jess loseby - digital artist » words

Diet

admin — Sat, 26 Sep 2009 14:32:09 +0000

I should be eating a pear.
But fuck it,
I don’t really care.

i am a professional

admin — Sun, 11 May 2008 00:03:08 +0000

i am a professional and I Will act like it

i ignore dangling carrots and spend my evening chasing rainbows

i have a desk so neat you could eat your bytes off it

i nod to old woman

i spent years of study to argue the merits of colours that match

but i am a professional

i balance, I multi-task, i wear wonderbras

i ignore my children and write guilt poems

i am a professional

i will be like those actors who start strong as teenagers and then disappear for decades

i will reappear triumphantly in my forties looking older but empowered

and get in everyones face, every channel, every ad, have cameos in every hot series

i am a professional

i work hard and sleep like a baby on calpol

i wonder who stole the hours

a thief who looks like the childcatcher

with a candy-stripped cage holding every wasted, unused, thoughtless, unappreciated hour

who releases them in a cave

where they lie, broken and muddy

whatever

admin — Sat, 10 May 2008 22:56:18 +0000

i wanted i gave needed i

i felt didn’t feel feel i

anger anger anger

people surrounding me

am running away, fast, breathing hard, lungs burning

don’t touch

talk i talk i

speak speak to spoken

talk i take talk take

speak speak listen

hear i hear i listen i

speak i

long i long i long

i am angry a wall of flame, creating blisters on pink flesh

remove your hand

sink deep into cold iced water

whisper bubble without form

in water i bubble i without form

i have form i disperse melt drift

struggle cling drown gasp fight, gasp i

breath in

long long

i want crawl escape

hide i shiver i shed

i am resigned to

whatever

dinner

admin — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 00:04:19 +0000

Welcome to dinner!
With chipped plates,
Place-mats shaped liked pebbles,
Plastic glasses,
Kitchen towel serviettes,
Ketchup instead of gravy boats,
Squash instead of mash.
Hunting the shelves of convenient cartels to find a sausage which contains at least 30% meat I find frozen “Pois”.
Smaller than any pea, petite doesn’t really cut it.
Makes a baked bean look obese.
Surely to count as a five a day there must be a minimum circumference?
The children eat chunky, chopped cabbage with melting, peppery butter,
Because the children think it isn’t cabbage if it’s not the dark, green, gloppy mush shown in the cartoons they watch.
The children eat with forks and put their untouched knives into the dishwasher.
Water to drink.
Filtered water to drink.
Filtered, chilled water from the “American” fridge.
Filtered, chilled water from the “American fridge” with crushed ice.
Filtered, chilled water from the “American fridge” which,
Only took the removal of a concrete-set, tiled sideboard, an “English fridge”, a washing machine, a boiler and a cupboard before it would fit into the kitchen.
We eat the chilled, filtered water from the “American fridge” with crushed ice with teaspoons like a sorbet and leave the clouded water alone without drinking it.
Pudding depends on behaviour.
Prodding a sister with a fork will result in the cruel, semantic disappointment of a rice “cake”.
Kicking a brother under the table might result in suspension of “Jammie Dodger” privileges.
However, polite enquiries about another’s day might get “Hundreds and Thousands” in a egg cup with the additional reward of no cutlery and the rarest of permissions;
A licked, dipped finger.
On weekends there might be thick, slabs of Angel cake,
Its slices broken into three rectangles,
The double-sided cream of the pink slice left, always left to last.
Summer brings dripping ice cream with chocolate snowflakes and dewy honeycomb that clings to retainers.
We finish with fair-trade coffee or unfair tea.
And calorie-seeped, hyper children with the volume tuned to maximum.
Sleepy adults wonder if the report can wait.
Crumbs left in the half light.
Laughter tripping down hallways.
Sugar dissolving in warm arteries.
The dog licking the floor.

electronic flotsom

admin — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 21:35:26 +0000

i cleared my inbox today

a feat that in any rational world should result in my immediate blessing

by a higher Deity

for services rendered above and beyond

six thousand bytes of spam

such a tasty dinner

i’m still spitting out viagra smelling bones

and euro lottery gristle

still weeping for lost millions

sitting at the end of the suckers list rainbow

in amongst the delivery failures, pay pal invites, lonely single women

may have been a lost friend,love,opportunity

but once the inbox grows above 2000

i can only scream

fuck off

leave me to my own inanity

it may be trivial but never as mundane

as electronic flotsam

randomly binned where i’m @

china

admin — Sun, 06 Apr 2008 22:16:31 +0000

I worried as I watched

it feels wrong

pick and mix morality

wearing trainers

but the only answer i got was

hey baby,

just you shut your mouth

shhhhhhhhh.

