to think that these posts and the ostensibly innocuous nightly musings of Happy Harry Hard-on are totally similar.
All I need is someone's jeep and a warped copy of Everybody Knows...
Et cetera.
On Wednesday I went to Hebden Bridge and Mytholmroyd, because my super-cool daughter Olive was runner-up in the Ted Hughes Young Poets Award, judged by Andrew Motion who, I may add, does not put the seat down after he urinates.
On Thursday we made the obligatory trip to Sylvia Plath's grave, bought bizarre cheeses from Hebden Bridge market and walked along the canal's tow path, pretending to be homeless ten year-old, leaf-eating sisters, before making the journey back home during which I was an exceptionally mardy bitch, a role all good mothers must adopt from time to time so as to instill a sense of perspective in their unfortunate offspring.
My favourite neurotically cannibalistic love letter du jour is this:
Left Over
Some tiny mark I'd settle for;
an unblotted love exposed for a sideways ruin,
regardless of whether I might
or not
suck back at the lip
at the taste of another split hair,
spit-like between us;
we fight like that:
you fence my frozen tongue;
I hack poor words in rebellious orders out of the terror,
in tears.
It's true
to say I cry too quickly
so soon as my skin is removed
and the meat on display left uneaten by you.
Now I'm going cycling on the seafront.
