Sylvie Hill

HELPING YOU HELPING ME

“You’re doing my fucking head in!”
remember: it’s what you once said
sorting our mess: “I’m gonna tear my bloody eyes out!”
Must have been for real: where were they when we met up?

Vacant black holes, and where did your irises go?
You got still black eyes like a guy who smoked a lot of dope.
“I would kill or have you killed in a month!”
you wrote, but I think in our own way we had Fun.

Your hands, I snapped a picture quick.
But the scar at your heart, too real to peek.
Wasted, did you catch me checking out your tooth?
I wanted to pull your lip up like a dog’s, check the roots.

I was not in love, my darling
I was helping you help me.
We both used each other well, I think.
Knowing you, knowing me: we intended this,
Beautifully.

Thanks for always being there, I wrote
“I delete most, read only 26% of your emails,” you joked.
Is it OK that I consult you like this?
“Yes, just frame your rambling into questions,” you said.

But where was your arm around me in real life?
Why did you fight; I was distressed, felt strife.
You came off immensely miserable, as if real dead inside.
But I came all this way to bring warmth to your side.

You are still in love, my darling
You were helping you help she.
You will continue using women, I think.
Knowing me, knowing you: I conceded,
Magnificently.

Honey, I wear my heart on my sleeve
And yours came out every time over beer
Why don’t you marry her? I began to cheer
“Why doesn’t she ask me?” you jeered.

Oh, THAT game. Stuck in that old refrain
like the ABBA song with the same name
as this poem only the more deadly:
“Knowing Me, Knowing You”
ah, there’s absofuckinglutely nothing you both can do!
You heard the song, you know the beat
You’re stuck in the dead-end: defeated.

Helping you, I would have told you
My longest lover was just like you
Held onto the idea of ‘us’ for years
Drank like you drink, extinguish tears.

He said he gave all like an abundant refrigerator
But ooh, watch it ladies, the door’s closed forever.
“I’ll never have another love like you,” I’m flattered
But how about what I think, did it matter?

One partner wants to move away
And the one left behind cries “Betrayed! Betrayed!”
Get a grip yourself, make a move or move on
If not your sanity, from what else do you run?

Helping me, you told me to get a grip
Not be so insecure and to deal with my shit.
Said “Don’t Do The Crime, If You Can’t Do The Time”
And to shut up about my problems sometimes.

I didn’t ruin shit, but you know you did.
Agree to disagree it’s a matter of perspective.
If you had only let yourself feel, you’d see
I was there for nothing more than for …
Helping you helping me …
I’ll let the critics decide how selfishly
But in that, I would argue — lovingly.

© Sylvie Hill 2014
|

***

Hello? Did you kill yourself yet?
he wrote.
Where are you at?
Been a while since we spoke…

***

MADEMOISELLE REISZ
(based upon Kate Chopin’s “The Awakening”)

Edna, at a very early period,
“apprehended instinctively the dual life
—that outward existence which conforms,
the inward life which questions.”

Bejeweled by societal customs
Of the customary “wife,”
Trapped in domestic ennui
That her soul and spirit despise.

“…life appeared to her like
a grotesque pandemonium and humanity like
worms struggling blindly
toward inevitable annihilation.”

That bad.
Until one man,
And music by an offensive supernatural outcast
…named Reisz.

“It was then, in the presence of that personality
which was offensive to her, that the woman, [Mademoiselle Reisz],
by her divine art, seemed to reach
Edna’s spirit and set it free.”

What Reisz unlocked in the woman,
was unleashed…

“Fantaisie-Impromptu,” Reisz played by Chopin
Oh, do play it again and again!
The music trembled Edna’s spine.
But “perhaps it was the first time
she was ready, perhaps the first time
her being was tempered to take
an impress of the abiding truth.”

It awakened passions in her soul
That thrashed about like ocean.
It aroused in her a fondness for a man
With whom she’d fall in love.

And to feel it deep
And to feel it wide
And to feel it sweep her
And to feel it inside
She walked to the beach
To the sound of the sea
She took off her clothes
And in she dove.

And in the starlight
She swam with all her might
“she seemed to be reaching out
for the unlimited in which to lose herself.”

She went too far, felt it a dream and terror-death
She swam back, exhausted, lay in a hammock.
(I too went too far, felt it a nightmare, terror-death
Thanks for carting me to couch away from the rickshaw!)

