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Reading from Southbank Centre's Poetry Parnassus festival, 2012.
Translated from Gun into Spanish by Agnès Agboton, and from Spanish by Maya García Vinuesa:
‘They remain lying on the earth...’
They remain lying on the earth
the dark bodies of men
after a useless death
and in the hidden heart of the
others
the flame of hatred is still
burning
ignorantly awake.
Useless hatred.
Inside a calm refuge
of beautiful walls
all has changed;
two important men have smiled
to each other,
they have shaken hands.
Again, all is useless,
the struggle of the living,
the death of the dead.
Again, all is useless,
the hunger...
Vivienne Westwood, a cento
The garment should say: ‘I am this’
A story of itself
It’s just so creative to put a sentence together
Greet me by ‘how lovely you are’ rather than ‘I like your hat’
I haven’t thought properly about dying
But if I were to write anything on my tombstone
It would be ‘The only revolution is culture’
Every time I speak to someone, I assume they understand
How easy it would have been not to lead this life
I could have been a schoolteacher
What you are given for free should not be owned
Love affairs go a long way to helping life pass you by
Behave according to the clothes
Forget yourself and you will become who you are
I am the centre of my look, like Chanel was
Punk was kids having a great time, but for what? I don’t know
If I go into a room and see Pamela Anderson looking incredible
I’m going to be delighted
The sun makes my skin itch when I’m on a bicycle
A nude is never really naked
I know exactly what I would like my legacy to be
Form is always becoming something else
I design for a world that doesn’t exist, you know, one like this but better
I wake up in the morning
And think
People are alive
Making things, children
And apps, they
Are running to one
Another and then my arm
Falls asleep.
Most of the men
Who did not exactly know
They were my father
Are dead
And so
My father keeps
dissolving.
Tonight
Both my sons are sleeping
At their mom’s apartment.
I can’t always feel
My legs
But I don’t want to tell
Anyone. I’m so afraid
Of everything.
When I called Mary
To ask her how Ralph died
I ended up calling Mary
To tell her that Ralph died.
I think I can pretend
To be a person for
Maybe only a few more years.
And after that,
The moon is just going to
Have to defend itself,
The shadows
In the tall grass are just
Going to have to learn
How to self-soothe.
My sons will just have
To learn something
About fathers
Who leave without knowing
They are leaving.
Whether I’m here,
Not being able to feel
My face,
Or not here and my face
Is just the light above the grass.
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