Drink a Bowl of Blood
Scraping sweet cruel moss
from my eyes
I became a stone with a
heart, I became an animal of more
thorny labyrinthine needs
somehow the humanity of love
made me more a creature
I needed this forest
my luve, my luve was turning me
to amber at the heart-rate of terror
my dreams souring like milk,
parts of me simply starting dropping
branches, I could bear only
blooms of blue pain
And nothing but weak and cloudy
tea filled my veins
Now I drink a bowl of blood
Drink a bowl of blood
Drink a bowl of blood ev’ry morning
Drink a bowl of blood ev’ry evening
It slides down my chin, it stains my sweater
my thirst is a hunger
I must be corporeal
I must be slapped into color
The heart must start beating
A bowl of blood my luve never gave me
he never gave me a bowl
of blood
I gather it now for myself
dripping from the trees
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
For there's not a girl in this whole, wide world, as easily led as I
you could make me believe,
with your lying tongue,
that the sun rose in the west.
anne briggs.
with your lying tongue,
that the sun rose in the west.
anne briggs.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
felt slippers
well it is raining isn't it
the sky is opaque a cup of tea i think of how,
i like it and
of how you wouldn't like it
baby bairn i'm acclimatin'
it's all very infatuatin'
the sky full of water
the sound full of sea
the lake full of lake and the
city full of wells,
the sky is opaque a cup of tea i think of how,
i like it and
of how you wouldn't like it
baby bairn i'm acclimatin'
it's all very infatuatin'
the sky full of water
the sound full of sea
the lake full of lake and the
city full of wells,
but i think of how
i wore your grey felt slippers
'round your house
i think of how
you would scratch my curly head
with those long, blonde
square fingers
how no one else
could do it that way
and a bloom of sadness
which lies half-asleep
turns its frown
toward my face
and looks right
into my eyes.
so it is then.
never a stain that rain could
just wash away
a bruise
something beneath my skin
and i don't know
how many bowls of blood
i will have to drink
before my own overtakes
the tea in my veins
such spiders-legs compared
to your thick branches
Saturday, March 24, 2012
ten names for Igraine
i told you some things,
ten names for Igraine,
i asked why do my long
underwear grow so baggy 'round
the knees?
i told you some things,
this rune is called a such and such.
you showed me some runes.
(that first night-- the second--
i remember the moon--
it was yellow, and huge, it was
january, it was bronze,)
i have wanted many and most of the time
to be buried in your barrow
to be a cherished object or a
trusted tool
to be of value to you
(the thought of being loved by you
was too large for my mind
as with god the beauty
was more
than my mind could comprehend)
but i do love you,
it is flesh, fluids, breath
which love you
a bowl of blood
and a heavy head
a body in a bed
this cloth keeps me warm
i can cover my skin
and you can cover yours
and i can love you
and while i'm alone
entreat the friendship of the ghost
and some time the weather will be fine
and i will not want to be
a treasure any more
and i will know
ten more names
for Igraine
ten names for Igraine,
i asked why do my long
underwear grow so baggy 'round
the knees?
i told you some things,
this rune is called a such and such.
you showed me some runes.
(that first night-- the second--
i remember the moon--
it was yellow, and huge, it was
january, it was bronze,)
i have wanted many and most of the time
to be buried in your barrow
to be a cherished object or a
trusted tool
to be of value to you
(the thought of being loved by you
was too large for my mind
as with god the beauty
was more
than my mind could comprehend)
but i do love you,
it is flesh, fluids, breath
which love you
a bowl of blood
and a heavy head
a body in a bed
this cloth keeps me warm
i can cover my skin
and you can cover yours
and i can love you
and while i'm alone
entreat the friendship of the ghost
and some time the weather will be fine
and i will not want to be
a treasure any more
and i will know
ten more names
for Igraine
i loved to love you, but that's all through. i loved to be lying next to you.
