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rejectomorph

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Withered [Jul. 9th, 2017|08:44 pm]
rejectomorph
I feel as withered as the sourgrass by my front porch that I forgot to water this year, but not as dry. I'm desperate for tonight's low temperature of 69 degrees, though it won't arrive for several hours yet. I might be asleep when it does, but if so I hope it chills my dreams. There are to be a couple of even cooler nights coming up. They will provide but a temporary respite, though, as next weekend is to be even hotter than this one was.

But tonight I will get to see English people murder one another on television. Yes, the PBS stations have ended their begathon and returned to normal programming. I've missed those dead English, though tonight their murders will be especially sad because the English live in a cooler climate than I do. It must be terrible to be murdered when the weather is pleasant. Like most Californians, I am currently wishing I'd been murdered last spring, before it got this bad. Ah, well. Too late now.




Sunday Verse



We Were Emergencies


from Gentleman Practice

by Buddy Wakefield



We can stick anything into the fog
and make it look like a ghost
but tonight
let us not become tragedies.
We are not funeral homes
with propane tanks in our windows,
lookin’ like cemeteries.
Cemeteries are just the Earth’s way of not letting go.
Let go.

Tonight
let’s turn our silly wrists so far backwards
the razor blades in our pencil tips
can’t get a good angle on all that beauty inside.
Step into this
with your airplane parts.
Move forward
and repeat after me with your heart:

“I no longer need you to fuck me as hard as I hated myself.”

Make love to me
like you know I am better
than the worst thing I ever did.
Go slow.
I’m new to this.
But I have seen nearly every city from a rooftop
without jumping.
I have realized

that the moon
did not have to be full for us to love it,
that we are not tragedies
stranded here beneath it,
that if my heart
really broke
every time I fell from love
I’d be able to offer you confetti by now.

But hearts don’t break,
y’all,
they bruise and get better.
We were never tragedies.
We were emergencies.
You call 9–1–1.
Tell them I’m having a fantastic time.

linkReply

Comments:
[User Picture]From: chrishansenhome
2017-07-10 09:40 am (UTC)
Sadly, the English weather, while not approaching the witheringly hot temperatures of California, has been relatively hot by our standards. There was a very hot end to June (temperatures around 34 degrees C, or 93 degrees F) and the beginning of July has not been much better--today's high here in London will be 26 degrees C or 78 degrees F and the low will be 17 degrees C or 62 degrees F and muggy). They've promised thunderstorms this afternoon but there's no sign of them yet.

So we'll be murdering each other having been crazed by the heat.
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[User Picture]From: flying_blind
2017-07-10 06:02 pm (UTC)
Sadly, people murdering one another because of the heat does not make for very entertaining crimes. In California we call that the evening news.

While I'm sure the current generation of the English are mostly decent, well-meaning folk with their share of deep, dark secrets, they just don't murder as, well, Englishly as earlier generations did. I blame that streak of Australian commonness that Rupert Murdoch brought to the culture.

On behalf of all Americans I offer my apologies for the heat wave engulfing London. We're trying our hardest to get President Trump to shut up, but he just keeps gassing on and on. We were hoping that Vladimir Putin would simply devour him, but apparently he just isn't that hungry yet.
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[User Picture]From: daisydumont
2017-07-11 03:20 am (UTC)
I hope you got the coolth predicted! And that the outlook for even hotter turns out to have been a mistake.

The poem I find both richly entertaining and wildly alarming. Never heard of the poet. Someone to watch, obviously.

What's your latest fave rave as to the English murdering trend? I was idly wondering, just today while waiting to see the doctor about my bum knee, how to spell the name Feardiche (that is doubtless totally wrong, so I'll go looking and come back to edit), one of the characters in a terrific old episode of Lewis, in which darling Hathaway puts glittery eyeshadow on and goes to a rave. I think. I need to watch it again.

Off to google for that odd name...
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[User Picture]From: daisydumont
2017-07-11 03:29 am (UTC)
Feardorcha. It appears to be Irish, derived from the words for "dark man." Hmmm.
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[User Picture]From: flying_blind
2017-07-11 03:50 am (UTC)
Last night I got not one but two English mystery shows: the latest season of Grantchester (a fine bromance, with murders) followed by an episode of the Prime Suspect spinoff, Prime Suspect: Tennison, which features young Jane Tennison as a uniformed rookie policewoman in the 1970s. Both are quite good.
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[User Picture]From: daisydumont
2017-07-11 04:11 am (UTC)
I will check to see if Comcast has them!
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