<i><b>Wicked Alice Poetry Journal
wicked alice| winter 2009

Geneviève Beth Grady

for nabokov

looking out the window with longing out the window with looking out the sun is shining she is looking out the summer has hoping the sun will last out the window in june she looked in june the scent of earth out the window we long for the scent of earth to fade how we wish the scent would fade spring would fade less quickly through june whilst the sun burns down through the window whilst looking through how we wish the scent would fade less quickly resonate more thickly



The Station

I thought of continuing on to Brighton
and walking into the sea

a long straight walk from station to street
to shifting stone beach
to reprieve of packed sand shallows
and then beyond
         to I don't know

(I had not yet been
         so irretrievable)




I have dined with bikers, counts and vicars.

I have dined.

You speculate
on the crumbs wedged
between carpet
and table leg,

playing your small stories
into desperate constellations.

Mummified. Greasing and cracking



she can be formed into the vessel you require,
can be costumed by nimble digits,

her small lies dressed as yes yes me too.

Her cunt empties swill.

I picture you
surreptitiously standing
full face to full sun
inviting the lines
as if this were all it took.






i love you lost as i love you found

we are Now and Now and Now and Now and Now

This morning I passed by empty carcasses waiting to be filled.
This morning I trundled by the shedding of the recently morphed.

cleverness dies

the possible is rooted in spacious dirt
the possible is plucked and rebirths, is plucked and rebirths

night unsettled your skin crawls with 4 o'clock
night in agreement my bones knit with space strings to snoring

i go to the store. i come back from the store. i sweep.

black ink coffee soap old fruit

i gather your lost cells
my feet pad round the floor


you, coward
you, champion

cleverness dies. i said, cleverness dies! look:

holding a semblance of self together with the cracked dried
glue of fixed ideas disguised as motion-makers,
wailing for freedom whilst declaring its impossibility
until i scream
against this tight brow

you fling cleverness from a rigid hand

trawling for love, your ego sculpts blind
to the motions of the beasts beneath your fingers




hair against soft hair

as they wink and bump under a whisper thin
juicily masquerading
as free

read as one line:
my left shoulder pulling against my right
ankle imagine the innards of this most
beautiful complexity

head lolling end of an exhale in a small room in your city...
and in Alsace, a final wet stone falls from its 12th century placing

(my   breath   dries   her   winged   sleeve)


Geneviève Beth Grady is a Canadian dance artist living in London, England.