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Goldy Roxx

Last Updated:
Oct 17, 2008

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Friday, February 01, 2008

IS it though?
Current mood: cynical

Dude!

Apparently my IQ is pretty high from this test... 

Sigh.  If only I could make it translate into my everyday life!

Why I could...

I could... [rubs hands in glee!]...

RULE THE WORLD!

MWA HA HA HA [takes breath] HA HA HA HA HAAA!!!

;-)

Gxo

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

..> ..>
Your IQ score is:
..> ..>

136136  

 You scored 136 on Tickle's IQ test. This means that based on your answers, your IQ score is between 126 and 136. Most people's IQs are between 70 and 130.
..> ..>
In fact, 95% of all people have IQs within that range. 68% of people score between 80 and 120. The following chart to your right, shows these percentages and where your IQ score is on that scale.

Print your Certificate of Intellectual Achievement.

There's more to intelligence than a single number, a single score or a single label. Tickle uses four distinguishable Intelligence Scales in the Ultimate IQ Test. By analyzing your individual scores on those four scales, we are able to look beyond the raw IQ score into how you process information and thereby determine your Intellectual Type. 		  


..> ..>
Your Intellectual Type Is:  Visionary Philosopher
..> ..>
Visionary Philosopher    Your mind's strengths allow you to think ahead of the game — to imagine or anticipate what should come next in just about any situation... Because you're equally skilled in the numerical and verbal universes of the brain, you can draw from multiple sources of information to come up with great ideas. The timelessness of your vision and the balance between your various skills are what make you a Visionary Philosopher.

In addition to your strengths in math and linguistics, you have a knack for matching and anticipating patterns. These skills and your uncanny ability to detect the underlying blueprint of most of life's situations add to your Visionary Philosopher mind.
..> ..>
Two philosophers who share the same combination of skills you possess are Plato and Benedict Spinoza. Spinoza had insight into how things worked in the world. He could envision a future based on the patterns he saw in life, and used mathematical logic as a structure within which to present his philosophical arguments. With that base he was able to use logic to formulate his theories. Borrowing from his linguistic strengths he wrote eloquent texts and, therefore, was able to bring his philosophical ideas and structure to the rest of the world. His story exemplifies the talents that are present in the Visionary Philosopher intellectual type.

Whatever you decide to do in life, you've got a powerful mix of skills and insight that can be applied in a wide variety of ways. You can expand your mind to understand a situation. Your strong balance of math and verbal skills will help you explain things to others. For example, if you were on an archaeological dig and discovered an object, you could probably use your deductive powers to figure out not only what the object was but also how it was used. Given your ability to put things together, you are more than capable of inventing a life plan that is in synch with your perspective on how things were, how they are, and how they might be one day.		    ..> ..>
Great Jobs For You
Because of the way you process information, these are just some of the many careers in which you could excel:
  • Archaeologist
  • Detective
  • Psychologist
  • Sculptor
  • Architect
  • City planner
  • Chief executive

..> ..>
Some of Your Greatest Talents
You've got tons of strengths. It wouldn't surprise us if you:
  • Think of the "big picture"
  • Can anticipate and predict patterns
  • Are good at context clues
  • Can see similarities in seemingly disparate things

Currently listening :
New Young Pony Club EP
By New Young Pony Club
Release date: 23 January, 2007

7:24 PM - 1 Comments - 1 Kudos - Add Comment

Thursday, January 17, 2008

One pair of arms
Current mood: catalyzed

 

This is the kind of love that doesn't hurt at all

Wide and fast-expanding as the universe

Absolute, free of paradigm

Sweet, slow but with no brakes

And no second thoughts

No waiting

And no doubts

This is the kind of love that

Makes you better

That liberates you from the skin on things

And sends you deep

Deep, deep inside the real

The inside of his palm is soft

As an I forgive you

His smile is like sunlight on the water

His laugh justifies the bridge of every

Love song and he doesn't care if my eyebrows are crooked

Or my braids are stale

This is the kind of love that makes you worry about

If God is really vengeful

And if love can be so deep it invites punishment

This is the kind of love that reminds you to forget

To be tired, to be afraid, to be cynical

This is the kind of love that hollows you out

So the truth has somewhere to live

And he is beautiful even when he cries

And even when he stinks

And even when he's heavy indeed for one pair of arms

And even when my skin is a test-site for tiny little nails and teeth

This love is so loud that my mind is silent

And I am going to have to figure out a way to write

Without being unhappy

Or I might not be writing much at all

Any more

 

