My impure thoughts about Meg White
My haven under the stairs has been changed in my absense. Firstly, it has been cleaned. This, to others, might seem like a nice thing to do and, granted, it was a nice thing to do. However, it has disrupted the entire balance of my life. I am a creature that is at home in squalor. I cannot balm with all this available floorspace. Secondly, my super artistic sister has felt the need to paint a big, creepy, psychedelic, leafless, knarly tree (See "The Ring" or Sylvia Plath's Elm) on the wall directly in front of my bed. It sprawls onto the next wall and a bit of the ceiling. As a direct result, I have been subject to a number of MAD dreams usually involving Meg White and me and Meg White doing things to me. I awake violated yet extremely aroused. Planning to buy Fiona a set of drum sticks.....
Elm
I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root;
It is what you fear.
I do not fear it: I have been there.
Is it the sea you hear in me,
Its dissatisfactions?
Or the voice of nothing, that was you madness?
Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it.
Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.
All night I shall gallup thus, impetuously,
Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,
Echoing, echoing.
Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?
This is rain now, the big hush.
And this is the fruit of it: tin white, like arsenic.
I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
Scorched to the root
My red filaments burn and stand, a hand of wires.
Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.
A wind of such violence
Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.
The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me
Cruelly, being barren.
Her radience scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.
I let her go. I let her go
Diminshed and flat, as after radical surgery.
How your bad dreams possess and endow me.
I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.
I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.
Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrevables?
Is it for such I agitate my heart?
I am incapable of more knowledge.
What is this, this face
So murderous in its strangle of branches?
Its snaky acids kiss.
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults
That kill, that kill, that kill.
Sylvia Plath (1932 - 1963)