I. Begging the Ghost
I came into the bedroom, I begged
the ghost, please to come back, please to be with me
I said, if you think that i need you, please
tell me somehow you are here, and I am quiet
and I am patient
and I am studious
and I wait for the ghost to reply.
II. The Daffodils
The daffodils
in the glass vase
were also just babies
III. Love You
I do love you, but it is alright.
A heart can break and does.
Revolves, slowly
and quick,
that apple,
that painted egg
I came into the bedroom, I begged
the ghost, please to come back, please to be with me
I said, if you think that i need you, please
tell me somehow you are here, and I am quiet
and I am patient
and I am studious
and I wait for the ghost to reply.
II. The Daffodils
The daffodils
in the glass vase
were also just babies
III. Love You
I do love you, but it is alright.
A heart can break and does.
Revolves, slowly
and quick,
that apple,
that painted egg
there is a ghost in this room
there is a ghost in this room
a moment ago
it shook the blinds
it's been a long time
and although before,
-before-
i felt as if i had a thing to say
something about beck
and call, beck and call
it fell away like some feathery
gray petal
a moment ago
it shook the blinds
it's been a long time
and although before,
-before-
i felt as if i had a thing to say
something about beck
and call, beck and call
it fell away like some feathery
gray petal
Friday, March 23, 2012
Thursday, March 22, 2012
my baby cries
"so when you see me
passing by
please hold me deep
in your heart
and just remember
i want to help you
i don't want to hurt you
just remember
i want to help you
i don't want to hurt you
so don't tear it apart."
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
heathens
when god was not a word
more a sheaf of wheat or a chest
pressed against a chest,
divine with sweat
there were simple things
more a sheaf of wheat or a chest
pressed against a chest,
divine with sweat
there were simple things
a long girl loved daffodils
she kept her hopes in bowls
i've heard-- been told--
a little bairn chased a pheasant
into a nettle patch
cold water seizes the lungs
truths like torques close
'round the heart
i do not know what one does
only a rattling
seed-pod
which says
what's done
is done
my love
what's done
is done
retrospect
heathen is twisted in a tangled knot
cannot negotiate this knot
i am falling asleep in a little boy's bed
with Mr. Badger and wool blankets
there was an inevitability to it
i could never have let it lie
not after the first thoughtless scraps (chatchat)
i know myself that well at least
and intimacy.
intimacy.
from that moment forward the poison
imbibed, digested
not the nakedness, arching
tongue or teeth
before all that
the shadow puppets
cannot negotiate this knot
i am falling asleep in a little boy's bed
with Mr. Badger and wool blankets
there was an inevitability to it
i could never have let it lie
not after the first thoughtless scraps (chatchat)
i know myself that well at least
and intimacy.
intimacy.
from that moment forward the poison
imbibed, digested
not the nakedness, arching
tongue or teeth
before all that
the shadow puppets
fuck
I wonder what we are trying to be. I think, maybe it is our age. Maybe at our age we are all trying to be something. I don't know what I'm trying to be. I am not trying to get out of bed. I am not trying to leave the house. I am not trying to shower or eat. I am on my health insurance's website. I am trying to get a new shrink, in the new town, the town I'm moving to. I'm trying to do that.
I can tell I am dirty because when I raise my hand to feel the my short short hair my neck feels waxy. This is also a symptom of turning to wax. This is something that I am doing. I am doing this.
I have been wearing these long underwear for five days now. I pull them down when I put a tampon in, but I never take them off. Sleep in them live in them. Whatever. God damn it fuck I'm not okay.
If I were fine I would not be listening to this song called "We Are Fine" over and over. I'm not fine, you're certainly not fucking fine, hence, we are not fine. We are not fine. I just need to put on a new album. I just need to drive out to the marina. I just need to stop loving you. I just need to take a klonopin. I just need to eat breakfast. I just need to get out in the sun. Oh wait it's raining. I just need to get out in the rain. I just need to do the laundry. I just need to buck up. Is that what I always say? Buck up? I just need to buck up. I really just need to leave my room. Really really badly I need to leave my room. I just need to stop loving you. I just need to stop, that.
