gotta love 'er

Did I say I was pretending to be Courtney Love at last week's Hollywood-themed party? Just before I fell headlong down the stripped-pine stairs? (The bruises are still quite bad, thanks; my lip is healing up pretty well. I can wear lipstick now, which is the main thing, it hides the scab.) (But the rest of me looks like crap, I'm so flipping tired.)

Because after today's article in the Guardian (you know, I do think sometimes that the Guardian should pay me a fee of some kind - the number of links! - & it is a bit embarrassing. I even live in Stoke Newington. Next it'll be the Camper shoes) I can tell you this for nothing: I'm never going to have lips like hers. What has she done to them?!?? I'll need some falsies next time. Even splitting them open didn't get mine to that size.

Still, she's a poet.

The bit I do like is where it says that when Courtney was 12 she was turned down for the Mouseketeers, after reading a Sylvia Plath poem for her audition. Let's imagine that for a minute: there's little Courtney, just at that awkward age. Her mother has made her put on something nice, "something nice" and off she has gone with, perhaps, a little illicit mascara or blue eye shadow on. She stands on the stage. The ladies and men wait expectantly. Around her are props: Mickey ears, banners. Other children are to be seen anxiously reciting under their breath: "m-i-c... k-e-y..."

Courtney clears her throat, as her mother watches, and begins:

Stasis in darkness.
Then the substanceless blue
Pour of tor and distances.

God's lioness,
How one we grow,
Pivot of heels and knees! -- The furrow

Splits and passes, sister to
The brown arc
Of the neck I cannot catch,

Nigger-eye
Berries cast dark
Hooks ----