Tonight, I will be a guest on THE TIGHT 90, an interactive online chat show, hosted by Seb White, along with Alexis Strum and Adam Larter.
I hope to see you there 🙂
The crow calls into the night,
the moon is morose,
inconvenienced by inconsolable skies,
that burst into tears every few minutes.
Silver spills from the sky onto the city streets,
empty pavements that expect company,
but are always disappointed.
Trees are titans,
towering above benches made from their branches,
watching over their children,
as the wind jumps and frolics,
as the night goes on.
The crow calls into the night,
to ask the sky,
why she cries so much,
but the sky cannot speak,
she can only cry.
On today’s episode, Jennifer shares some new poems, and talks about playing nurse maid, what she has in common with Professor Snape, why so many Nan’s love Cliff Richard, and what’s to come in your future.
Jennifer also updates you on recent events in British politics, including the British government abandoning kids in need, Nicola Sturgeon confirming the employment status of Santa and Tory MPs mouthing off to sixteen year old constituents.
When I am happy,
I think about loss.
It never leaves me,
even when I ask politely,
because I don’t know how to function,
without fucking things up for myself.
I’m the kind of girl who wants things too much,
and I told him that,
right from the start (well, the second time we met),
because I wanted him to know,
that while it would get intense,
he would never be left wondering,
if I wanted him (it’s always very obvious),
because I want things too much,
and I want him too much,
like he says I do,
because I’ve been taught not to trust anybody,
but I can’t help giving myself to somebody,
when the right somebody comes along,
and unfortunately for him,
When I dream about him,
he says my name,
with this hushed tone,
like it is a secret,
that belongs to him,
and I think I’m projecting,
because that’s how I want him to feel,
seeing secrets that I’m not sure exist,
his glamorous seductress of exotic descent,
pouring over her neural pathways,
trying to make connections and concoctions,
his Mary Margaret Ray,
waiting by the phone,
for signs and symbols of his true devotion.
Is it real?
I want to know,
but the person I trust the least is myself,
so how would I ever know?
It feels real,
when I wake up beside him,
watching his face,
happy to see mine,
too tired to play a role,
and when his lips draw lines along my body.
I am schizophrenic in my seduction,
shape shifting into the things I think he desires,
because I was never able to accept that I was enough,
because I want him too much,
and I want him to want me.
You always took too long to say goodbye.
You were famous for it,
for the frustration of people who found themselves in your web,
watching you spin another conversation,
from the thin promise of “I’m gonna let you go.”
as you crept into monologues,
about that woman down the shop,
that nobody knows,
but we are expected to,
because you want to tell us an anecdote,
that could probably wait.
Nowadays, I wait,
for a call that never comes,
thinking fondly of the long goodbyes,
trying to force them over the final moments,
when I lay alone in bed,
and someone called quickly,
to say that it was all over.
For the first time,
the final time,
you said goodbye too quickly,
the one time I wanted you to take too long,
you couldn’t stay,
fading from the scene,
from a hospital bed to heaven,
as I listened to your favourite song,
again and again,
unable to say goodbye as quickly as you finally could.