"Am I Blue?" "On With the Show!"
It is true though-- last night was the first in a long, long time when I didn't have a nightmare. (Thanks, God. Thanks very, very much, truly.)
The fact that I cannot make you happy is mother fucking baffling to me.
The fact that I don't care about making myself happy is a mother fucking problem.
This is a circumstantial depression. I know these sorts of states. "Circumstantial depression": heartbreak, et cetera. No, mostly heartbreak. "Other": hormonal imbalance, post-traumatic episode. This is a "Circumstantial depression".
Why is there no fucking song that sounds appropriate for this moment?
I can tell I am dirty because when I raise my hand to feel the my short short hair my neck feels waxy. This is also a symptom of turning to wax. This is something that I am doing. I am doing this.
I have been wearing these long underwear for five days now. I pull them down when I put a tampon in, but I never take them off. Sleep in them live in them. Whatever. God damn it fuck I'm not okay.
If I were fine I would not be listening to this song called "We Are Fine" over and over. I'm not fine, you're certainly not fucking fine, hence, we are not fine. We are not fine. I just need to put on a new album. I just need to drive out to the marina. I just need to stop loving you. I just need to take a klonopin. I just need to eat breakfast. I just need to get out in the sun. Oh wait it's raining. I just need to get out in the rain. I just need to do the laundry. I just need to buck up. Is that what I always say? Buck up? I just need to buck up. I really just need to leave my room. Really really badly I need to leave my room. I just need to stop loving you. I just need to stop, that.
"Am I Blue?" "On With the Show!"
It is true though-- last night was the first in a long, long time when I didn't have a nightmare. (Thanks, God. Thanks very, very much, truly.)
The fact that I cannot make you happy is mother fucking baffling to me.
The fact that I don't care about making myself happy is a mother fucking problem.
This is a circumstantial depression. I know these sorts of states. "Circumstantial depression": heartbreak, et cetera. No, mostly heartbreak. "Other": hormonal imbalance, post-traumatic episode. This is a "Circumstantial depression".
Why is there no fucking song that sounds appropriate for this moment?
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Monday, March 19, 2012
allison and peter became friends
Peter:
So, an introduction: I am Peter, I am a journalist and musician in San Francisco. I like fine bike routes, champagne, and busy schedules. et vous?
Allison:
hello peter! i am allison. i am an oakland based poet, soon to wander! i like cats, antiques, falling in love, and tea. my two greatest desires are babies and publication! WOW this is going on my blog.
whisp'ring
whisp'ring
(dear heathen,
he lied...)
he is trying to make things simple for himself.
let him.
(i will, i will. my tea
went cold. cold kippers cold kippers.
and i did, i cried so much, heathen
not quite ALL of the time but
seas in teacups...)
and cease yr weeps, bairn, it's
not raining battery acid is it?
(yes yes. okay you're right i will.)
(dear heathen,
he lied...)
he is trying to make things simple for himself.
let him.
(i will, i will. my tea
went cold. cold kippers cold kippers.
and i did, i cried so much, heathen
not quite ALL of the time but
seas in teacups...)
and cease yr weeps, bairn, it's
not raining battery acid is it?
(yes yes. okay you're right i will.)