II

It's never been so quiet

Its never been

So softly, beautifully

Quiet

(Even with all the noise)

III

And it's only when its quiet that you realise

How long

and unbearable is the sound of your

Own screaming

And how the world sounds

When you are no longer bored

Or lonely

IV

These days I remember to say thank you

Thank you

Thank you

Thank you

And I work at my laptop

And I make mashed potato and vegetables

And I feed, and cuddle and wipe and change

And laugh and watch

And comfort and play peekaboo

And rub my eyes

And breathe

And smile

And say

Thank you

Thank you

Thank you

Thank you

And King baby sings his wordless song

And grins his shadow-less grin

And naps with his eyes very slightly open

And a breeze blows through the open doors and windows

And its God saying

"You, my dear,

Are absolutely welcome!"

12:29 AM - 5 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

Tuesday, January 01, 2008

What did you dream last night?
Category: Blogging

I can't remember personally - sleep was velvet and not a thing stirring --

Can I borrow yours?

So, anyway...

Over a year since my last blog... imagine.  I believe that new years resolutions tend to be counter-productive and only remind us how many times we've failed... but.  I'm going to blog more, regain language as a playmate!  Been grafting so hard I forget how much fun it is sometimes.

2008. 

Good lord... where are we going?  Why does it feel like we're right up close to the Future all of a sudden?  More than ever before?  I don't mean the future as in this afternoon or next week, but the Future as in, I dunno, aliens, teleportation, World War III, oblivion?  But then, maybe it does always feel like this and if there was such a thing as a blog back then, someone would have been writing this in 1980 or 1972 or 1640 or whatever.  I guess we'll see, hey?

Oops, if there is a resolution, its this - blogging is a NO EDIT zone! So if you see any typos, you know what happened.  Oh damn, little man is crawling under the couch hold up...  wow, it starts really young, wanting to go where you aren't allowed! lol.  I don't want mashed potatoes, mum.  Give me what you're having.  I've no teeth, but give me meat! Give me the bones!

 This will be a hodge-podge of a blog - although I spose no edits should also mean no apologies! But yeah, I feel like there are lots of pieces of everything floating around my mind because I haven't doen this in so long.

I am a mother. That's what I thought about at midnight [good lord this child is fast on his belly].  I looked in into his achingly present, lucid, awake eyes and promised him that this year is the year his mother will grow up - in the ways that count.  I guess I mean, growing up in the purest sense.  Not growing bitter, cynical, or less fascinated, or giving up n my vocation.  But giving up all my excuses for not being happy.  And for doing more than flirt with the material.  Living in my mother's house, on my mother's land has made me realise what a gift that really is.  It gives me such peace! I want to pay that gift forward.  I want to see my works come to good. Translation: (in the words of Mos Def) F**K YOU, PAY ME! lol.

Okay, so just re-opening lines of communication.  Next blog, more verse, less question marks/barely comprehensible chit-chat

Happy new chance,

Gold xoxoxo

(the slightly-less-reluctant-alchemist)

P.S.: Tell me about your last dream in comments?

P.P.S: I can already see this no-edit lark is not gonna work! lol

12:37 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Friday, December 15, 2006

The Split Soul
Current mood: determined

There are two kinds of knowing.

The first is accomplished with a single naked glance

And no words spoken. 

 

This is an understanding between souls.

 

Introductions are the first opportunity

For lies. 

Language provides the first opportunity for

Observing the split soul

A slight clanging in the ears when palm

Meets palm. A sliver of distrust destroys

The first knowing and a second one

Must be established.

Blanks filled in, the details of this

Foreign life.

 

And you, my dear, began to split

From the first hello.  A tiny fissure between

Tone and stature.  Confidence.  Frailty.  I thought

This man is all attic and basement

Handed me your phone so I could put in

My number and it rang before I could touch it

Someone else's name.  When you cancelled that call

Was the first time I saw all your empty rooms.

You were like an abandoned house with

Light glinting off the windows.

This observation split me too.

I keyed in my number.

Remain outside?

 

I went in.

 

The second kind of knowing

Comes only with trust and access.

 

With some, it's accomplished via an exchange of stories

That bind instinct to reality.

I knew it was so!  And

Me too!  I'm that way too!

