By sarah 27 Feb 2002
I dumped a pile of pictures of me up on my site. Sort of a retrospective of my first night out shooting. I’m planning to take more next week. Actually, I took a pile and they sucked, so I’m waiting for a gf from down for the weekend and take some more… and help me using this bloody camera…
By sarah 24 Feb 2002
Shit: noun, verb, exclamation, denegration;
<p>the ‘final act’ of a great meal.</p>
<p>An act of giving with no expectation of return.</p>
<p>A purging of the purpled prose of life.</p>
Shit—it falls with scarce a thought and much relief.
<p>The ultimate act of solitary solidarity with the self.</p>
<p>A woman, giving birth, is not alone,</p>
<p>but here there is no divison of the sexes,</p>
<p>in the ingored, ignoble action </p>
<p>of the cycle of life.</p>
<p>Is poetry that different?</p> By sarah 16 Feb 2002
Ok. This is weird, but I just thought of doing it. It is an imagepoem. Not that concrete abstract stuff, but something infinitely more sexi. Ivy Blossom and I were AIMtalking and the topic of sexi came up… so it is on my brain. Click on the picture and you’ll go off magically to RunwayLove. Sorry, it is about 300k. But art hurts. Heeeeeee. I’m thrilled about this.
By sarah 14 Feb 2002
Dear Diary…
<p>I’ve been in a funk. A blue funk, not a mirror ball and retro70s bighair funk. And I’ve been pulling at bits and pieces of my mind trying to write my way out of it. I failed. Which worked. Nothing like failure to show you that you look like a dork. Nothing like loooking like a dork to make you realize people laugh at you. Nothing like laughter to get you caught up in it. THen you’re laughing at yourself, and you wonder how you got there, but you’re tired from laughing. So you make tea. Of course the cup of tea would perhaps have done the same thing in the beginning, but it is all about process. And the result of the process is five poems, started them last night, just finished them up now. Not that good, but satisfying to write. And since no one but Anders knows how to delete them, ehre they are… I’m now off to ponder what Lani’s upto… squeekily.</p>
<p><i>L</i><i>ife Writing</i></p>
<p>Writing for your very life </p>
<p>in a world beyond the cold.</p>
<p>A truly terrible aesthetic </p>
<p>of forced and unforseen choice.</p>
<p>Written in unfamiliar dreams and </p>
<p>yet remembered nightmares;</p>
<p>Poetic desires carved into forms </p>
<p>of administration and fear.</p>
<p><hr></p>
<p><i>L</i><i>ilac Shadow</i><i>s</i></p>
<p>Lilac shadows opening my petal of dripping </p>
<p>warmth and comfort that calls us both</p>
<p>to harvest moist uncertainty.</p>
<p>Suicide’s curving throne of our bodies</p>
<p>entwined and writhing without borders.</p>
<p>Could we kill ourselves to ensure </p>
<p>these lilac shadows never end.</p>
<p><hr></p>
<p><i>Audio Miasma </i></p>
<p>Audio Miasma throbs at my gut with an unseen viral beat </p>
<p>of broken tonal drones. I fall into the haze </p>
<p>of an infected inductive rhythm, lost in </p>
<p>machinations of someone else’s mind.</p>
<p>The night fractures into an </p>
<p>endless moan that sings </p>
<p>our bodies through the </p>
<p>cafe mystique, out </p>
<p>into the tango </p>
<p>night, soon </p>
<p>ending on </p>
<p>a taxi </p>
<p>good</p>
<p>nig</p>
<p>ht</p>
<p>.</p>
<p><hr></p>
<p><i>F</i><i>enland Dwelle</i><i>r</i></p>
<p>Shunned and on the edge </p>
<p>in the marshes of the Carmague</p>
<p>lost live in the sewers of the Rhone.</p>
<p>Tavellers hide from our stories </p>
<p>told to keep them full of fear.</p>
<p>They fear for their lives and souls, </p>
<p>and leave us well alone.</p>
<p>Fear and loathing in the swamp, </p>
<p>death and damned decay.</p>
<p>With black sarah, kali’s gypsie goddess,</p>
<p>we are rich beyond belief, lost and hidden</p>
<p>in the fear of our fenland tidal home.</p>
<p><hr></p>
<p><i>B</i><i>icuspid</i></p>
<p>Teeth rip, blood gnashing</p>
<p>hell, into the maelstrom</p>
<p>of flesh that is</p>
<p>your heart.</p>
<p>Screams infect your mind, your</p>
<p>blood coagulating with </p>
<p>my viral love.</p> By sarah 30 Jan 2002
I don’t think many read my blog. I am more happy iwth this poem than anything else I’ve written in the past year. It was a total epiphany that fell off my fingers while listening to robert fripp and david sylvian play ‘exposure. It still makes me smile.