Saturday, March 17, 2012
seeing it now
heathen is a stranger,
but she will let you know her
brown-haired girl, needled with dye
beneath her long underwear a birch-
body
stamped with constellations
soaked in woad,
a little bairn,
dreaming, sleeping, songs from
a music-box,
soft green yarn and march hares.
pale and preferring wool,
quite exquisitely hungry:
for something more than clay,
for more fuel than peat provides,
for an all-together new color of
light,
quite exquisitely hungry:
and sick of chewing candlewax
and through with saying, that
in the dark, brackish water
could just as well be beer,
a scrap of paper could be a blanket,
a wall could be a window,
static silence could be love, no,
that isn't so,
that doesn't ring,
and if you haven't even heard
her sing,
have you really known heathen at all?
but she will let you know her
brown-haired girl, needled with dye
beneath her long underwear a birch-
body
stamped with constellations
soaked in woad,
a little bairn,
dreaming, sleeping, songs from
a music-box,
soft green yarn and march hares.
pale and preferring wool,
quite exquisitely hungry:
for something more than clay,
for more fuel than peat provides,
for an all-together new color of
light,
quite exquisitely hungry:
and sick of chewing candlewax
and through with saying, that
in the dark, brackish water
could just as well be beer,
a scrap of paper could be a blanket,
a wall could be a window,
static silence could be love, no,
that isn't so,
that doesn't ring,
and if you haven't even heard
her sing,
have you really known heathen at all?
Friday, March 16, 2012
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
explaining my dreams to the heathen
you say that dreams are not to be taken
quite literally, not quite
to be believed
but that is not what i meant little
bairn, sweet heathen,
you were there, and you were not there.
you did not see the little duckling
or its mama's broken neck
you did not see that limpness like a slack
silk chord
and you were not the one
who was shot.
and in this way
i am very strange:
i can love forever
like a stream which does not
cease,
i can love for now
and loosen, like a
falconer
and i can love in future
for all the days and nights
i tossed and crew
trying to crawl between your ribs,
i feel now as if my chest's cage
has been flayed and splayed bare
i knew i would find you there
there were i have held you
soaked in woad,
a little bairn,
sweet my heathen,
so unwilling,
you do not know what it is
i dream of--
how black the ink or how
stubborn the stain.
quite literally, not quite
to be believed
but that is not what i meant little
bairn, sweet heathen,
you were there, and you were not there.
you did not see the little duckling
or its mama's broken neck
you did not see that limpness like a slack
silk chord
and you were not the one
who was shot.
and in this way
i am very strange:
i can love forever
like a stream which does not
cease,
i can love for now
and loosen, like a
falconer
and i can love in future
for all the days and nights
i tossed and crew
trying to crawl between your ribs,
i feel now as if my chest's cage
has been flayed and splayed bare
i knew i would find you there
there were i have held you
soaked in woad,
a little bairn,
sweet my heathen,
so unwilling,
you do not know what it is
i dream of--
how black the ink or how
stubborn the stain.
Monday, March 12, 2012
temperamental weather
in my dream
like Alma i was
shot and again
and again
one true bullet hit
you took me down my
bairn my little bairn
yellow haired and all
you took me down
you, visiting
the horse's grave
you took me down
you and the grandfather's
clock
you took me down
the dregs in
your teacup there on the desk
they take me down
you think me healthy
and natural
milk-glass or bees' wax
or good steady light
i think me
temperamental weather
like Alma i was
shot and again
and again
one true bullet hit
you took me down my
bairn my little bairn
yellow haired and all
you took me down
you, visiting
the horse's grave
you took me down
you and the grandfather's
clock
you took me down
the dregs in
your teacup there on the desk
they take me down
you think me healthy
and natural
milk-glass or bees' wax
or good steady light
i think me
temperamental weather
Sunday, March 11, 2012
"as i sit there mending clothes you will never, ever wear"
heartbreak is sweet like flutes
it feels old,
when i feel it,
numbing my slack feet
contorting in my little chest
i feel like a thousand brown haired women
one hundred thousand brown haired girls
who were left alone
looking 'round, and
starved
eating clay, and calling it bread
it feels old,
when i feel it,
numbing my slack feet
contorting in my little chest
i feel like a thousand brown haired women
one hundred thousand brown haired girls
who were left alone
looking 'round, and
starved
eating clay, and calling it bread
blackwaterside (traditional)
One morning fair I took the air
That hung about black waterside
T'was a gazing path all around it
And the Irish lad I spied
All through the fog, the heart of the night
We lay in sport and at play
Till this young man arose and gathered his clothes
Singing 'Fair thee well today!'
