Untitled Woman

She knows more than you do
She writes more often and it is often
Better.

So much better.
Than yours? No, of course not.
Than someone else's? Why, yes.

So much better.
And so much more often
She sits at her desk, on her bed,
On her toilet, on the goddamn kitchen counter!
She holds her pen every second of every minute.
Do you hear me?

Do you read my words?

The words pour out of her like any old cliche
Bow to her.

On her goddamn kitchen counter!
She doesn't try too hard or write too soon
Or make mistakes.
She writes poetry.
Poetry!

Don't giver her that look.
She'll write something better and more often

Don't you look down on her.
She sits on her goddamn kitchen counter.

Word music. Imagery. Rhythm. Rhyme.

All day, every day
So don't you give her that look.
She'll burn you, CAUTERISE your wounds.
She'll look you up in the dictionary.
She won't run around like an old cliche.

She doesn't steal or plagiarise.
It's all her and all natural.
She inspires and is not inspired.
No one word pick-ups.
All. made. up.

So don't you look down on her.

She writes poetry.

She writes better.

She writes more often.

-Trish

Hands:

Let’s start again
She said with a poet-faced smirk
And a growl from the hot water,
Kitty-faced roar of all eternity kitchen howls,
Forks and spoons and knives pointing the wrong way
Dancing and singing to each other in back,
Floating upwards with the froth and smarting their way into the dishwasher,
Ferocious tea-towels and coffee hot-head
All floating upwards to air-conditioned oblivion,
And glass heavens in the dark and elderly living room with brimful o’em ghost creatures…the ice machine is talking to me! Stalking me…
Fuckin’ Psychedelic!
Psychotic man!
Psychotomimetic beerhead…
Ya crazy Drunkard!

Pippa x