The lover, admiring her reeling, uttered: Si tu savais!
While the boring husband told her to dry off and come in.
To the lover she said: “A thousand emotions have swept through me to-night.
I wonder if I shall ever be stirred again
as Mademoiselle Reisz’s playing move me to-night.”

The Lover joked of her being mesmerized by feeling
Said it was all the doing of some sky-fairies.
That on the 28th of August the semi-celestials go hunting
And they’ve put a spell here on this young New Orleans beauty.

This cheeky lover was warned by a married friend of his:
“She is not one of us; she is not like us.”
Meaning: “She might make the unfortunate blunder of taking you seriously”
If you act with her as if you’re in love.

So the lover went away and Edna went insane a bit
Moved out of the family home to be on her own
And she’d secretly visit Reisz who had the lover’s letters
And would reveal how the lover asked of Edna often.

“I didn’t think you’d come” tonight, said
Mademoiselle Reisz, the witchy supernatural mystic.
Re-read to young Edna of what the lover penned:
He does not write you because “he loves you, poor fool,
and is trying to forget you, since you are not free to listen to him.”

Oh, the constraints of marriage!
Oh, the folly of possession!
Oh, the age differences!
Oh, the bloody distance!

“Do you suppose a woman knows why she loves?
Does she select? ‘I shall set my heart upon this musician,
whose fame is on every tongue?’
Or, ‘This financier, who controls the world’s money markets?’”

The lover came back to town and acted like a friend
Until Edna kissed him and he admitted his love then
Passions sizzled, they wanted to go further
But she was summoned to help a sick friend.

Stay here, I’ll return and finally be together then!
But when she returned there was a note that read:

“I love you. Good-by—because I love you.”

Now, Mademoiselle Reisz said that to be an artist
You have to have a courageous soul.
She knew Reisz would be mocking her as a coward
For throwing herself facedown to drown herself
in the ocean.

But this is what me and Edna do!
We a’Muse, we die, we a’wake.
We fight for feeling
We get off our heads spinning
And for the love of life,
We break with tradition,
We take
After we are done giving:
plunderous.

© Sylvie Hill 2014

dixon / “Plunderous” / 80x70cm / spray paint and acrylic on paper / 2014 // painting for Railbender Gallery, group show, Ottawa.

“Plunderous” is an artwork by dixon (aka Juan Carlos Noria). It is about a princess who takes anything she wants. I adapt this concept to a female like myself who [m]uses men to resurrect the tradition and warnings of dead heroines among our consciousness, but – selfishly – also as a survival tactic. Where death is a poetic conclusion for a literary heroine to escape the pain she suffers after awakening to feeling, touching the void, accessing magic, or simply reveling from a transformative connexion, in real-life us ladies have to go on, right? To do this, the female poet, here, takes/begs/borrows/steals/rapes/pillages/usurps whatever she needs from her experience with her Muse, and at all costs (hopefully, avoiding lawsuits), to beat the death trap. In my case, I am lucky: my Muse does not respond and keeps silent – dead to us both. In this, my Muse gives me life. Like Mademoiselle Reisz whose music awakens Edna to feel and to live beyond the rules that plague her soul and to break free from the confines of how/who women are “supposed” to love, so too did my “Reisz” Muse. Poetry is how I live my reincarnation. It was funny how one day after not hearing from me for a week, my friend, who became the Muse, wrote me: “Did you kill yourself yet?” in sardonic jest/joust. I smiled: music to the poet inside me. Today, I’d tell him: No, man. Current position: Just holding on for life …

Bonded, We Were Bound.

We were bound by
“Bum a Smoke” night, right?

Is it psychiatric help I need
Or a crystal ball?
A Poet’s heed.
Or to fall?

What is this?
What am I after?
It is not love
From which I suffer.

But I caught a glimpse
On a feed today of you
There again that ol’ feeling:
wanting to CONSUME you.

What is this?!
What am I after?!
It is not love
From which I suffer!

I like to swim,
Not drown.
I like mountains,
Not rolling down ‘em.

I like the view,
Not to plummet.
I like the sun,
Not a burn in summit.

Kundera said the heaviest of burdens
Is life’s most intense fulfillment.

So, the sea swallowing me to the bottom treasured dark depths of mystery, yes!
So, the mountain robbing my lungs on high, me tumbling south freely in speed-velocity thrill, yes!
So, the higher height the longest road to free fall upon the easy breeze, yes!
So, the heat and brilliance searing with climaxing illumination upon my skin in extinction, yes!