That's not the promise that you gave to me
When first you lay on my breast
You could make me believe with your lying tongue
That the sun rose in the west
And so go home to your fathers garden
Go home and await your fill
And think on your own misfortune
That you brought with your wanton will
One morning fair I took the air
That hung about black waterside
T'was a gazing path all around it
And the Irish lad I spied
That hung about black waterside
T'was a gazing path all around it
And the Irish lad I spied
All through the fog, the heart of the night
We lay in sport and at play
Till this young man arose and gathered his clothes
Singing 'Fair thee well today!'
That's not the promise that you gave to me
When first you lay on my breast
You could make me believe with your lying tongue
That the sun rose in the west
And so go home to your fathers garden
Go home and await your fill
And think on your own misfortune
That you brought with your wanton will
One morning fair I took the air
That hung about black waterside
T'was a gazing path all around it
And the Irish lad I spied
bad dreams
I.
the dreams have turned sick, and bad--
and dark,
dark movements of bodies and
horrible words are spoken--
i am lost, cheap, alone in them
so irreparably alone in them
II.
my baby is nearly vapor
with sorrow,
the baby within me,
the one which i am supposed to care for
unto the time that it can carry another,
and even after and for ever until
the abrupt and lingering end
III.
i think of what i cannot be all of my
forgotten days
i think of who i am not,
trickle my weeping bones
IV.
i am egg brittle and white;
if each face which i describe is mine
i am that moon drained of its
blood, that sad little bairn
buckled and torn by the dreams
the dreams have turned sick, and bad--
and dark,
dark movements of bodies and
horrible words are spoken--
i am lost, cheap, alone in them
so irreparably alone in them
II.
my baby is nearly vapor
with sorrow,
the baby within me,
the one which i am supposed to care for
unto the time that it can carry another,
and even after and for ever until
the abrupt and lingering end
III.
i think of what i cannot be all of my
forgotten days
i think of who i am not,
trickle my weeping bones
IV.
i am egg brittle and white;
if each face which i describe is mine
i am that moon drained of its
blood, that sad little bairn
buckled and torn by the dreams
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Friday, March 9, 2012
my ghost constant
i have a ghost constant
his face sometimes shines pale like the brittle of an egg
and a light within it,
or like the nights of cold moon
which i look at,
there,
pressed against pitch
my ghost constant
feeding on the air of my dreams
there as i wash my hair in the shower
scrub my bent neck
and long feet.
i want to feed the ghost
books, songs, little boxes,
an ashtray, a chess piece,
a reminder
that i am squeezing the invisible
hand with my hand
i fear he consumes only
empty air
but for those moments
when his body touches mine
with life
his face sometimes shines pale like the brittle of an egg
and a light within it,
or like the nights of cold moon
which i look at,
there,
pressed against pitch
my ghost constant
feeding on the air of my dreams
there as i wash my hair in the shower
scrub my bent neck
and long feet.
i want to feed the ghost
books, songs, little boxes,
an ashtray, a chess piece,
a reminder
that i am squeezing the invisible
hand with my hand
i fear he consumes only
empty air
but for those moments
when his body touches mine
with life
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
a little bairn yourself
(cut me, i think that i bleed terra cotta silt
drain me i think my lymph
opaque indigo
--i spit lapis bile--)
.
.
.
.
.
there is so much love that you do not know!
so much, love!
truly i cut this planet in half like an apple
for you
i think myself slowly turning to bronze
for you,
that i might be useful
that i might be of value
that you might wish that i should be
buried in your barrow
although i know
you're just a bairn yourself
a little bairn yourself
.
.
.
.
.
i know that it is scary!
i am afraid.
and you
little bairn i know
your fear to be more pungent
you know exactly what it is
that you fear.
you know its
unknowable
face.
have smelled
its frost.