An exploration of full rooms, turning

Over the details of this foreign life until it is

No longer foreign.  A cup; a photograph; a pack of cards.

Jewels are found between sofa cushions and behind

The radiator and stuffed in each other's pockets for

Souvenirs.  For private contemplation.

 

You, my dear, had a sign hanging from your front door.

It said: CONDEMNED.

But it was not locked.

 

The first room contained only mirrors.

Second, third, fourth contained only draughts

That had made it through your shut windows.  No

Water in the sinks, no food in the fridge.  No furniture.

But I remembered the first hello. I remembered:

This man is all attic and basement

So I climbed for you up your spiral steps but your attic

Was blind with light and dust, too full to walk through

No path for visitors.

 

Examining the structure of this odd house

I tumbled, bruised, into your basement

And it was too dark to see.  And there were

Things that scurried, and there were sharp-edged

Things that cut me as I stood up.  No-one can live

Here.  I thought.  The way it is.  So I lit a candle.

And I left, hungry, cold and inspired.

 

I would bring blankets next time.

A mop, a broom, a flashlight.

A pack of biscuits. A can of polish. 

 

I knew it was so!

Me too, I'm that way too!

 

But the door slammed shut, locked behind me.

And outside it began to rain.

Currently listening :
Babies Making Babies
By ?Uestlove
Release date: 28 May, 2002

7:56 AM - 4 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

Thursday, November 23, 2006

Virtual Phobia
Current mood: Need to pee!

Okay,

Of late I've suffered from virtual phobia.

I'm using deep breathing to counteract the sudden little pricks of terror I feel everytime my mobile phone rings.  I haven't checked my e-mail or myspace in weeks!  The Roxx is all citied out, methinks.  Luckily, I got away to St. Lucia for a couple weeks, which relieved the pressure.  But London folks know how London can stand on ones neck bone at times.

Question:  How mean is this?

I was getting the train from Walthamstow to London Bridge, and at one of the connecting stations (I think I had to change at Bank actually) there was this blind guy, white stick and all, whistling loudly with a hat poised at his feet.  And do you know what?  It irritated me!  This is how I know I'm spending to much time in my 'attic' (read 'lab' 'brain' 'creative zone').  I wanted to say,

"OY!  Why are you lying to yourself and others!  If you want us to pay you for being blind - then fair enough!  Being blind is hard!  But please don't pretend that your awful whistling is worth anything!"

I didn't say it of course but... was it mean?

Is city-living turning my blood from red to cool?

Answers on a post-comment...

Roxx xx

PS:  I promise I'll write something juicy soon.  I know I keep threatening to spill, but then the moment passes and I turn back into a mollusc.

Currently listening :
Experience Hendrix: The Best of Jimi Hendrix
By Jimi Hendrix
Release date: 03 November, 1998

8:11 AM - 6 Comments - 5 Kudos - Add Comment

Friday, October 27, 2006

Open Wide
Current mood: mellow

An old piece I wrote on the train... feels oddly relevant!

Enjoy!

(by the way, have much to tell... next time!)

Gold xx

I.

what you thought was a mansion is just a tent made
of gauze the walls disintegrate between your
fingers ripped through with holes let in
rain dirt and colours the loss of innocence is the
loss of extremes the birth of infinite remixes infinite questions
all of which are blasphemous impolite or irrelevant you
scream with your mouth closed speak with mouth full
of crunchy paradoxes the music is chaos you are
the drum forever punctured dented and hollowed you are
buckleys broken hallelujah sung off key to an accompaniment
of bedsprings and fistfights the rhythm cuts a gaping
wound infected with all the raw beauty and ugliness
of a wide open world

open wide

baby


II

the ink is
the life blood of
a larger body larger
than my tiny days and
tickly thoughts and doubt-ridden
love affairs`a monster and a God I
offer dreams as sacrifice
purple sweaty nights i
mix the blue and the red
write bruises and sunsets
with blood and ink compose
true fictions and dishonest
memories from real wounds
and painted moments
peel back the flesh
words are all there is
shards of broken hieroglyph
warm with blood a heart
that is only muscle and
the ghost of a
truncated
rhythm

open
wide

III

open wide
baby

good food don't always
go down
like home-made

ascension
never tastes
like chicken

8:49 AM - 4 Comments - 3 Kudos - Add Comment

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Digging holes
Current mood: thirsty

It's been a little while, huh?  Hope ya'll ain't given up on me! :-D  I think I almost gave up on myself.

