Camilla was a poetess

December 11, 2011

Camilla had faith
and she felt the embrace of her lord
In the smile of a baby,
her daughter’s voice,
the smell of grass,
the silky sensation of bath foam against her skin –
all of that stuff, you know?

She was a glass half full
kind of girl.
I imagine she never
danced on the table
fucked on the first date,
lied, cursed
Or traded her body for favours.

She wore her hair short,
her metaphors close to her chest,
and the mountains that surrounded her
were a fortress
instead of a prison

city drug

September 16, 2011

We fly in through clear skies
London opens spills unlocks
endless light strings and
I can’t stop watching
white and yellow lights spread wide like
some giant’s child that
willful and violent, laughs
having spilled the chains of gold
and pearl necklaces
belonging to his rich mother;
from jewelry box to chaos, in one breath or a thousand

One hour later, when I emerge from the underground
a full moon silently burns the three lanes of Warwick Rd
like a searchlight
while cars make their escape in sequence

Suddenly, she comes out
three doorways ahead of me
short skirt raven hair black leather jacket
body so thin
it makes you human again
and her high heels flash
bright red and play a staccato as she walks,
face obscured by darkness

She gets in a car and drives off.

This is the sickness, the City drug, the hunger
that makes you stick around – and I raise a salute
to the moon and the madness
while the corner shop owner frowns
at the young men hanging
outside his door

On smoking

September 20, 2010

It’s oddly comforting
When people smoke
In streets, bars, cafes,
Women all hold Slims
between red lips
Because they know
that for the sake of beauty
You cannot give a fuck
and it’s an easy kind of
edge to live on

Men smoke over coffee,
Or on breaks,
A manly sight which says
‘Work has been done’
Or maybe: ‘work will soon
be done when
I’m done with this
here smoking break’

I wish I could still smoke
In a London bar
Then I would order
a sidecar, or an old fashioned
And men would think:
‘He’s on a break
from something important’
or
‘He sure looks like he’s about
to start some important task’

And women would think:
‘He looks so thoughtful;
he must be a poet or
an artist or something, I
should sleep with him’

On photography

September 15, 2010

When I started photographing women
I said to myself – ‘A, you will photograph
many women and you will
finally understand beauty and cure
yourself from it’s conniving
influence’

I selected my models carefully,
but as a nameless photographer
you cannot always
select your models
carefully

I still tried to be
very picky and would
often tell the models
I had selected
that I was very picky
when it came to selecting
my models

The women in front of my camera
would like it when I said this
because they did not
know
that I was an addict to beauty
and that this was part of
my
habit

Of course, and I must note,
I would also
make them beautiful
I would go out into
the city with them, or
into the forest
and
separating myself from
them with the help of a big lens
I would direct them

They would follow my
directions carefully
for hours on end
because it takes time to get the
photograph of a beautiful woman right
you know?

And then they would
begin to
freeze
Their faces would harden
their voices would become harsh
and words chipped

It was always during this
short period of time
that my pictures of beautiful
women would come out the best

The women were beautiful
and because of the cold
they would begin to hate me
I would wait patiently for that moment
That moment, I tell you, that moment was magic

That magic moment

Token resistance

August 29, 2010

She offered token resistance
To hands ready for flesh

She never told her mother
That on Tuesdays
She was a working woman
On Wednesdays
A secretary
On Thursdays
A dog walker
And on Fridays she met me

We never laughed together
We never shared silence
She thought I had plenty to offer
In fair exchange for her breath