.
.
.
.
.
you would grit to hear me say it
but you are wise with sorrow.
and i am stupid
with love.
.
.
.
.
.
it makes me smile
at chalk skulls.
stare long
at bare nothing,
write
little poems.
"she smiles as one who loves to smile" --sandy denny
Monday, March 5, 2012
daffodil st.
i suppose i do not know who cares and do not care who knows.
i am hiding beneath the table in a Vermeer.
last night willem said, that i am the second weirdest person he has ever met.
i don't know where to direct this question which i have for 'my maker':
how can i function with a heart that is this unholy swollen?
how can i breathe when I have lain my lungs under His pillow?
how can i sleep when this voice has been wakened?
how can i walk when my mother's feet are failing her?
how to be wise when i unlearn everything i have known?
how to be cruel when to the crux i am soft as a moan?
weak with no suggestion of sea legs, porous as pumice or sponge
daffodil street and its hovering heat on that day that was so indecisive
until it broke into yellow and a shuffle two chess pieces in the grass
begging the question
of what gave me the notion
that i have a right to ask
i am hiding beneath the table in a Vermeer.
last night willem said, that i am the second weirdest person he has ever met.
i don't know where to direct this question which i have for 'my maker':
how can i function with a heart that is this unholy swollen?
how can i breathe when I have lain my lungs under His pillow?
how can i sleep when this voice has been wakened?
how can i walk when my mother's feet are failing her?
how to be wise when i unlearn everything i have known?
how to be cruel when to the crux i am soft as a moan?
weak with no suggestion of sea legs, porous as pumice or sponge
daffodil street and its hovering heat on that day that was so indecisive
until it broke into yellow and a shuffle two chess pieces in the grass
begging the question
of what gave me the notion
that i have a right to ask
Sunday, March 4, 2012
adrienne rich
I'd have sucked the wound in your hand to sleep
but my lips were trembling.
Tell me how to bear myself,
how it's done, the light kiss falling
accurately
on the cracked palm.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Whichcallsforsinging
I have a talent and it is a sweet talent which appeared the year my body burned and has not left me yet. I wish I could tell you about the talent. You have expressed admiration for this talent. But I cannot say that "I can do that," I only could show you, and I don't know that the moment will ever be right. Someone inside of me says, "There is no right moment," which I have heard somewhere, maybe, or just realized, but for this, to show you this talent, there would be a moment more right than all others, and I would choose that moment to show you, and I would be afraid, and it would flutter, the talent, like when Colin's dad caught that butterfly between his hands at the baseball game. And that would be well, because that is the talent. It is fluttering. The compulsion to flutter. When I was eighteen years old, something broke, in my chest, and my voice has fluttered since then. But you do not know this and I do not know when you will, or if you will. It is not a matter of "should" or "should not," only of "whenshalliseeyouagain" and "willamomentofsuchsweetnessarise." "Amomentwhichsummonsasong." "Whichcallsforsinging."
your ghost last night
your ghost last night walked into my house it was as i was falling asleep through the front door it was your ghost it was a swarm a huge and haunting lingering plume of cigarette smoke nicotine fingers i was lying in my bed like a plank under blankets for several minutes there was a little broken-off chip of me which could not seem to stop expecting to hear your voice until it finally fused with the rest of my heart and logic decreed in that way that it does sometimes that even you or the ghost of you
even you
could not keep your presence silent for so long
Friday, March 2, 2012
go to sleep
go to sleep i'm in a little boy's shirt go to sleep maybe just
go to sleep or break a mirror or just speak backwards say
much so dancing are feet my that hate i
and much so dancing are feet my
i cried for seven seconds i drank a pot of tea i played
with dimethyl ether and it was very cold i drew an
arrow fletched between my breasts, directed toward
the ground go to sleep maybe just go to sleep maybe
just go chop some wood maybe keep a dream and
i want our bones to grind against one another's for
that intolerable sweet twinging feeling the twinge
bones are sweet like flutes sometimes i think that
i am trying to climb into your rib cage and if i did
would you let me stay? i so want to stay and not
to leave maybe go to sleep and keep a dream
much so dancing are feet my that hate i
and much so dancing are feet my
diphenhydramine should i wear your ring?
