Thursday, February 26th, 2009
he showed up
after many years
and called me ‘beautiful’
hadn’t talked to me before
but wants to know me now
said I was always in the periphery
always on his radar
if I’m so beautiful then why
is he with someone else
I think this is more than timing
something about it lies or
otherwise makes no sense
he said despite all this
what’s in the mirror is mirage
he said in spite of what I saw there
how beautiful I really was
run into the arms of a mirror
and see what it gets you
pound it with tears and fists
it will only absorb you
I bought into the whole idea
when his compliments came calling
and I’m sure someone loved me once
but I don’t remember when
or who I was then
run into the arms of a mirror
and see what it gets you
pound it with tears and fists
it will only absorb you
run
run
run
(c) Seven, 2009
Thursday, September 18th, 2008
(c) j7, 2008
Monday, August 4th, 2008
i ain’t nobody’s angelina.
just an agile bloodstain
from bold genetalia
a lanky beat
of hellbent vain
keen tenth of a novel
i awaken a gloomy hothead,
fall asleep
a legendary lobotomy
and nag lovingly
in trim dignity
and with one last flourish
of tidy verbal massacre
i’ll die like this
snarky rich and poor
as smacking dirt
befitting a dynamic hag
but will have wanted
to be more, otherwise
what was the point?
(c) Seven, 20080804
Monday, August 4th, 2008
“Dada covers things with an artificial tenderness. It is snowing butterflies that have escaped from a prophet’s head.”
Thursday, July 3rd, 2008
From the Guardian Newspaper Editorial Wednesday July 2, 2008
There are still a handful of women, aged at least 104, who were once barred from taking part in a UK general election because of their gender. After Edwardian struggles, women had finally won the vote in 1918 - but not all of them. To ensure men remained the majority, the female qualifying age was set at 30, rather than 21. That patriarchal rigging was put right only with a further change enacted 80 years ago today, a moment when nearly 2 million of today’s grandmothers and great-aunts had already been born. To celebrate how far women have come in the decades since, a little gem of an exhibition featuring six female artists opens in a disused factory off Bow Road in London tonight. Yards from Sylvia Pankhurst’s suffragette shop and close to the scene of the match girls’ strike, the show is in the heart of Suffragette City, and that is its title. But the exhibits are not narrowly political: the great strength of the collection is its diversity. Sure, feminism may play a part in Tsering Frykman-Glen’s use of chintzy crockery to celebrate the old-lady aesthetic. But that is only one of several themes in her quirky yet poignant installation. The mad mythical worlds of Amie Turnbull’s psychedelia are in utter contrast to the English landscape tradition, to which co-exhibitor Hannah Brown provides a sculptural twist. Kate Terry’s installation weaves great veils of string across outsize frames, with an effect that is at once disorientating and dreamy. The way women use art is just as varied as the way they use their votes.
Wednesday, July 2nd, 2008
Friday, May 30th, 2008
Wednesday, April 2nd, 2008
today, the sun through my window
and the wind through the trees
created moving sillhouettes
on my walls like old movies
yesterday, jasmine whispered
into the air while
umbrellas collided and raindrops
made perfect concentric circles 
along the stone walkways
i often notice these
magic little things
but when i was a teen
i discovered the hard way
that pearls are really
angel tears and
i don’t wear them anymore
it always seemed so unfair
that angels
should have a reason to cry
(c) Seven, 20080402
Sunday, March 30th, 2008
i am missing
in these ways
between the buried me
and the walls are echos
of a thousand thoughts each day
cut flowers in a bowl
your angry eye on them all
with constant derision
and a mocking kiss for me
in this room
i am nowhere to be seen
in this room
i am ready to be saved
in this room
these moments wear me naked
because neither one of us
are who you wish
we are
and neither one of us
are who you want
us to be
I am not her
and you are not
the person
you want everyone to believe
i am yours badly
but nothing’s real here
and thick condescension
chokes the atmosphere
are you missing me?
you might
if you knew me
you might
if you knew you
you might
if there was really anyone
in this room
Seven (c) 20080323