Screwing me:
The closest we’d ever be.
Yet dejected,
Ultimately
In abandon…

Oh dear,
I can do this!
No you did not.
A leg bruise,
You cannot
Remember: blackout …

I got it!
I wanted to suck you in
Like a cigarette!
Feels so fucking good,
And it makes me so sick.

© Sylvie Hill 2014

Art: dixon / Secret Santa Art Exchange / spray paint and enamel on wood / 2004 —

Bang Bang Bang, Blam(e)

Killers in the name of love?
Or some-such “lust” after the Intrepid Fox
In London Town or was that just drunk?
Bang, bang, bang, you’re still the one.

Could have been a Mom.
Say, mine was 23 when she skipped town
Travelled West, see what’s going down
Stalled in Alberta, Dad did her undone.
(So yes, technically, I’m from out West…)

What a bloody fucking rodeo!
You know horses, raising them for polo.
Tell me, how do you move when they buck?
In the same-fell swoop as you deak post-fuck?

Killers we became in the name of some fun.
You: your banging – shot apart the old of us.
Me: one quick hit – killing a new part of us.
Just when I thought you were the bad one …

We’re both gun-slingers, baby!
Go from shooting the shit
To shooting in fits
Better if you had shot the wad on my tits
… in tremble and vibrations of orgasm.
Ha! I did not even spasm (No little death).

Just when you think you shot it bullseye
It’s me who dodged a bullet, now didn’t I?
I took the last shot at our potential lifelong connexion
My aim was dead-on; yours left shrapnel and a mess.

There was no one before, nor never will be again
Who will ever shoot at such close range at me as this.

Bang, bang, bang you’re still the one
Who when he takes aim with his gun
— Kills people
And blames them for getting in the way
Smiling sickly cuz he said simultaneously, ‘stay…’

An empty apology comes on the heels of dismay:
“Sorry, it was a mistake, but—”
An empty apology comes on the verge of blame:
“It’s unfortunate …”
Ya cuz when you shot at the hole
You shot me down whole.

© Sylvie Hill 2014

dixon / 26cm / spray paint and enamel on canvas board / 2007 — with Juan Carlos Noria.

Thank you, Don’t Come Again (aka Duelity)

You arrive just like you come
Intruding before the agreed upon
Time and time again, you with the upper hand
We all sit, fucked, not knowing what just happened.

You go like you came
Quiet lead up to your exiting
When the lover comes in the building
Well, there goes the Friend — see?

Tu vas et tu viens,
What is up with your hands, mate?
Push ’em away once, I could take
But second time to prevent the mistake?

Always have to have the upper hand in this game?
My lovely girl, the guy went, he’s always long gone with his lost love before he ever came
— to you.

You arrive just like you come
Mysterious, secretive, dark-sunglassed, slight-smilin’ Devil
someone shakes down, your crowd shivers some…
We all sit, fucked, not knowing what just happened.

© Sylvie Hill 2014

Art: dixon / “Plywood Series” / 10x16x4cm / spray paint and acrylic on plywood / 2010 — with Juan Carlos Noria.

I Am Full Of Hang-ups

You scared me. Slapped the couch,
said: “Yup, it’s time you leave!”
And only 18, I remained poised, almost serene
Made a call, packed, later that week,
Slipped out.
Bye Dad.

You infuriated me. Acted nonchalant,
said: “Too tired to fight, don’t need this, go away!”
And only 16, I remained poised, but dismayed
Made a call, packed, later after a few days,
Hopped in with Pops.
Bye Mom.

You judged me. Raging in insults,
said: “You think you’re so great & smart?!!”
And only 19, I remained still, pained
Made a call, packed toiletries, desperate to get away,
Reached Dan, telephoned Paul.
Bye Sister.

You loved me. Unconditionally,
said: “I may not understand, but I care.”
And only 20, I’d push you away, scared
Forget the phone, answered your stare,
Took up your invitation to feeling.
Hello Jordan?

You loved me. Deeply and dearly,
said: “You are so very special to me.”
And only 27, felt safe in the arms of my pub-luvin’ man
“No need to call, just come over, m’am,”
You gave me a ring,
Hello Tony?

You stunned me. Comically and with truth,
said: “You’re not a downer at all” and “Get a grip.”
And only 39, I was making a new faithful friend.
Never heard from you again,
My Enigmatic, Final Muse,
Piss off: never reach me, Reese.

And now? Telephones have been replaced by screens.
New friends do not know this history.
Old friends are busy with families
Acquaintances provide instant relief.