Damn, too much to say.  I like to blog in moments of inaction and clarity, and to be quite honest... haven't had one of those in a little while.  The world is kaleidoscoping slightly. Good and bad I suppose.  Overwhelming but... what colours!  What colours.

Here's a little piece of memoir (just to get these wheels turning again):

_________________________

At 8 years old, I had a thing about digging holes.  I would go out back, in the watery sunshine, a little plan ticking in my head. 

In the next door back garden was a large family from Pakistan with tons of kids that I would play with sometimes, but on days like this I didn't even look over there.  I just picked up a rusty old spade, gingerly because of bugs, and began chipping away at the surface of the world, until the soil got richer, browner, moist, throwing up a smell of secrets. 
           
When I'd made the hole as promisingly round as I could, I would go back in the house, through the utility room, into the kitchen.  There, my mum would be seasoning chicken, or mixing cake ingredients in a big plastic bowl.  She would be dressed neat and conservative, hair parted down the side and curled behind her ears.  She'd give me a look that managed to be indulgent, resigned and interrogative at the same time.  I smiled at her and went to the cupboard where all the miscellaneous kitchen stuff was, and proceeded to take out the black roll of bin-liners, turning it over in my little dirty hands, searching for a perforation.
           
My mum took a respectful pause, glancing over the rim of her glasses. She knew about me and my tense little projects. 
 
What's that for?  You can't just waste those things you know!  They cost money!  Gently she would say this.
           
Nothing. I would say, ripping a bag carefully off the roll,  I'm just... nothing, mum!
           
And I'd be a little ashamed of that, because nothing was obviously a lie.  I wasn't even trying to avoid getting in trouble.  But trouble wasn't good.  My mum had a 0 to 60 miles per hour kind of temper.  But she wouldn't say anything when I had that sense of quiet adventure about me.  I think now that perhaps she was a little bit in awe.  You know, this little person that she made, having a little mind and this boundless imagination and this mission all of her own.
           
So I would take the bin-liners back outside, where it was getting chillier by the hour, and go to work, lining my hole with the plastic bags, which I kept in place with rocks.  I would feel this sense of excitement building up inside me as I went about my task.  Pushing my glasses back up on my nose every five minutes and grinning to myself. 
           
My mum would be finished in the kitchen, and I would hear her voice in the hallway, laughing conspiratorially over the phone.  I knew she'd be sitting on the stairs, having one of those joyously vicious little gossip sessions with a friend. 
 
Perfect.
           
I'd fill the biggest jug I could find up with water, then bring it back and forth to the garden and pour it out into my plastic-lined hole, watching the water catch the light and glisten against the glossy black bin-liners, feeling the way I sometimes felt in church when I saw the stained-glass windows. 
           
Back and forth I went, filling quietly with hope and nerves.  But maybe after five or six trips, the truth would come down like a Monday morning.
           
The water would not stay.  The earth kept sucking it into itself. 
 
My little pond was once again a failure, despite my carefulness, the use of more bags.  I'd even made it smaller so I could line it properly.
           
I imagined the little fish I was going to put in there and the plants I was going to plant around it and how special it would be and that gave me strength.  So I would keep adding layers of plastic, and more rocks, getting dirt on my face, scratching my head, pushing my glasses up and itching inside my clothes. 
 
I wasn't angry or frustrated.  I just kept trying to fix that pond.  And it did hold more and more water, and I'd squat in the dirt and anxiously watch the levels but inevitably it would drain away.
           
And then, when I was tired enough, hungry enough, and the sun was beginning to sink beneath the late autumn skyline, I would go back through the house, up to my mums room to watch the A-team.  Not disappointed even, because there was always next Saturday.  Another weekend, another project.
           
So maybe this was not a regular occurrence.  In fact it probably only happened once.  My mum was a tough lady and digging massive holes in her sleeping flowerbeds was likely to have got her back up.  She probably had a complete seizure.  But I don't remember that at all.
           
All I remember was my determination to get beneath the surface of my grim little city back garden, make something beautiful out of ordinary things.  And that's stayed with me.
           
And quietly, I continue to dig, and I continue to pour.

 

10:06 AM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

New Blood
Current mood: accomplished

Okay, yeah I've been missing.

