Sinister: I worship the quicksand you walk on

[Laura Llew]

Should I post? Should I be good?
Astound Sinister with my revealing blazer and faustus hood?
Not talk of artsy movies but of cemeteries
Name check Will Porter and all the preliminaries
Tell about parkway picnics and rash roadtrips
To only flush and fret over my freudian slips

When I introduce myself to the list
-prosaic prose, grieving over grammar, strangling spellcheck -
should I pretend to be twee - liking "Hello Kitty"
being sure not to mention The Pixies?
How else to feel other than I am,
falling in love with dead poets who always turn up gay..
O how terrible it must be for a young girl
writing to strangers and the strangers thinking
We've never seen her before! Who is this Llew?
After choking down the words they think "To meet all of my Ll needs, what 
would she have to do?"

My hokey, I can't forget THE BAND! Le Pastie De La Bourgeoisie
This song being my biography is easy to admit to
But how do I confess to me & Dirty Dream #2?
And the foxes! Pine, ginger - all in the snow
Completing epics on, who in the world?, Lloyd Cole?
It takes more than THAT to make sense of the day
Does it really take more than milk to get rid of the taste?

So much to do! Like sneaking into Honey's castle late at night
to cover her tea cups with 1920 Norwegian books
like pasting Dorothy Parker postage stamps all over the Community Chest
(Community Chest being St. Lucy?) (Naughty indeed.)
Pretending to be a kitty and kissing Maddie's ankles
Stumbling to the Boy with the Thorn in his Ley, fumbling over what to say
Arguing with Dave that he doesn't really exist
Grabbing Arik, while whirling "There are unfavorable omens in the sky!
Leave New York Behind! Remember our September with the butterflies?"
And what happens when a boy does come - breamsing from the sea
I look down, blush, wondering if they even really know me
Oh, when the millkmaid hides just leave her a note in the bottle
Penguin dust, bring me penguin dust, I want penguin dust!

...And a show in my bedroom...

O what would that be like!
Surely I'd give B&S my bookcase for a stage
Where Isobel could croon of her bottled up rage
And in my bed I would snuggle up with... Struan!
How did he get there?!?!

No... I'll never be that kind of girl
No venue; no quiet cuddle
Only living with my family still
a Reichian sister screeching over a channel change - Spolied Brat!
Only worse at the shop with nose running brats in love with Pokemon
Their mothers uncaring, all toothless and dry haired
like those hag masses of the 18th century
telling their children to forget books and just watch TV
Teary eyed grandmothers telling me how their sons are finally fertile
Leaving me trying not stare to see how tight the man's pants are
Impossible to lie back and dream of Bedroom shows, ghost appearances
No! I should not post! I should never post!
But - imagine if I were a beautiful sophisticated woman
tall and pale wearing an elegant black dress and long black gloves
holding a cigarette holder in one hand and a highball in the other
flying to London or Edinburgh for business trips though
living high up in a penthouse with a huge window
from which I could see all of New York and even farther on clearer days
No, I can't imagine myself writing from that pleasant dream
I would have parties to give and boys to charm
I'll content myself with Tin Tin socks and hopeless crushes
Not thinking about love...

O but what about love? Should I mention love?
It's not that I am incapable of love
(Though I am a Spinistereen with Cupid in the dungeon)
It's just that I see love as odd as drinking Ribena
I always thought I didn't want to end up as my mother
- married with a family; with nothing but endless work -
However when I thought I was rid of her, there was the mirror
"I want to meet the person who came across manure in a field,
saw mushrooms and thought to put it in their mouth."
Or telling my father, "Just keep porking it down, fat boy."
I couldn't ever really be part of a couple, could I?
There's maybe a boy for me now but he's too well read for me
And not even librarians don't like me and -
but there's got to be somebody!
What if I'm 60 years old and still spending 15 minutes clocking posts?
Alone in a car with the only words of love coming from a scratched tape
Couldn't a mix tape be as well as love?

But I should be post I should be good
Astounding Sinister with my revealing blazer and faustus hood.


Laura Llew
"meeting all of your Laura Llew needs since 1977"

I figured if Gregory Corso could still Jack Kerouac's girlfriend, then I 
could steal and twist his words. Of all the poets who I wished were dead 
upon reading their works - he wasn't one of them. Sadly, he didn't take my 
thoughts into account (as is typical with boys) and passed away earlier this 
year.

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