OH YEAH I FEEL LIKE THIS"
but

come on
you are adorable and correct.

commentz

7.8.05

well what ever happened to despair.

so i have been on holiday.
there have been way over TWOHUNDREDPOSTS from the friends on my livejournal while ive been away. in one week. i hope they GET A LIFE one day.
i wont really say anything about my holiday because it doesnt interest me to regurgitate this, but it was nice. i felt the same when i came back from paris.

luke i feel really bad for you that if you stay in your room you never know the time because i think your computer clock is wrong. and your phone clock assuredly is.

ive been yearning to tie this down.
so what i think i have.
where is the rain and the cold blue.
where is me crying on the carpet in my underwear.
where is me gleaning whiskey from the cupboard and drinking with the computer screen.
where is my flirtacious self. where has she been since that boy with dark hair and dark eyes and dark everything that no one knows about.
NO ONE EVEN KNOWS AND I AM LIKE DID I GROW TIRED OF THIS DID IT TIRE ME DID I DO SOMETHING WRONG DID I HURT SOMEONE and ive put on weight and am finding it so hard to forgive myself and start again and i feel sad but im ignoring it with all i can.

i wonder what my heart looks like.

once i fell in love with a girl for a few seconds because i touched her back and it wa the softest thing i've ever felt on a human being by a long, long way.
it reminds me of the time i fell in love with a boy for some time because he spoke to me and looked at me and i winked at him, and he talked to his friends about me and blew me a kiss that i blew back and the few hours we were in the same colossal room together were wonderful, it was a perfect relationship.
once when i was maybe about eight or a bit older i fell in love with a woman in a shoe shop to see what it was like. she had hair the same colour as her lipstick.
the other day we remembered the guy (with the misfits tattoo) and it is strange i liked him so much. it is strange to think back on things. i feel like i sit high above everything in a silver crown watching rail thin streaks of blue rain and wind lacing miles of moorland before me and memories wage like samurai battles to tremulous violins.
i am the queen of everything.

commentz

operator

recent morsels

my other links.

old morsels.

28.8.05

note the sly reference to sex, even though i said i don't talk about it.

17.8.05

today a bird nearly flew in my actual face.

13.8.05

empty dishes

8.8.05

IN REPLY, SLY

7.8.05

well what ever happened to despair.