Psychiatrists will label me with a disorder.
That I’m hopeless, I’ve left too big a mess, it’s over.
#Selfcareisnotselfish reminds me to stay true to me.
Spirituality will urge me to have faith in the future.

I am one of the Everybodies who is all alone
Going straight to the phone,
With all those memories of lost loves
And bad connections.
— I am full of hang ups.

But if you tell me I’ve got your ear
And you keep me in your heart & protect me, dear,
I promise I’ll talk you through the long nights
Entertain you on your long drives, under starlight.

You amaze me. Smiling, getting up in the morning,
saying: “My intention is to be loving and healthy.”
And turning 40, I breathe, wearily,
I call out your name,
Please hold for me, I’m mourning,
Hi, I’m Sylvie,
Is anybody there?

© Sylvie Hill, 2014

Art: dixon / “Duct” / 90x50cm / enamel on canvas / 2005

“No Man, No Love, No Crush (aka Chick With The Big Tits)”

That chick with the big tits?
Man, she’s pinned you down!
You lay flat, prostrated:
In London Town.

That chick with the big tits?
Man, you call that love?!
So why lay with all kinds of women?
From what do you run?

That chick with the big tits?
Man, she’s on, then off?
She looks like she fights a lot
You get off on higher ground.

That chick with the big tits?
Man, she squashes.
Is that why you puff yourself up
And with any good girl: you quash it?

That chick with the big tits?
Man, she fucking T O W E R S.
You’re deflated in her shade
She casts over, you cower.

That chick with the big tits?
Man, you are who loves you.
She looks full of herself, mate.
Bet you like her big nipples, too.

Well, I am glad I am flat-chested!
Sunbeams aren’t blocked by my big boobies
so they mother-fucking radiate straight to my heart
— and a future ‘His’.
Listen: No man/no love/no crush gets crushed on my watch like this.

© Sylvie Hill 2014

dixon / art trade with Dietrich Rosteck / spray paint and acrylic on chip board / 20x30cm — with Juan Carlos Noria.

parting sensuality in DH Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover…

Exhausted

It’s not that we do not know how to love
It’s not that we suffer dysfunction
It’s not that we are obsessed with some
It’s simply hard to tread through garbage.

The piles of shit that lay at our feet
In which we wade knee-deep and daily
The piles of crap that make us need
A certain kind of grace to deal with it stately…

… well it just exhausts us, does it not?
Please call my hands, take me out of this rot.

We get committed so fast because of this
We move in together for reprieve
We focus on one whom we can’t resist
We leech on them, they let us bleed.

Until passion dissipates after honeymoon phase
Or the Host starts wasting away
The couple fights and never gets laid
The friend becomes foe, and bolts his way.

… well it just exhausts us, does it not?
Please call my hands, take me out of this rot.

Finding “true love” is about true luck.
And hopefully scoring regular sex!
You know it is more than a good fuck
When we stick around to simplify the complex.

Never have I been happier than today
Sitting naked in my piles of shit
Of family bullcrap, broken tools and decay
And (having had, and…) knowing what real love is.

It’s not that we are lonely here
It’s that we are getting weak
It’s that we are exhausted by the real fear
Of not finding what we seek.

And yet if I told you to look for a red bucket
In a pile of refuse in a garbage pit
Would you give up and go: “Ah, fuck it”
Or sort it, knowing exactly how to spot it?

If you do not know what you are looking for
How will you find it amidst the wreckage?
I’ve had men dumpster dive for me before
I have kissed them, dripping wretched stenches.

… well it just exhausts us, does it not?
Please call my hands, take me out of this rot.

(You dove deep inside me in that instant
Tell me: Did you find what you’ve been dying for
Diving between the legs of so many women
Looking for something, to settle our score?

And they ask me why I went where I went
I tell them “He supported: I wanted his tenderness, at last”
And she’ll remind me of my fine-tuned bent
To often pick up and attract ‘trash.’

But I laugh. I am exhausted by my imagination …
Just trying to create something kinda beautiful outta the mess, yeah?)

© Sylvie Hill 2014

Art: Juan Carlos Noria – dixon – “Exhausted”

Slip Into The Silky, Southern Goth Setting of London, UK’s Humble and Handsome, Haunted Howler, Blair Jollands in my quick hit pick for Four Culture Magazine.

Jollands is releasing a new album in 2014. He’s also the producer for London, UK’s Blockhouse Bay, who I’ve written about for Four Culture Magazine, ISSUE #9.