It's been a crazy time.  Lots been happening and much to ponder.

And guess what?  Not sure if I told you, but my novel's been picked up by Chattow & Windus!!!

It's called Kick Me (A Love Story)...

Out next year!  A me! Ha ha!

Anyhoo... I'll be back with more life-in-rhyme, soon as I'm consistent again with the internet connection.  You can see some shit live though, if you like... see below!

Love and miscellaneous good shit...

Gold xxx

__________________________________

NEW BLOOD

Tomorrow (19/07)... not sure what I'm gonna do... I'm feeling random! Gonna be words and chords involved!

Gonna be v. nice....

Reach!

Where?

The Poetry Cafe

22 Betterton St (tube, Holborn or Covent Garden)

£5/3 concs

Who?

Myself, Jamie Woon (dude has made me cry TWICE), James Byrne and others!

8:06 AM - 7 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

Sunday, May 28, 2006

Numb (a waltz)
Current mood: - blank -

Feel a bit sick still.  Drank too much last night.  Wasn't supposed to drink at all (detox).  Bit silly really.  Had one drink before I left the house, then had one when I went out and it sobered me.  So I had another.  More sober still.  Dancing unenthusiastically and shouting a barely there conversation over the music.  So had another one.  Going round for round with a friend of mine.  But i think she's made of stronger stuff than I am... cos all of a sudden all the drinks piled on top of one another and smashed me in the back in the head like... whoooo....  Stranded.  Slept on a couch somewhere slightly uncalled for.  Cleared off when the sun came.

Back home, slept for a while.  Was gonna go back out again tonight but can't 'face' it.  Wrote Numb (a waltz) instead, on my guitar. 1,2,3... 1,2,3....

Goldy (the reluctant alchemist)

xx

Numb (a waltz)

I... wanna stay.... numb [2,3...1,2,3]
Blankly awaiting the sun [2,3...1,2,3]
The ceiling is foreign and dumb [2,3...1,2,3]
Patient and blue as a nun [2,3...1,2...]

[change chords and sing higher]

I curl against the wall
feeling nothing at all
and no tears will fall as long as I'm
numb.

[calm again]

Numb.  I'm numb. [2,3... 1,2,3]
Wating for storms that won't come [2,3...1,2,3]
hollow as an unbeaten drum [2,3...1,2,3]
blan-kly await-ing the sun [2,3...1,2,3]

[change again]

I curl against the wall
feeling nothing at all
and no tears will fall
as long as I'm numb

I CURL against the WALL!
Feeling NOTHing at ALL!
And NO tears will FALL!
As long as I'm numb.

i'm numb

numb...

I'm...

[1,2,3... 1,2,3....1,2,3...]

[that's it so far]


Currently listening :
Every Day
By Cinematic Orchestra
Release date: 28 May, 2002

12:21 PM - 3 Comments - 3 Kudos - Add Comment

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

Petal by petal
Current mood: indescribable

Hey... some notebook scribbles from this evening.  I went to see 'Brick'.  You should see it.  It's good. 

And thank you for reading - because of you, I'm not merely throwing words into the void.

Love love,

Goldy xx


Petal by petal


An artist    with style

is careful and deliberate with pain

understanding that pain is the paint

and sometimes the canvas

she will wear it like a corset

 

No hysterics

no chubby rolling tears

no loud self-indulgent talk-show babble

 

An artist cultivates pain

petal by petal

tipping the water forever inward

letting the pain thicken

glitter blackly like

still-born tears

a deep black

burning with all the

fiery potential of coal

An artist will embrace the pressure

let it grow heavy, heavier, heaviest

until it is dense

crystallised

chipped and spitting

a hard and beautiful light like

diamonds.

__________


Told you so.

(Spring cynicism)

The blossoms

have sprung out all over

rude and gorgeous

cheap and pretty

spraying the concrete in

transience.

They know not what they do.

They got excited

flushing pink as fresh bubble gum

shouting at everyone

in technicolour

and so did the birds

get excited

singing all their little beaks raw

charging amongst the deep blue

and the sudden green

And so did all the fake-tanned girls

in flip-flops and toenail polish

and cotton

and so did all the boys in their shorts

and shades and hopeful, skinny calves

and so did the thin, quickening branches as

they arced up toward the sky

excited, trembling in the wake of

a some-timish spring

searching for a sun that has already

deserted them

disappeared once again into murk

and gloom

leaving us all naked - again -

to the casual malice of our

London breezes.

