Silver spoons make giddy sounds
(after Kitchenette Building)
Money has a sick thumping sound, bass that makes the gums bleed, it’s witchcraft, it’s universally understood. Between us there is nothing. Then there’s the sculpture of capitalism – cash – say it – cash. A hushing sound. Rich jealousy chokes with a hideous purity. There is no self-control; tailored suits, Italian leather shoes, see a show, see seven, holiday in Europe, go to Moscow, snap pictures among the homeless, the heartbroken, ride the chained elephants in Bali, pat a tiger in India, photograph the natives, don’t recognise the absurdity of cigars for cigars sake. You don’t smoke but hate to seem uncultured – skinny bastard, each parent competing for love, the Xbox, the laptops, and the stupid red sports car. God! We’d die to have half the cash you ungrateful squandering ass, my god! Spare us the green eyes – my god, you disgust us. I’m thinking of buying a house in Sydney, nothing flash, just a renovator’s dream with high ceilings, a fireplace if I can. No brain for science or mathematics, lord knows we’ll die as tramps. Worlds away we’re just as ungrateful, but in this town we’re on the lower rung, it’s hard for us, it’s hard not to look at you with daddy’s silver spoon and hate your fucking guts.
Small and slender as a pencil, the snake coiled itself inside the canoe. I guess I’m not using that today. I take off the olive slip I’m wearing as a dress and edge into the dark water. Thighs, hips waist, breasts, neck. I take a breath and let the water cover my ears. I can hear the clicking of yabbies on the creek floor. My dress sways in the breeze. I swim slowly out to the rock, so as not to disturb the wombat on the creek bank. The breeze gathers momentum. Floating on my back, ears under the water, I hear the faint but distinctive rev of a two stroke motorbike. I dart around the creek bend and into the reeds, hoping my slip blends with the scenery. I wait for the sound to fade before slinking back to the bank. The wombat has retreated to his burrow, the snake has moved on. There is deep tyre mark where the water meets the bank. I creep to the tree that holds my slip.
It is gone.
I know nothing of means and remedies. I know nothing of higher art. I mistake zeal for action for actual progress and I have uprooted any hope of changing myself. I rent my heart to words. I have never been more of a cliché than I am now. At 27, the dangerous year for artists and lovers.
I grow out of my prejudices and into new ones like a pair of leather boots. My mind clings to a superiority to overcome crippling inferiority to a universe too big for one woman to discover alone. I throw lovers off the scent. Love, it all looks rather improbable. My heart stuffs its pockets with you and I go on humming the tune that saves my life every damn time.
Today’s Table-Talk Tuesday is brought to you by the French. Specifically 13-16th Century french poetry forms. I know what you’re thinking, “that bastard’s tricked me into clicking her link again. This has nothing to do with boning old men”. “Roundels & Rondeaus“. Ohmahgawd you’re right. You cultured little hipster you.
The Penguin Dictionary of Literary Terms & Literary Theory describes a Rondeau as french, and totally cool before Swinburne liked it ironically¹. He is credited as ‘experimenting’ with the form in the 1880s, making it popular again¹, and by experimenting I mean mixed it up a bit and re-naming it a Roundel². Kinda like a 1883 version of The Black Eyed Peas.
Having said that, I like both versions (as well as another, similar form called the Rondel which is also worth checking out) and in 2008 I wrote a bunch of my own back when I thought end rhymes were better than sex.
I really love the sing-song nature of this type of lyric poetry. They’re short, like me which really suits my attention span makes them easy to remember and once you get the pattern right, they’re easy like your mum.
So if you’re interested in learning some new poetry forms, you should check out ShadowPoetry. They have a long list of different forms, from the popular Sonnet to not-so-popular Terzanelle.
To the interior corridors of my neurosis. To the land where the sweet little frogs of geometric fixation play nice with the rabid crocodiles of a hyperbolic aversion to rain. Or something.
This week I’m fixated with little things, and no, I’m not referring to your dad’s anatomy. Terrariums. Oh dear god. A fucking tiny garden encased in glass. It marries several of my favorite things.
1. Transparent things – (like glass, water, gin, and your father’s intentions).
2. Things so tiny that they’re hardly functional (except that – let’s be reasonable here).
4. Playing god.
So like some perverted cult leader, I’m going to show you how to make your own tiny world to lord over terrarium.
You will need:
Locate a jar or little-world-receptacle of some kind. You should probably clean it out or something. Fill the bottom with some hell-pebbles.
Crumble the horse shit into a thin layer over the pebbles, this is because I was too cheap to get any charcoal to stop it all looking like mud. Then throw delicately place in some dirt you stole from another pot plant potting mix.
Marvel at your creation. Let there be a lamp, look at it and feel confident that you nailed it. Ignore the gaps where you need to rely heavily on the suspension of disbelief in order to make sense of it all.
So I tried to be an adult and ‘cook’. Or ‘coo – ok’ I’m not sure of the exact pronunciation, blah blah more-jokes-about-not-being-a-real-adult blah. So this happened:
It went like this:
Vegan Creamy Pumpkin & Cauliflower Soup
I’m not pushing any agendas here. I just called it vegan because I want to sound like I know what I’m doing it has no animals in it. It also has no lactose either, if that’s helpful. Each to their own, mofos.
You Will need:
A place for cooking. Possibly even a kitchen.
Some water in a pot (enough to comfortably cover the pumpkin and cauliflower).
Some Massel awesomeness (I vote Ultracube Chicken flavor – x2 cubes).
Some Kent pumpkin (about a quarter).
Half a small cauliflower.
Dairy free butter or margarine (one level tablespoon <- that’s a dirty lie, I put a shit-load in).
I use Nuttlex Lite, because I’m just obnoxious like that.
Then do this:
and do the same type of thing with the cauliflower.
Then make the water all bubbly-like with a kitchen heat machine. Add the pumpkin, cauliflower, stock cubes and simmer the shit out off it until everything falls apart.
Then turn off the heat contraption and let it all just chill out for a second. Maybe have one of these:
Then stir in the fuck-tonne tablespoon of Nuttlex or whatever you’ve chosen to cream things up with and blend until it looks like someone already digested it.
TA DA! Congratulations! Hopefully, you made this:
Now Instagram the shit out of it so everyone knows what you’re currently digesting eat it. Eat it all.
To eat, you will need:
A scooping utensil.
A camera because ‘pics or it didn’t happen’.
My name is Jessica Dendy. I get excited by the consistency of soup. Gentlemen form an orderly line to the left, I’ll be with you as soon as I get over having cooked something that tastes like and even resembles food.
Put it in your mouth (that’s what he-don’t say it. It’s all downhill from there).
Don’t panic. You can still exit this situation with dignity if you do exactly as I say.
Put it back into your mouth and suck it dry.
…What? Don’t look at me like that.
Repeat until there’s no soup left.
Make sure to clean,wash up, put the pumpkin skin in the compost.