Jorie Graham's 'The Region of Unlikeness'.

The Region of Unlikeness

You wake up and you don't know who it is there breathing
beside you (the world is a different place form what it
and then you do.
The window is open, its is raining, then it has just
ceased.  What is the purpose of poetry, friend?
And you, are you one of those girls?
The floor which is cold touching your instep now,

it is more alive for those separate instances it crosses
up through you whole stalk into your mind?
Five, six times it gets in, step, step, across to the
Then the birdcall tossing quick cuts your way,

a string strung a thousand years ago still taut....
He turns in his sleep.
You want to get out of here.
The stalls are going up in the street now for market.
don't wake up.  Keep this in black and white.  It's

Rome.  The man's name...?  The speaker
thirteen.  Walls bare.  Light like a dirty towel.
It's Claudio.  He will overdose before the age of
thirty someone told me time
ago.  In the bar below, the counterterrorist police

(three of them for this neighborhood)  (the Old Ghetto)
take coffee.  You hear them laugh.
When you lean out you see the butts
of the machineguns shake
in the door way.
You wake up from what?  Have you been there?
What of this loop called being beating against the ends

of things?
The shutters, as you lean out to push them, creak.
Three boys seen from above run fast down the narrows,
A black dog barks.  Was it more than

one night?  Was it all right?  Where are
the parents?  Dress and get to the door. (Repeat after me).
now the cold edge of the door crosses her body
into the field where it will grow.  Now the
wrought iron banister--three floors of it--now the clack

clack of her sandals on stone ---
        each a new planting ---different from all the others---
each planted fast, there, into that soil,
        and the thin strip of light from the heavy street-door,
and the other light after her self has slipped through.
        Later she will walk along and name them, on by

one---the back of the girl in the print dress carrying bread,
        the old woman seen by looking up suddenly.
Later she will walk along, a word in
        each moment, to slap them down onto the planting,
to keep them still.
        But now it's the hissing of cars passing,

and Left into Campo dei Fiori--
And through it should be through flames dear god,
it's through clarity,
through the empty thing with minutes clicking in it,
right through it no resistance,
running a bit now, the stalls filling all around,
cats in the doorways,
the woman with artichokes starting it up

--this price then that price--
right through it, it not burning, not falling, no
piercing sound--
just the open, day pushing through it, any story pushing through.
Do you want her to go home now?  do you want her late for school?
Here is her empty room,

a trill of light on the white bedspread.  This is
how slow it moves.
The women are all in the stalls now.
The one behind the rack of flowers is crying
--put that in the field for later--into

If I am responsible, it is for what? the field at the
end? the woman weeping in the row of colors? the exact
shades of color? the actions of the night before?
Is there a way to move through which makes it hard
enough--thorny, re-

membered?  Push.  Push through with this girl
recalled down to the last bit of cartilage, ash, running along the
river now, then down to the bridge, then quick,
home.  Twenty years later

it's 9:15, I go for a walk, the butterflies are hatching,
(that minute has come),
and she is still running down the Santo Spirito, and I push her
to go faster, faster, little one, fool, push her, but I'm
in the field near Tie Siding, the new hatchlings

everywhere--they're drying in the grasses--they lift their wings up
to the

groundwind--so many--
I kick them up gently to make them make room--
clusters lift with each step--

and below the women leaning, calling the price out, handling
each fruit, shaking the dirt off.  Oh wake up, wake
up, something moving through the air now, something in the ground

(no subject)

I have sustained a weight of 97 lb and a BMI of 14.4 for the last four weeks or so. Thank fuck. Now it just needs to go lower...lower...

I know, now, with absolute certainty that I am a suicide waiting to happen. It is just a matter of time now. I will use iron tablets as I've heard from a nurse that there is no coming back from iron. I think I cause more pain and distress by staying alive than dying so death it is. I have decided to die. These are my terms. Fuck the world. Fuck humanity. Fuck all of you fucking fuckers. I have had enough.

(no subject)
"I want a body with sharp edges, so when men try and touch me they only hurt themselves."

(no subject)








I think he isa a gifted child. It is a tragedy that perhaps no one will ever come to know or understand that, and he is also evidence of the complex and immeasurable ways in which giftings can manifest themselves onto people. 

I hope that someone will understand his gifts and his richness at some point. I hope he will know happiness. 

I wish that I would always remember today, but it won't stay in my memory, because nothing does anymore.


I want to say a big thank you to all the people who have offered their support to me over the last few weeks. It has kept me going, and it has gone a long, long way. Big love to you all, let's keep up this support and encouragement of each other. 

Thanks again.  Xx.

(no subject)
If someone came up to me right now and said come with me i can take you away from it in this way or 
                      this way or  
                                         this way
I would go with them and hope to fuck i'd never come back. There is a limit. This will not be endless. It will not the voices and the voices and the voices they won't give in they won't rest so i can't rest it's all to much and i cause harm to everyone everyone everyone i hurt everyone i know meet encounter. not killing myself is an act of such extreme selfishness but no one will understand that the voice in my head said go to the train station today and JUMP that's what it said but it's so public it's just so public so open there might be children around it's not fair to make them witnesses but overdoses don't work, even huge huge huge hige ones they don't work they don't work they don't they don't. embodiment, it's the problem problem problem problem. 


Lady Lazarus, by Sylvia Plath

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it-

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?-

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the sour flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I am a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot -
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eying of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart -
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash -
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there -

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring.
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air. 

12 lb to go.
101 today; 12 pounds to lose. I don't think it will take long as I know this room and I've walked this floor.

Too sad to eat.

Stomach tying itself up into an intricate tangle when I do eat.

Sickness all over everything, running all around, stamping and stamping.


Log in

No account? Create an account