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Silence Exile and Crumpets
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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in Roz Kaveney's LiveJournal:

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    Sunday, June 28th, 2015
    12:19 pm

    Don't talk to me. We have no more to say.
    Turning your back means showing me your bum.
    It's tight and pert. Once you could make me come
    raising an eyebrow, but you stalked away

    and I recovered, mostly. Went on dates
    that did not tease my limits or my rule.
    I like to play, but not played for a fool.
    Flirting's more fun than one anticipates.

    Getting off not. Abandon hurts old knees.
    Old hearts have calluses. So turn your back
    And turn your face. I have not felt your lack.
    So very much. Things will be as you please.

    I'll say it clear and make it mostly true.
    You never loved me and I don't love you.
    Saturday, June 27th, 2015
    11:54 pm
    Yes more of the damn things

    I cannot read a glance coded and fleet
    She cannot see my eyes behind dark glass.
    First time as tragedy, the next as farce.
    Love never dies. It's all rinse and repeat.

    Rain washed our kissing tango in the mud
    Silence maintained since silence had been sworn.
    So long ago – before this one was born -
    although same itch same hectic in the blood.

    I shall sit still nor speak, there is no way
    I'll crack my face. I did not start this war,
    I hope I do not love her anymore.
    I fear that we can keep this up all day.

    Hatred ill-acted- love behind a mask.
    I care perhaps, but not enough to ask
    11:25 pm
    Oh dear, poems about love. Again

    So out of love we do not even speak
    Every few minutes one might steal a glance.
    A year no word or touch. And now by chance
    Sitting some yards apart. Our stares are bleak

    As winter tundra nothing lives but moss
    Grey unforgiving. Almost I forget
    How once her smile or touch could make me wet.
    It's over now not even like a loss

    An ache has gone. I'm past a fever's end
    So cold I shiver. There is nothing left
    My memory of all save songs bereft.
    Love ate itself and took away a friend.

    Indifference? Can I say it's sincere?
    I doubt I'll know until at least next year.
    Tuesday, June 23rd, 2015
    11:55 pm

    Worst agony, dementia, have an end.
    They breathe out at the end, a pleasing sigh.
    It's right we're glad when friends attended die
    that gladness is our duty as their friend.

    Not that they've gone to some transcendent place
    That sugar comfort's bitter on our tongue
    even when hardest, when they died so young
    they had no mark of trouble on their face.

    Ripeness is all, ripeness the best they get.
    Some years of work completed that might last.
    A present love holding their weak hand fast
    Touch last good sense through agony and sweat -

    Sharp severance from pain, a mercy knife,
    is death, which is not an event in life.
    Sunday, June 21st, 2015
    11:43 pm
    Another of this sequence

    So very tired of wanting to let go
    Not ready yet for there's a final word
    voicing some thought that has not yet occurred.
    These are the last four walls you'll ever know.

    With luck you float beyond the waves of pain
    you know are crashing somewhere up your spine.
    You move, your arm is tugging on the line
    blood drugs flow. And the wave will crash again

    but you will sleep a while, perhaps awake
    and smile because you're coming to an end.
    Whoever's there will be your last best friend
    The smile a grace performance for their sake.

    Diminuendo senses all as fade.
    You are no longer there to be afraid.
    Saturday, June 20th, 2015
    11:21 pm
    My poem for world refugee day

    Home is the place you do not get to stay.
    Sea rushes in or harsh men with large knives
    take home away and leave you with your lives.
    Time robs us all and time can be one day.

    You do not get to plan it or to pack.
    No tooth-brush and no soap. Your favourite book
    left on a shelf. You just have time to look
    at all you lose. And run. And not look back.

    You trudge for weeks. Road carves feet to the bone
    You come to where you're held behind a wire.
    Men starve you, beat you, rape without desire.
    The price of safe whatever else you own.

    Do this to them, we also do to me.
    We never know when it's our time to flee.
    10:08 am
    This is particular, but also general

    White from no sun no blood the wasted hand
    lifted from bed and helped to one last touch.
    It is so little and it is so much,
    We think we hope that he could understand

    feeling new life as his began to ebb
    in its last tide. Could feel the belly swell
    two pulses. There are moments we can't sell
    or buy. Our lives are twitches on the web

    that ties in love and friendship. You to me,
    you to this dying man I'll never meet.
    Love is a dance of many running feet
    relaying passing batons. And the sea

    takes him away and takes us all in time
    and all that's left is songs and love and rhyme.
    Sunday, June 14th, 2015
    1:22 am
    This comes from a slightly louche conversation we're having on Twitter

    Apparently I smell. Or so they say.
    Those women who are always on their guard
    against my kind. They walk round, sniffing hard.
    The scent might get lost on a rainy day.