 

I wind my black scarf around twice

I told you so, I think

at no-one in particular.

 

It's only May.

 

5:42 PM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

Barcrawl forever-never
Current mood: awake

I'll meet you at the station
You'll be angled in a pose like
Street urchin, leg crooked against
The wall, impenetrable grin,
stripy sock visible
hair big enough
To hide smokes in
I'll be rocking midnight Khol
And a mini in denim
And my best walk as you push off
From the wall, double kiss
Like a Frenchman
Where to?
you'll say. Perfect
Inflection: half-seductive
Half long-time bredrin
But we'd have only met one time
Basement bar - remember?
An exchange of numbers
Phone-tag Youre IT!
Lets go on a bender!?
Bar crawl initiation
Adventure. Fur state! Heaven!
 
Flirtin up the high street
Your eyes drunk on lamplight
This bar should be alright
You'll hold the door
We'll go in
Youll comment on the décor
Candles, posh ceiling
A pub with a boob job
In velvet, good heating
You'll be so rock an roll in
Those All Stars, strutting
Like I do, but manly
And open and grinning
I'll spill rum in my coke an
You'll order a Guinness 

A few rounds later and the whole
Pub is spinning 

We'll talk politics
Hint sideways at passion
Eyes locked in a challenge
Deep twinkle, feet touching
blue eyes on a beige boy
I'll be drunk
Not from drinking, 'Ill get
The giggles in the toilet
Cant stop! Help! Im sinking.

 
Ding Ding!
Last orders?!! Whatever!
Lights on, were blinking
Undeterred, we'll get up, lurch out into
The chill spring
Night
Where to next?
Your whole body is winking I smell kebabs
And blossoms and you
Proper buzzin
Cross the streets still open
Twice again we go in
Two more places, straight bar-crawling
To Tuesday! We'll toast
Full glasses loud clinking
Slurring, fur state, first Guinness
With you as my witness
Background Jimi Hendrix
The drink is winning
 
But the drink aint the cause of my floating feeling
My gloating feeling
Heart on a hundred yard dash
Im mashed youre mashed
Lets fight! I'll kick your ass
Mating dance choreographed
Kiss on both cheeks,
You say one for the middle
I say yes with my gaze
Silent, glazed, no giggle
Ahhhh youre lips'll taste perfect
Despite smoking and drinking
And I wont give a shit about the bar staff
Watching 

It'll be what I've been craving
A real flesh and blood moment
Where you take what you want and
That punk-rock is thumping
And youll kiss so deep I'll
I'll forget  I'll forget
And you'll kiss so sweet I'll forget  

And you'll smile against my mouth
Cos you're such a likely lad and
What a night we've had
And we can't stop making out
And its driving me mad
Teenaged mad
My thoughts are all a good kind of bad 

You'll finesse cigarettes off a spectator
When I'm in the ladies
And we'll splurt soon after
Hey, I'm with you baby 

Corner shop
Laughter 
Kisses
Jokes
And you're such a cool bloke
(single I hope
Cdnt bring myself to ask
After first tender grope)
Walk you home?
Yeah.
Cool. You'll shiver, thin coat
We'll cling to each other
Sway like were on a boat
Wash up at my front door
I'll kiss you, eyes closed
And I won't let you up
As you might well suppose
I'll let you under my skin
But not under my clothes
Cos I want this night to be perfect
Round
closed.

 
Last orders, I'll think.
And you'll say,
Lets get together
This week
Get together
But I'll have heard that before
Only art is forever 

But take me on a bar-crawl
For the ever-forever-never 

You'll have to call me first
Call me first
Call me 

Brrrrrriiiinnnng!

Big! 

Clever.

_____________

(post birthday, post 'fur state' (phonetics) meditations...
Enjoy?)

Goldy Roxx Right Now xxx

7:15 PM - 3 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Friday, March 24, 2006

Bio
Current mood: energetic

BIOGRAPHY

(thought I ought to have a normal one somewhere.)

So... I've been writing since the uterus. 

