The Crying of the Lost Things

So it's crunch time. I'm starting to think about my blog in terms of how I can fit it into my life, which surely means the mouth is beginning to unfasten and I'm taking a nose-dive down the oesophagus.

I'm in a horribly pensive mood. I'm in a horrible regret ridden mood. I have a 2,000 word essay due in on Wednesday and it's slowly eating the lustre out of my eyes.

I want to be a dancer! I want to be on stage! I want to be the one you wish you'd fought for!

Bloody hell. I don't even have anything creative to post to whoever out there reads this humdrum little ditty of mine. I just feel like writing, I feel like creating, like being being being.

I bought this vintage fur coat. I walked to uni today in said vintage fur coat and it felt like everyone who saw me was thinking, 'Douchebag, take that off, you are not a successful-aged-gracefully old starlet, you are not Elizabeth Taylor, just because they are vogue does not give you the god given right to wear one, k?' Yeah, I was thinking about it that much. I love it, it isn't real fur, before the tide of detestation consumes my soul, but it is delicious and it was £20 and I could not say no to the charming, peculiar little lady at the back of the antique shop. I tried it on and she said it's been waiting for me for 40 years. And she had a smelly, almost dead dog who, when I bent down to stroke him, lent against my knee like he’d been fighting off collapse. His eyes said he was grateful for the support of his cumbersome little body. How cruel, keeping a decrepit little thing alive like that. And in an antique shop. Quite fitting, actually.

I look at trip down Elm Hill on my lonesome and found myself in this alleyway, and there was a black cat and we exchanged pleasantries. There was a door that was open and I was thinking 'Is this a shop or someone's house?' It looked a bit like a shop because it was adorned with old fashioned sign posts, like the sort you get in the Toby Cavery when they're trying to be oldsy-woldsy. But these were genuinely oldsy-woldsy, antique type things. So in I trotted. There was a young man sitting in the corner. I was surprised to see such a young man in such a place of antiquery. He had an N-Dubz hat on, though he'd defiantly resent that association, and a vintage jumper like he'd just stepped out of the Milkbar. I said hello. He seemed put out. I must have been the only customer he’d had all day and he was probably watching porn on his little laptop screen or the Antiques Road Shop. I continued regardless. ‘Oh what a place!’ I remarked, ‘It’s like an Aladdin’s cave!’ I exclaimed. He said ‘Yeah.’ There was a skeleton hanging up in the corner holding a moth-eaten umbrella. Maybe it was the skeleton of the previous owner and he'd done a Pyscho type thing and pretended to be her and then he was going to murder me with the 1867 cheery wood pick-axe behind the counter. I turned around sharpish expecting a pick-axe to the face and a fitting Eee Eee Eee!!! BAM! Crash! Blood blood blood ddeeaaattthhh. No. He was still watching his Roadshow. I continued to browse. There were two stuffed animals in a freeze-frame-type-position where an otter was attacking/being attacked by a snake. And a basket of sea shells. And an array of glasses with lenses missing. And a bird cage that I quite fancied. He said it was £25. I could probably have used my feminine charms to haggle it down to a tenner but I hate haggling, it makes me feel like a gypsy, and he might have killed me then for disrespecting his judgement. So I left the boy with his N-Dubz hat, which I shall now associate with him always because he was shamefully rude and looked like he was into prog-rock-anti-folk. Pah.

Essay, Emily, the Restoration, libertinism, sexual immorality, seventeenth century literature….. I’ll post a poem instead, as the story has no real end.

The Crying of the Lost Things

When you took the anxious-bitten
Archers-bow lips, and painted them across
Your body, her voice was rented out
To your wanton, whispering litter and
You threw her fears across
The cellar. Her heart had always been
So sheltered, with thighs reserved for the
Tastes of drowsy thumb, but under your skin
She says, my body feels so very numb and
I don’t know what it’s like to come
Girlish clutters say heavy hellos.
Oh listen, won’t you, to the crying
Of the lost things, the dying of a time bomb,
Decaying since the drums began.
No, I will not regret this man, says she
With the skin displayed, undone
And the crying of the lost things
Drowned, by the rushing gush of sun.

Sneak, russet filters run bright into
My eyes. The dreams I’d been having
Removed lost things from my mind, but awake
Those lost things I’m very sure to find.
On turning, I saw a lump of flesh
My body, yellow, seemed now unfresh
Sticky memories of sweat combined.
Tasting tears, I am salty and reminded of
How moonlight took me away.

No, I will not regret this man, or hope for better
Or hope for land, land from hot floods, coming.
No, I will not regret this man, says she
With the skin displayed, undone
And the crying of the lost things drowned
By the rushing gush of sun.