    It's life or death. Imagine their disgrace
    if perfume or a smoking cigarette
    confuse them. And maybe, worse thing yet
    scent-lost, they see a smile upon my face

    and smile right back. It happens, and I flirt.
    Some people say I have a deal of charm
    What if they ran a finger up my arm?
    And someone saw? Their name dragged in the dirt.

    Their sisters unforgiving of such slips.
    Pus and hibiscus on three finger-tips.
    Friday, June 12th, 2015
    11:14 pm
    Didn't get a chance to post this yesterday

    The Prince of Darkness was a gentleman.
    Well-read and suave and handsome as a lord
    Who kills with charm shapes poems with a sword
    Never did harm but played. Best actors can

    People the worlds that haunt collective mind
    As dreams and nightmares authors leave as cloud
    Of wisps and hints. We see clear. Shriek aloud
    What's now embodied. Also, he was kind

    By all accounts. He worked hard at his craft.
    In pain made no concession to old age
    His last best home blue screen set sounding stage
    Getting applause. He'd think our weeping daft.

    Though weakness age and death all took their toll
    He only leaves us as the credits roll.
    Friday, May 29th, 2015
    3:01 pm
    My poem for Neil and Amanda's issue of the New Statesman

    I knew when I was four. Girls were my team.
    Boys were the other side. Not as distress.
    Something I knew. Not yearning for the dress
    my best friend wore at parties. In a dream

    we danced and flew. Flesh silk in every twirl
    Feet stars. And no one followed, no one led.
    For many years they told me she was dead.
    She found me when she looked for me as girl.

    Mourning was lead. But these things were all true.
    Things I knew not to say. Silence my friend
    I feared that they would catch me in the end
    Nailed to unchanging skin. Be just like you.

    Which I was not. Nor am. I represent
    this chosen model of embodiment.
    Mingle my elements alchemic gold
    Quicksilver flows even when sick or old.

    Some things I choose. And some things are my fate.
    Stories a web of both. Spun spider time.
    Sparkle by chance, by choice smear waste dust grime.
    Early I knew, transitioned slightly late.

    And paid the ferrygirl my toll in full
    the blessing of pus blood months weak in pain
    if free would chose it over all again.
    We all have weight to shoulder or to pull.

    Perhaps you'll hear me if I say it clear.
    You live a body set and formed and grown
    I change my flesh and mind and not alone.
    We come among you dancing, year by year.
    Tuesday, May 26th, 2015
    11:12 pm
    World Fantasy Award
    31st May is the closing date for nominations for the World Fantasy Award, If you are attending Saratoga Springs or were at Washington or Brighton, you are entitled to nominate.

    The more people nominate, the less chance there is of shenanigans. Just saying.

    Also, if you feel like giving one of those nominations to RESURRECTIONS Book Three of Rhapsody of Blood, well, I won't win, but if people notice the book they are more likely to read it.
    2:40 pm
    Sad news

    Eyes blue as lapis, bright as chrysophase.
    Its flame-red feathers flicker as if flame
    bird keens high-flying, straining to proclaim.
    Mourning of course, but also passion praise.

    Black satin pillows for the Lord of Night
    that do not show the bloodstain of his tears.
    Who brooks no rule. This news a whiplash sears.
    if pain submission brought her back he might.

    And now his tale is done. And hers as well.
    So many books, dark, wry and with a twist
    Start to reread, go organize a list
    The titles blur. Her words like petals fell

    or snow. Made new and strange what lies below
    transforming every story that we know
    Friday, May 15th, 2015
    11:18 pm
    This is the big poem I didn't feel like posting until after the election
    for CB

    Dead buggered boy breath even if not true
    a rumour's potent threat, gossip goes round
    ties wrists. There is no air beneath the ground
    where buried bodies lie. To me and you
    word comes as fear. What might they do to us?
    Restraint unknown. Broken ungiven word
    story of death that may not have occurred.
    Tale forged forgotten without noise or fuss,
    each sin a chain of air that slowly binds
    like wicked brothers tied by deed and blood.
    They did the bad thing that they might do good
    scent of sweet rot infuses changes minds.
    Whispered betrayal poisons with a hiss
    constricts our acts in numb paralysis

    Libation blood soaks ground. Rare precious dirt
    its clot crumbs speak to wrap the world in noise.
    Red drip spoil mark stain rich neck's diamond poise.
    Mock her – your speaking shares you in the hurt
    done to the woman with the severed hand.
    Talk to your friend with crystals that you stole
    out of her earth. And back then she was whole.
    Man came with knife. It was just as he planned.
    Deplore their wars. And think your pale skin white
    Not innocence, but ash or leprosy
    Do it to Julia and not to me.
    Death tick we hear in watches of the night
    that stump drip. And we lie to get some sleep.
    We did not do it. Blood earth mud we weep.

