Ms Strange is a sneaky poet, who’s notoriously avoidant of online profiles. Appearing in sporadic bursts every ten years, she quickly melts back to the shadowy dream scape, from which she arose. Lucy has kindly submitted to us here, her piece simply titled “Grime 09””
“Grime is about mismatched lust, glorious magical lies that fuel toxic relationships, and the sorrow found when we accept the stark reality, that psychopaths make fun, but very poor playmates... Our grime, was no man’s grime, but skin and dirt”
Read the full poem here
was no mans’ grime-
but skin and dirt"
All but nothing is left of you now-
except a thousand memories,
that hush themselves in tempered breath,
as un true -
to belittle things to me.
But my soul is half a soul tonight,
a slipped void is cast,
from faintest whisper of bygone dreams,
built simple never to last.
An epic storm of sprouting truths & lies,
all blurred in distorted distant view,
Of oh such sweet certainties shattered,
our spoiled sin-
of ancient- tormented, lusting wisdom,
That jagged piece to be cast away,
there’s no way I should do. –could do,
Miss you- but I do.
So the improbably impossible is true.
The chaos we crafted, was unmatched,
unspoken from any before.
We chose to dine and dream, in shrouds of madness,
Forever toasting Oden, Loki, Aphrodite Thor.
A magic time of loves and loses-
of dizzying highs unsustained,
and the inevitable plummeting,
as our fallacy fantasy dispersed,
leaving only cold cruel reality to remain.
For in that time. No rules were born,
except the structures later cast, as all were consumed,
and all were entombed -
bridging our certain path.
Our certain fall from divine grace-
to the pits of our hell.
But what a wonderfully wondrous hell it was,
a home-sweet-home and true-
and in the depth of Loki’s smile we settled down,
to tell our tale to the new gods,
and taught our scriptures to.
A darkest magic.
Born of the purest ungodly hedonistic decadence.
We worshipped on our alter in sweaty psalms of passions,
and fucked our souls in drunken nightmares,
as each of our gods paid two coins to watch,
and watch they did,
in unfaltering gaze,
as the unhallowed heaven we'd created grew to take a hold,
and the arguments start-
as to who ripped out whose heart,
and who in fact owns whose soul.
In the name of love,
we tore pieces of ourselves out in panting bleary eyed rage,
till my hysterical cries were silenced,
all concerns caged,
by your fucking my mouth, with cock or gun,
the results smiling,
always the same.
We'd simply no longer care.
That dismissive eye penetrating my every being,
matched in defiance & obedience
of a doey-eyed glare.
Happily on my knees once again,
to every god I chose to toast.
Be them mine,
or the saint’s interpretation - which I always liked the most.
In all that unwise confusion sought,
the pointless guidance poor fools tried and taught!
Whom could raise any worth-while speculation,
on our situation?
Tho they all tried in abundance and in wealth.
Yet none could avail,
all the cries I did hail,
For I am the girl-
to sell her soul to the devil,
then moan, she was no longer herself.
Poem by Lucy Strange (2009)