Composed by Serge.
Arranged and orchestrated by Jean-Claude Vannier.
Produced by Alain Hortu.
▼ JANE BIRKIN: KAWASAKI from "Di Doo Dah" Fontana (6325 305) (France) 1973
All right, I said.Halfway to a question.
The air in the narrows
makes tidy museum pieces
of rotten fruit, spilled fluids.
Oldenberg. Jackson Pollock.
The smell is not pronounced
but stutters, pops
like yellow buttons on
Mickey Mouse's pants
Close to the floor
flat as a foundling floor show
unable to flee
Even the paint on the wall
reminds one of spoiled flesh
J.K. Rawling on a bad day
beset by dowts
crowsfeet on linoleum
All the wizards are dead
There is no turning the corner.
I come awake in the middle of the night - this morning - on a memory so tangible I can smell it. It is Christmas 1966 or 7, and I am with my mother in a shop in Glasgow. The bell rings over the door and the heat is on us. An odour of tissue paper. Sawdust. There is a sentence of words strung together like parcels tied with string that is somehow important, but even if I could remember it I don't suppose I would write it down.
It is not for sharing, perhaps, or it would mean nothing to you if I could. My father is not there with us. But he is close by. The man behind the shop counter is bored but feigns interest.
My father died long before my sons were conceived. Like his own father before I came into this world. Bloody but mute.
See. Daddy used to live in that house. A long time ago. Isn't that strange ?
Well. A long time ago, when I was very old. I used to live there.
Well. Let me tell you this, cowboy. If you have have a problem with me, bring it on. Come on over here and I'll jam my foot right up your motherfucking ass, you pansy jackass Roy Rogers wannabe.
Got something to say ? No ? Well, shut your fuckin' mouth. Someone has stopped taking their medication, and that someone isn't me.
Move along. There is nothing to see.
What's that ? I can't make you out, what with all this quiet.
Bless me father for I have sinned, it has been two years since I last wrote a word.
You can cycle right round it in a couple of hours or less, I am told. They had a little fairground with bumper cars then; the dodgems, we call them here. I went on them one brisk Saturday night, the wind whipping at my collar. My hair a blindfold. I was the only child out there on the polished hardwood deck. The embarrassment was excruciating. I drove around in diminishing circles for the duration of my ticket, one song by Engelbert Humperdink on the tannoy, a string of lights reflected in the spectacles worn by my grandfather - my grandfmother too - their faces wracked with a kind of anxious telepathy as they watched me sailing round and round. Willing me to enjoy myself.
Madam.Promptly swallowing one fist.
The world persists in turning. A little faster with each new year, and yet you do not seem one day older.
Ah. But doctors may dabble in pastries each and every Sunday. A man of the cloth, on the other hand...
But, madam. Your pets are run amock.
Well, fuck, scowls she. My children will not be tethered.
Someone fetch the plague doctor.
I don't believe you're a warrior monk. That vegetarian sham is just so much pish.
in regione caecorum rex est luscus.
Hello ? Jesus fuck, it's cold out here.
Motherfucker. Cunt. Turn on the heat.
But I sit in my room. And I smoke and I write. And I wish I could write that I bear you no ill will, but I can not.
Get out of Dodge, Pablo. Before they slip the cuffs on again.
When we first fell upon each other you surrendered your key on on a tongue fastened on the roof of my mouth. I was bent on breaking and entering. Your toes curled when I snuck in through your basement window. Too much in haste to oil your catches.
Burgle me, you pleaded, quite beautiful in ambush. The long boned appetites of an ogress.
When we fuck, in the aftermath of our coupling, I am plagued with insecurities. The sound of whittling.
The smell of wood shavings.
They scrabble up from between my legs. Blossom in my throat like cockroaches, deathwatch beetles.
And the crows are like flies. The hard buds on your breasts, candies. A priest might set a course by their swarming to deliver up last rites.
Your long winding sleeve. My impecunious anatomy, by comparison, is a blunt protrusion. Thrashed at by Sherpas travelling beneath sterile ice.
I want to throw you down on the bed and remove your leggings with my teeth.
EXTRACT: STATEMENT FOR THE DEFENCE
S38 (1) [FUC EWE 28 − 1]
The submission ought not to be regarded, by any means, as an admission of guilt. Neither is it an unburdening of mitigating circumstances.
My client contends that the preceding and following stand solely as a document. I would emphasize his determination, then, that it not be construed, either, as a plea for reconciliation. In short, it "is what it fucking is." Insomuch as, (it is) something no better or worse than "idly doodling (noughts and crosses) while waiting for an aneurism."
You're going to regret this.
You're going to regret this. I'm going to make you cry again.
Shut your fucking mouth, you prick.
Two hours a week.
Shut your fucking mouth.
Sitting barefoot in the middle of the floor, a sunlit rug browning in late afternoon, surrounded by lengths of copper tubing. Attaching paper notes to curling branches with surgical precision.
How do you like my emotion tree?
Wetting the gummed margin of a cigarette paper with your tongue.
It looks like it needs a Valium, doll.
At which point does mere bickering simmer into something more heated? At which point do raised voices - agitated, rattling tea-cups - boil over into something actionable?
He said things. She said things.
He did not want her to leave with their baby.
He did not pause to consult a barometer, let alone measure degree.
You have beautiful feet.
Your feet. Are gorgeous. Beautiful.
1) CRIMINAL JUSTICE AND LICENSING (SCOTLAND) ACT 2010 S38 (1) DOMESTIC
"The court granted bail and imposed the following conditions, namely, that the accused:
(aa) that breach of a condition imposed is an offence and renders the accused liable to arrest, prosecution and punishment under this act.
(g) that the accused does not approach or contact nor attempt to approach ____ ____ in any way.
(h) does not enter nor seek to enter _________ ____ or come within 100 yards of _________ ____. [sic]
Submission 1, Section 38 (1):
The fiscal submits that the accused did threaten, in a manner liable to cause distress and alarm to any reasonable person.
I could not listen
for the scraping retort.
the explosive Guffaw,
pricked by stitching,
Even the word
Arousing raw heights
Spittled lips puckered
in rows, front and back,
The spotlight trained
tired, spotted flesh,
at the armpits,
Small beer, short shrift,
Arrivists in cashmere
Hanging on each word.
it is not the metal taste
which saws and stings -
the knife, the fork -
It is the copper ringing,
of the seasoned familiar,
The lantern jaw of the
wooden marionette in the
Shadow of a beard,
The singing of the crowd,
The flaccid chatter,
the organ, the grind.
"'SLUMDOG' SHACKS SOAR IN PRICE AS COMMUTERS SWAP SUBURBS FOR CITY"