Salome Starfire

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Archive for the month “March, 2012”

To all my friends who can recite the first few lines of “HOWL” and know what it means.

And all the confusion and the disconnection and all the family spats and the lack of spats and all the moments of awkward movement towards a truth or a lie, and all the ones you want to stay and all the ones that stay and wish they would shut up enough for you to lie your head in their lap or laugh at their jokes that nobody else realises are jokes, and all the shores and yoyo dancing birds across the sea who signal the loneliness of some strange feeling of consciousness not entirely joined to being or at least an awareness of being that sits uncomfortably with just being, and all the missed moments you can never ever get back, and all the fucks and shams, and all the delicate spider web catchings of dewy love in the early hours and all the heated skin rippling under the memory fingers, and all the cold blankets and broken things that can be fixed but are never, and all the times you had hoped for the clear moment of change to synchronise with your desire for this change but you only saw it in retrospect, and all the lost pens that never got the chance to write, thank goodness perhaps, and all the wild calls of nature that never get answered with enough panache, and all of the stories not written down well,and all that are written with lazy observations, all the masculinities lost in a sea of confusion and the femininities that will never surface to air, all of your childhood that was wiped away in one summer’s dreaming, and all of the great plains of the heart.
Live in all directions and let it go.
An owl sat in the rain and observed the sky from my back deck.


Me and my Uke

I’ve got a ukulele. It’s a small thing that twangs when I bite into its strings.

I’ve not left my bed today for fear of ugliness,

the house from wall to ceiling is covered in mirrors that appeared one morning

I’ve not left my bed today for no good reason

and because a kimono looks good on anyone.

The light is so bright and everyone is so thin

and the earth is so slippery it’s hard to find the discipline

to do anything other than pluck these strings,

til I am lost in e, a, g

and my fingers have toughened up

and you should see me pluck

if my fingers were little knives

you’d be pinned to the bed with me


Sometimes I’m sharp of teeth Mr W.

I always have been sharp of teeth. I cut string with my teeth, pierce plastic bottles, make dents in bone, break bone, break skin.

But then there is this love. And it’s so awful and mysterious I don’t know how to map it. And it can’t even find a bed and breakfast.

It wants dangerous destructive events.  It wants rolling hills and warm breath. It aches like a period cramp, and loses its way

like a cat suffering from dementia. But for you, and always you, this love has holes to catch more light, it’s pierced my skin star-

gazing into your jellyfish waters. This love is entirely lost in you, and wants nothing else but to  float on a feather down your back,

your hips, your thighs and curve round each pornographic toe. Look what this dangerous business of love encourages–it’s fucked

up  repository of poetical confession


too late. It barks at me, and whispers silvery,

in another woman’s voice,  whose eyes are reading these lines as I type them.

This love, I’ve observed it leaving the house and taking books out on the lost art of compass-making, on industrial eco-friendly design…taxidermy.

And this love is a shoehorn, a colander, a monkey wrench. I don’t know what a monkey wrench looks like but I know it’s vitally

important to heart-wrenching activities. I’ve never owned a shoe-horn but there are times when I am trying on size 9 shoes with my

size 10 feet wishing for one, made from bone. And the beautifully named Colander  represents my ability

to say forever and desperately mean it knowing what colanders do.

This love is letting you walk out the door,

loose on valium and without shoes,

and the woman typing this can’t help but think,

a monkey wrench, a colander, a shoe-horn just might fix

the heart wrenching scene that is slipping through my fingers,

a barefoot man and a sharp-toothed woman.

Slarty Bartfarst and the Artful Dodger



So maybe I’m Slarty from Hitchhiker’s guide. In my head I build coastlines for Norway. This is a drawing I made for my next Print media class which follows several of my ongoing themes…namely that Carteresque turn of Red Riding Hood into a woman who is just as wild and wily as the wolves. She has the wolf there too. The wolf is probably going to go inside her house with her. She’s just come home from the markets in the mountains. Her house goes underground. It’s lovely and cold where she is. But her house is very warm. She’s a bit of a hybrid, maybe not a chimera, but enough of the animal in her is coming out.  I had enough of a meltdown today with regards to art and because of family. You see, my artistic inclinations are often perceived as a kind of ‘illness’, a strange affliction that I happen to have and won’t get rid of. My family want me to go on medication. It’s the usual drama. I possess all the qualities of a dictator with none of the hats or whips, or the behaviour of a hysteric (histrionic is the term used to describe me by particular family members) but with none of those fabulous cotton gowns and baths full of ice.

If I am waiting for the family to see my art it will be a long wait. My mother can barely read the entirety of my manuscript without a display of being unable to read anymore. Poetry that was twice highly commended for the Shapcott, but not so much liked by the fam. But that’s often what happens with artists. Not always.  I have spent a long time having to explain with so many reasons why I do art, why I write, why I sing. But it is never enough. I just keep creating because it is the most natural job in the world to me. To make art. I don’t think about it an awful lot. I just tend to let my hands take me away and let my imagination go wherever it wants. It’s always been like that.  I wonder how many hysterics were artists? I wonder how many women of passion were treated as hysterics.








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