thin black legs spread out like a hand. Sometimes
thick, dark. Impossibly
long-legged. Sharp. In
old spaces. In melancholic rooms disused by time. I
see them sometimes. Outside. On
windows and porches. I
see them in gardens, hanging
on invisible bridges between plants. I
see them on palms of brave hands. I
see them one, two, three climbing spiders
in a song. I
see them too menacing for lullaby.
Take Two. Brand new. Same old. Same old. Exciting. For a bit. There. Not anymore. No. Same old.
Same shit. My perfect life. Today. Yesterday. Imperfect in places, not new. Never new. Not now. Not
anymore. Gone. Already. Gone. Bye Bye. So it goes. There is goes, imperfect. Human, life. Human. Imperfect always. Claws, jawbone, bone cage full of hopes. Empty windowsill. Theatre place. Market place. Stupid pseudonym. Dance. A choir
of ghosts. Papertowel. Just a mess. All. My perfect life. Take two. Action… And he sits and he sighs. And distractedly she looks. In a mirror. A pigeon flies
south. Not a duck, nor a goose this time. He sits and he ponders. He makes a mess with a tiny spoon
in a cup of coffee. Stir stir stir. Make a mess. Stir. Stir. Sugar not included. Batteries not included. Instructions not
included. Truth not included. Action. This perfect life. Ah, sighs a paper tree, a mess, a pigeon, a dance of
geese flying south. Cut.
Dreamt somewhere south. Centre stage, left. Enters him. My perfect life. Imaginary encounters, train stations and posters on
walls. Imaginary cups of coffee, morning rituals, teeth
brushing, three eggs on a pan. Omelet.
My imaginary lie. Ten thirty, shower time. Ten fifty four, pot of fruit, tv
time. He sits, he tries, he rests his head, he sighs. My perfect life. North Williamsburg of somewhere impossible. Your nest. Your head. Against mine. Your heart. Not here. Not awake. Now. No, not now. Not yet.
My perfect life. Was it?
Spanish lessonsbefore bed-time. Orange juice. Berry. Elevator. Taxi ride. Theatre making.
Love making. Not. Now. My eccentric lie. Lies ahead. Behind. Cold breeze, cold hand. Cold stare. At a glance. Rule of thumb. If it doesn’t happen. Now.
Grill Meisterin, Original Gangster, semi-quasi-nearly performing artist, London organic cliche.
Fond of 'The Little Prince' and Charlie Kaufman, I eat both my greens and chocolates. Owner of 2 remote-controlled dogs and 100 kilos of paper under my bed. Friendly to everyone but spiders and dark spirits.