Monday, 18 October 2010

Fuck Off You Fuckers

Just tried to go the American Church to look at their notice board as Lauren told me they have lots of job vacancies and stuff posted there. I couldn't find it. If I see an American flag I'm going to spit on it and grind dirt into it with my boots and that will serve them right for building a fucking unlocatable church.

I have a feeling I won't hear from the other family, I may have to go home for the time my au pair family are on holiday. The dad just told me the dates and was like 'Why haven't you booked already it will be really expensive.'

YES YOU FUCKER IT WILL BE EXPENSIVE.

Oh no, I am becoming enraged again. Need to calm down. I was marching around the 7th arrondissement with my dog-killing face on and people were doing double-takes because I looked so hideously incensed. I tried to watch Glee this morning to cheer myself but it was really sad episode and I cried into my 'mached potatoe' the whole way through. Yeah, smash for lunch. Argh. I don't want to go home because if I do I won't want to come back to stupid fucking Paris. You know what? I'm going to post that poem I wrote and if you think it's cringe and reading it makes you want to die insid a little, then fuck off you fuckers and don't read it.

There and Then
A living room painted post box red.
A yellow kitchen filled with light.
A pink bedroom with wooden floors.
Drapes that let in stars at night.

A long, wild garden, grass to my waist.
Then at the weekends; the Derbyshire hills.
We'd walk from the park along the canal,
stop and watch as an empty lock fills.

The streets of Manchester, Streets Ahead,
Affleck's Palace to see dad's works;
chainmail dragons and stain glass hearts,
in the air strange sweet smoke lurks.

Fireworks and fire breathing.
Smoky nights and cold black air.
Watching the soaps, then being tucked in.
A dreamcatcher traps my nightmare.

Then, skip forward, I'm walking home
at daybreak down Hardman Street.
The cries of the gulls are echoes
as I skip home in bare feet.

Cups of tea and chocolate biscuits.
Bowls of soup and bread.
We won't go out 'til two am,
then spend two days in bed.

Dancing, panicking, trying to forge
the night in my head like a brand.
Because, even in the moment I'm looking down
at myself slip through time like sand.

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