    From the sky, falling, screaming. Dying. Fire
    that day. And ever since, blood-soaked excuse
    almost illegible. No win, all lose
    stakes of revenge chips piling ever higher.
    Eyes watching, everywhere is on a screen
    real turned to game. And he checks in each day
    presses a button when he's told to play
    no talk or dream of fire that he's seen
    He aimed. Fire fell. And so that one man dies
    name on a list, it flies small vicious bird
    bears fire. Might not be there, we only heard.
    A wedding or a village or a child fries.
    Fire is our fear and guilt, our fate, our shame.
    We live from fire. Fire kills in our shared name.

    We walked on cod shoals, but we ate them all.
    The rains don't come and then the rice crop fails.
    One voice another stilled, the song of whales.
    Embankments crumble, profit towers fall
    Gold church where money's Holiest of Writ
    And dying with no toys the only sin
    Tantalus thirst, it rises to our chin.
    Undrinkable from oil, gas, soot and shit.
    Lungs full we drown although our throat is dry
    Black water's dead; it has nor leaves no air
    Even the styx is dry. We need no fare
    Bright burning bluer than your eye last sky
    At dessicating lies we choose to wink
    Crucible chars our throats melts gold to drink

    What look like dunes are piled white dust of bones
    what glints is buttons, fillings from our teeth,
    the bullets used to kill us, and beneath
    the rotting plastic of our mobile phones.
    Elsewhere of course, just white. It looks like snow
    for they had nothing. And now lost their lives.
    One coughs, eight billion die, noone survives
    for long. And through our roads wild flowers grow.
    Silence at last. Before, a rushing crowd
    running and dying. Trample and fall down
    and trampled. Come to rivers, run in, drown,
    last song, last poem. Is our screams. Are loud.
    Deafen through steel walls the last rich man,
    scraping last caviar from his last can.
    Monday, May 11th, 2015
    12:28 am
    Sort of VE Day, sort of post election...

    Stone brass that lasts, not blood or ash or bone
    The rain corrodes but not for many years.
    It's not the thing for which we shed our tears.
    The shot, the burned. It stands there on its own
    holding a place, reminder of the dead
    and what they fought for. But it's not their grave.
    They are elsewhere. Died old; died young; died brave
    storming a hill, a trench; or died in bed
    did not outlive their wounds. Grew old. Reward
    little enough. Rebuked for wanting more -
    Only from fear will rich men thank the poor-
    They die alone, in pain, in filth, ignored.
    Neglect, not paint on stone, will desecrate
    them, what they built. Fight now, soon is too late.
    Friday, May 8th, 2015
    3:24 pm
    Tuesday, May 5th, 2015
    11:00 pm
    Just one tonight
    CATULLUS 100

    Loving as brothers, as is only meet.

    one loves a boy twin, other loves the girl.

    Verona's small-town smart set in a whirl!

    Caelius and Quintus – they are both quite sweet.

    But if I had to choose, I won't be coy.

    Love scorched me, turned the marrow in each bone

    to wildfire. He was there. Caelius alone.

    I hope he's lucky. Hope he gets his boy.

    12:40 am
    No, one more and that's the 90s out of the way

    You snitch and stink. Your pompous lying tongue

    rots in your mouth. Find better use for it

    There's many arseholes you could cleanse of shit

    or lick a peasant's sandal free from dung.

    Is hate the one idea left in your head?

    Just yawn – the stench will leave us all for dead.

    12:02 am
    The last for tonight

    Perhaps salt tears taste sweet among the dead,

    grief sounds soft music in their silent land -

    So long since we were friends – I'll hold your hand.

    Share mourning, yearning. Loves the years have shed

    like leaves. She died so young, from Fate's harsh blow

    Weep, and you bring her joy. Mourn her – she'll know.

    Monday, May 4th, 2015
    11:26 pm
    Is this Cinna the poet that gets killed in Shakespeare?

    Nine years, dear Cinna, and it's worth the wait.

    Your tenants brought rich harvests in nine times.

    Nine winters froze. Yet 'Smyrna' isn't late...

    Hortensius wrote fifty thousand rhymes

    in those nine years. In far off years and climes

    they'll read you. While his work will dissipate

    forgotten; all those pages used to wrap

    cat litter, fish and chips. It's all such crap.

    10:51 pm
    On a roll with these

    Big Dick fucks. Fucks a lot. It's not a shock.

    His name has made him into one vast cock.

    Each spice you cook gives flavour to your wok.

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