Save the cheerleader

admin — Sat, 01 Mar 2008 23:06:31 +0000

i am a child of thatcher

who uses a council estate childhood

to mask the fact i am a materialist bitch

who just wants a new kitchen

i recycle.

but scrub mold of the bathroom tiles with chemicals

that flow down the plug and annialate unclassified marine species

i have blood on my hands

and apathy is my shield

i stitch my guilt into handmade cards

boycott nestle

spit at asda adverts

and make sure my children are frighteningly cynical

so perhaps blair’s children

might use middle class england

and american soap

as the masks they wear in their determination to save the world.

Dancing Quietly

admin — Fri, 29 Feb 2008 21:55:23 +0000

I have hermit ambition

life, having given me the perfect excuse,

succumbed to my incessant rhetorical nagging

(a fate that awaits most)

and now the world has moved on

I find, being out of step is a quiet dance

where, as my children tower above me

I pull the drawbridge up higher

so life is unable to fight back

because I always win an argument.

bad uncle jamie

admin — Thu, 21 Feb 2008 22:54:14 +0000

bad uncle jamie lives on a faraway beach ( jude reports)

eats bugs for tea

lives with ying, who likes to sing

bad uncle jamie gets to kiss mtv pop stars (jude proclaims)

stays up all night

smokes cigarettes that smell like airwick

bad uncle jamie blew up his school (jude whispers in awe)

spoke to god on a bognor beach

might even be some sort of knight in search of the truth

bad uncle jamie appears once or twice a year

in terrible shirts and too cool boots

riding a motorcycle held together with sellotape

bad uncle jamie will one day know

that he is unconditionally loved

for being bad

for being uncle

for being jamie.

sweet briar

admin — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 00:00:21 +0000

finding herself stronger than financial domination
and the smell of of silver,port and cuba
a rose bloomed

the rose was not recognised as a legitimate response
complaints were made that her behaviour was challenging
that her thorns were not reasonable or representative
of the sacrifices that had been made
in allowing any flower to grow at all in the circumstances
hints and whispers of the trouble of selecting a prudent gardener
they themselves had risen in spite of tin, queens and matches
in a neglected, motherless allotment
and they still flowered, thorn-less
they had even escaped the small plot of land
where the rustling trees and winding ivy
clung on with deep roots and biting tendrils
why couldn’t she accept
that whist flowers weeping was acceptable
thorns were only acceptable when facing inwards
a reminder of where one had come from
of how hard one had fought
of how grateful one should be
blinded by this criticism the rose became sightless to her own colours
her vibrant hues, were seen diminished,
her scent, rising headily, was attributed to others
the thorns, strong and determined, were considered a disfigurement
until they were forcefully forgotten
the rose, sweet briar, grew wrapped around brambles
mistaking a crop of blackberries for ongoing provision
hearing thunderstorms and presuming passion
and traded churchbells in compassion
but finding herself stronger than envoirnmental domination
and the smell of steel and echoes of incense
the rose bloomed, seeded and bloomed and seeded
the new blooms had vibrant hues
heady scents and strong, determined thorns
these attributes were recognised by the first as legitimate responses
jokes were made that their behaviour was challenging
that their thorns were reasonable and representative
of the sacrifices that had been made
in being allowed any flower to grow at all in the circumstances
hints and whispers of the trouble of finding a prudent gardener
she herself had risen in spite of money, port and cuba
in a determined mother’d, earth
but because she had flowered, thorn-less
she could never escape the small plot of land
with its rustling trees and winding ivy
that clung to her with deep roots and biting tendrals
she accepted
that whist her weeping was acceptable
their thorns were necessary to face outwards
to escape from where they had come from
to not have to fight
or be grateful