Okay, almost.  Singer, poet, lyricist, baby guitarist, rock chick, thespian, novelist.  First novel due out 2007, just signed a deal (details are on the hush for now).  Toured nationally with the Word Temple, directed by Amani Naphtali, and with Tell Tales.  Performed at the Jazz Cafe, Stratford East Theatre Royal, The Royal Festival Hall, the Albany, the Poetry cafe and at local dives too numerous to mention.  Featured on Radio 1xtra, Radio 4's Bespoken Word, Radio 3's the Verb and Resonance FM. And shower cubicles across the globe.  Published in several anthologies, including Kin (Serpants Tail), IC3 (Penguin) and Tell Tales.  Been poor a lot. Featured in Trace Magazine - that was good.  Working on forming a band at the mo so I can jump up and down like a nut and wail to my little punk heart's content.  Alternative incarnations include: Gemma Weekes and MisFit (the latter has expired). 

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Monday, April 17, 2006

Skirtless Booty-Shaking in a Basement Bar
Current mood: mischievous

[... Last Night as Promised, baby... x]

 

She pulled her skirt off

in all the thick, red light of a

basement bar, shoe-less,

boneless drunk

bent over, black hair spilled,

grazed the sticky floor

flashing the revellers her thong

and slim ass, swaying

and jerking her body off-beat

she musta not heard that song

"You don't have to take your clothes off/

to have a good time, oh no!"

I sang it aloud in a friend's ear

and we laughed

hard enough to spill white wine

up my wrist

and down the little hyphens of skin

exposed by ripped jeans

I laughed and it was good

like water after a long thirst

It was good, cruel, to watch this mess

of a girl pull her clothes back on

and stumble back into her

rhythm-less dance

I made bets with my boy on a couple of

strangers sat with

their limbs and tongues entwined

on a scuffed couch near the toilets

and shuffled my dirty kicks to Motown

and flirted with everything

and felt like the whistle on one

of them old-fashioned kettles

letting off

steam

 

I get angry sometimes, see?

The day didn't start out too nice

grey and absurd outside the windows

up from sweaty lost dreams and

I have these caged moments

that make me rot

make me burn

especially when the ink won't

flow and there's no willing skin

to retreat to

No work and no love equals

a very evil child travelling east

on the jubilee line with her desperately

bright lips on

and no mission but OUT

OUT OUT

 

Even if no-one wants to

bloody come with

 

And the queue outside the club

of choice was choked with pretty plastic people

unmoving for hours

They weren't gonna get in.

They must've known this

I watched them from inside my belted jacket

seething

we're so fucking brand-hungry I thought

 

But OUT OUT OUT

thundered through me

 

And I sped around the block chewing a bounty bar

and considering a solitary drink

romantic-like in some little club somewhere 'round here

 

"OY!"

I stopped to regard this gorgeous 8th wonder

of a miracle in a stupid world -

a familiar face!

and two others only slighty less so

"Let's just go somewhere else - yeah?"
"Yeah."


And now here we are, random basement bar
With free pool we don't bother to play
And that queue across the road
Surrender! I wanna tell em. Surrender, fools!
There is no shame in it!

White wine tripping through my nerves

and easing me soft, tourists dancing their

mad dance in the burgundy lights

 

And over there, a boy with heavy clouds of

black 'fro, like a beacon, tall, pretty

 

"Hold this," I say feeling the familiar blood flow

Pressing my many discarded layers

and over-full handbag into the arms

of a tribeswoman

 

"Back in a minute."

I grin.

 

All of us have our amusements

and I take my masks off in public sometimes

but the skirt only ever comes off

in private.

 

[wink]

 

x

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Until Yesterday
Current mood: bouncy

Been so tired all week, all I've done is sleep and half watch the telly and have semi-coherent phone conversations and walk very slowly up and down Kilburn high road in search of sustenance.  Oh yeah, and I did one show.  I never properly talk about those in here, do I?  Weird.  You'd think it would be the perfect forum! But yeah, the show was cool - a live recording of Bespoken Word for Radio 4 at the Albany.  Shame on you for not coming, if you didn't! Was good to see Mr Gee, Inua ( family), Yemisi, Dannii, and loads of shiny friendly new faces.  Oh and Ayanna too!

Anyways, that was about the only time I really got out this week (until yesterday).  Last time I went out was to go an get some stuff from my brothers place and my mum gave me some Lucian rum so strong it almost took the top of my head off. Oh yeah... good times! :-D She laughed at me and told me "Pas encore!" and grabbed the bottle away from me...

Then yesterday...

Oh - oh - gotta get to work! I'll put yesterday in the next blog -

Mwah!

Gx

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