we've been steady these days rocking steady
i drink you down in cherry liquid and then i go
to sleep maybe just go to sleep and keep a dream
i am so unqualified for this beautiful ghost i love
too much maybe should just speak backwards
much too love i that hate i and much too love i
go to sleep or break a mirror or just speak backwards say
much so dancing are feet my that hate i
and much so dancing are feet my
i cried for seven seconds i drank a pot of tea i played
with dimethyl ether and it was very cold i drew an
arrow fletched between my breasts, directed toward
the ground go to sleep maybe just go to sleep maybe
just go chop some wood maybe keep a dream and
i want our bones to grind against one another's for
that intolerable sweet twinging feeling the twinge
bones are sweet like flutes sometimes i think that
i am trying to climb into your rib cage and if i did
would you let me stay? i so want to stay and not
to leave maybe go to sleep and keep a dream
much so dancing are feet my that hate i
and much so dancing are feet my
diphenhydramine should i wear your ring?
we've been steady these days rocking steady
i drink you down in cherry liquid and then i go
to sleep maybe just go to sleep and keep a dream
i am so unqualified for this beautiful ghost i love
too much maybe should just speak backwards
much too love i that hate i and much too love i
to love somebody
I'm a woman.
Can't you see what I am?
I live and breathe for you.
What good does it do,
If I ain't got you?
If I ain't got you.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
deep in wool
deep in wool
deep in sleep
i have not lost my way, i have
never known the way
can feel only the heavily
anchored way
of the weight
of my feet
to the ground
(follow an arrow)
found a sweater
found butter
lithuanian princess
rolls away in the fog
deep in sleep
i have not lost my way, i have
never known the way
can feel only the heavily
anchored way
of the weight
of my feet
to the ground
(follow an arrow)
found a sweater
found butter
lithuanian princess
rolls away in the fog
Isolde/Deirdre
"There are three trees that are good:
Holy and ivy and yew.
They put forth leaves while they last,
And Tristan shall have me as long as he lives."
"My sight is gone from me,
From looking at the grave of Naoise."
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2012
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March
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- Drink a Bowl of Blood
- For there's not a girl in this whole, wide world, ...
- felt slippers
- ten names for Igraine
- No title
- Just So You Know
- i loved to love you, but that's all through. i lov...
- Where I Like to Stand
- there is a ghost in this room
- here come the Hills of Time
- my love is a baby a right little bairn, and fri...
- when
- No title
- my baby cries
- heathens
- retrospect
- fuck
- Death: Don't you ever stop asking? Antonius B...
- Seeing It Now song
- allison and peter became friends
- whisp'ring
- seeing it now
- Heathen
- explaining my dreams to the heathen
- No title
- temperamental weather
- i have a sorry body made of sugar or wax it looks ...
- bath
- Straight Reading: "As I Sit There Mending Clothes ...
- No title
- "as i sit there mending clothes you will never, ev...
- you go your way my love
- blackwaterside (traditional)
- bad dreams
- No title
- my ghost constant
- tonight i learned i do not love myself it is a pr...
- No title
- I Cant Sleep I Lost My Page
- a little bairn yourself
- No title
- blackwaterside
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- daffodil st.
- Deenie Hey Deenie
- adrienne rich
- Much So Dancing -- a reading of Go To Sleep
- Whichcallsforsinging
- your ghost last night
- ' Not quickly,but I am definitely going down, do...
- go to sleep
- corporeal
- A Story
- My Tears In The Typing Pool
- "I tune in to some friendly voices,talking about ...
- to love somebody
- deep in wool
- Isolde/Deirdre
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March
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