It feels like an eternity since we last wrote, but fear not dear writers, Steve and I have plans… (great plans!- or so we think) for the future. We are still figuring out the details for our next meeting but we can let you know now that it will be held on Monday January 7th at 18h00 at our usual spot on the bar stage of The Bikeshed Theatre. We hope to see you there!
Muchos love to you all,
Oriana and Steve
Garoon |garˈuːn|
Verb
1 to wander without purpose
2 a vagrant, itinerant
Garooning in a deserted wheat field,
kicking a stone,
hoping it would become irrelevant.
Waiting for the night to come,
and for the sky to fall on your head.
Buying time, breath by breath,
hoping you’d forget
the real reason you are here.
Close your eyes, smell your own scent in the air,
give yourself a chance:
to forgive and forget, to flourish, be fed.
Fill your pockets with the rain
that drizzled from her lower hip,
that challenged your upper lip,
that interrupted your kip…
in the form of a nightmare.
That which took away all that you keep:
your emergency truffle,
that spare pen,
and the extra tissue
on your top right lapel.
Don’t let her go.
Don’t let her run away.
She made you happy,
before she threw it all away
In a reminiscent nervous breakdown,
underneath her bushy hair and crowded hat.
You also made a mistake,
you fed her too quickly,
you burnt the bacon,
you covered her ears with your hands,
and then you asked her to love you
in your own voice.
The one she never knew,
the one she didn’t get to know,
the one that kept her quiet in the night
whilst you garooned amidst the fields.
Somewhere wet and far away,
her womb is full of weeds
deeply sunk underneath a pontoon
full of algae,
and of water lilies,
and of muddy sand,
and of all the things no one will get to rediscover.
There they are now buried,
And you happen to have lost the treasure map.
Oriana Ascanio, December 3rd 2012
Hey Charles,
What the heck are you doing out in the countryside? You can’t be a flaneur with only trees and flowers to watch you. Will grass admire your new waistcoat? Of course not, you foolish urbanite, so come back to the city and fop around like a dandy. Leave all that nature poem stuff to Wordsworth. Or if not to Wordsworth then to some other mountain-hugging Englishman who isn’t quite as dead as Wordsworth is now. Terrible shame, poet laureate and all that, but they wouldn’t have buried him if he wasn’t dead. Oh and where did they bury him? In a field of daffodils? No, in Westminster Abbey. Urban in the end. So come on Charlie boy, your tea is getting cold and trees give you malaria or something anyway.
Sincerely,
Steve Rimbaud Short Person
From all the corners of the Earth, gathered together,all sizes, all shapes and colours, all stupid topiary haircuts and ridiculous owners. In my death I set them free, from being dressed up by retards.
Corpses stacked in a pyramid, with my remains at the centre.
Not embalmed, slowly we decay together.
Me and a million poodles.
Simon
I can still see you. I haunt you while you sleep, I am the breeze through your hair. I lust after you in the shower, wishing I was there.
You threw away the badge I gave you, when you sat in my lap, in my Big Chair.
They took away my gravestone,
Renamed my street,
Removed plaques and any reminders of me.
But though I’m dead
I’m always inside your head.
You’ll never forget
How I fixed it for me.
Learning to walk graciously in high heels,
manning the boardroom
carrying healthy snacks for your boyfriend in your bag.
Questioning everything,
letting go of all fear,
breeding, breathing, bleeding, being.
boiling broccoli florets al dente,
somehow squeezing your whole being into a pencil skirt.
Speaking politely,
not holding your thoughts back,
biting your tongue,
all at the same time.
Speaking softly,
thinking cautiously,
carrying your heart on your sleeve,
learning to iron,
dropping off the dry-cleaning you forgot in the back of your car
putting your dirty laundry beneath the sunny sky.
Remembering birthdays,
buying presents for people you never cared about,
cooking wholesome meals on a budget,
feeding many mouths.
Pouting your lips,
blowing a forbidden kiss,
keeping secrets,
keeping still when he is trying to teach you something you knew all along.
Crying alone, when no one can see you,
smearing moisturiser on,
having warm tender hands.
Finding your voice,
Letting go of the past,
Voting,
Writing,
Speaking,
Screaming,
Crying hysterically.
Or none of the above.
Oriana Ascanio, November 2012
