I have just been looking through some boxes that have been living in a dark and dusty corner of the garage for the past six years. There’s a lot of stuff inside that can be thrown straight in the bin, but also much that is worth its weight in gold. There is a lot of my early writing, including drafts of my first novel (written in notebooks that I carried around with me on travels to Italy, Japan and Greece) but also stuff that I had completely forgotten about.
I’m in love with a girl – a girl who burns –
Her heart’s afire with deadly desire
Her hearth’s a pyre of a passion-fire
Her walls cannot contain
(See – her eyes aflame!)
She lives in a tangled web of deceits –
A gossamer veil that binds her and blinds her,
Each silken thread a secret lie
A chain of pain she cannot deny.
Looking at it now, I think it’s crying out for a third verse… I can’t remember whether I ever did anything with this poem.
From the sublime (see – I’m modest, too!) to the ridiculous:
My delfincubic progenitor (there is no delfincubic language, or these expressions would of necessity be simpler) is a masterful female impersonator. He even had breasts made for him by a witch down south somewhere. They look, and feel, like real breasts, quite indistinguishable, with perfect bounce and balance – except they are detachable. (Also, he keeps wine in one and water in the other, so usually they are differently sized – which rather spoils the illusion.) But slip him into high heels and an elegant ballroom gown and he acts as coyly flirtatious as any maiden in search of a husband.