Blue broken veins of my lover's ore become nuggets of memory on my finger and at my throat. They still beat as they reflect the light in constellations of past pleasures perfect. And recollection's slow reconstructing of every failure and angry word into moments of crystalline joy breaks my heart into shards of regret.
By sarah 25 Jan 2002
Cat Bite
<p>The tiny kitten black and white upon my window sill did climb.</p>
<p>Mewing most pathetically and crying all the time.</p>
<p>My heart opened up to her and I held her warm and close</p>
<p>she looked at me with bitterness, eyes dark and morose.</p>
<p>I sang songs in my broken voice to share with her my love</p>
<p>with cooing verse, and nuzzling her, my little turtle-dove.</p>
<p>When I thought she accepted me, I relaxed a bit my grip</p>
<p>she batted fingers play fully, and I let her take a nip.</p>
<p>The little bitch, she hissed at me and then her teeth struck home</p>
<p>biting down with all her might, piercing finger down to bone.</p>
<p>I though to smash her brains to bits against the marble floor</p>
<p>then grab the fucking sodden mass and hurl it from the door.</p>
<p>But still my heart when out to her, the sickly little kitty</p>
<p>her life had been a misery, of terror without pity.</p>
<p>I did what I was wont to do, this waif of dark delight</p>
<p>and brought her close up to my lips that dark and stormy night, </p>
<p>and gave her what she gave to me, a bite down to the bone…</p>
<p>[needs a conclusion… for when I get up.]</p> By sarah 25 Dec 2001
The menu bar that allowed me to see most recent things has gotten smaller and smaller. Not it is gone. And I’m helpless… like an undiapered baby with a wicked case of you know whats.
By sarah 19 Dec 2001
I just got one of my poetry notebooks back. I don’t know when I lost it, or how it got to where it was found. But a lesson was learned. Always write your email address in your poetry notebooks.
<p>Thus endeth the lesson.</p> By sarah 07 Dec 2001
“listening, not capturing every word or nuance,
is when you are participating with what is going on.”
my teacher said to me. She taught me about poetry
while I scribbled notes that made no sense, without
form or context: trying to get it all down. She
smiled, and laughed. Then, reaching down from
her lofty perch on the table, plucked my
notebook from before me. And she cast it into the
fire, where it lay, cold and quiet, among
the ashes. “Poetry” she continued “is the words
on the page. On the page in front of you…” and
she held my eye, conspiratorily, and told me
stories of verse, of the pleasure of rhyme,
and the unending, unfolding variety of scansion
and metre, ending by quoting someone:
“The poem is the language of an act of attention.”THen she walked to the hearth
and rescued my notebook, and
handed me back this battered,
now stained tome of once-white
pages, and black leather binding.
Then she left em, going back to her
room at the front of the house.
Leaving me here on the long battered
oak table in the kitchen; leaving
me to wonder about attention. And
also what held my attention as had
her eyes. I thought, staring at these
grey pages in the darkening room, the
autumn sun having left the west-facing
window. The now cool breeze, comeing
from the window where from the light
so recently came, deep-set in the stone
wall. This rough, hard chair, cushion
pushed aside, a bony leg tucked up under
me, quickly falling asleep. And breath, not
frosting, but warmer than the air around it.
The gift of “negative capability”, in a house
not ever silent; one that no one hears or listens
to. Suddenly without sense of change or
passage of time, I find myself with an endless
dialogue of perceptions, not to pick or
choose, or even to know the next location of
this non-sequence voice of the room that surrounds
me.Progress and evolution, our stories of the world
outside of the house, the room, the table, the
chair that surround me, stop dead and collapse
into the smoke of autumn leaves burning
out behind in the hills surrounding. And
I sit here, now, present and finally realizing
that I am aware and have been attentive.At this though, I smile to myself and
wth this smile break the fullness of
awareness that has held me. The memory
of this evening playing on my lips, I
gather up my things and shuffle back
gingerly favoring my tingling leg.
By sarah 06 Dec 2001
What the hell? I just found that I’m logged in as Sarah. Even though I’m in another house far away from my own, and I’m on someone else’s computer!!!
<p>Well… it is true. The fact that this is my old computer and has no been brain whiped when I sold it is totally beside the point. : )</p>
<p>It is/was scary. Sasm</p>