Marjorie Razorblade

Something Old Something New

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Margin for Error - Warning to All- Getting Over It- Three Little Words- Big Connotations-

Happy Endings* - Reversible Cactus- "The Apple- (Prose for the Junior Psychotherapist)- “Protect and Serve Motherf*cker!”- A Typical Afternoon in Hyde Park-  Sweet dreams

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Margin for Error

There are two types of people in the world:
Apparently you can draw a line down the middle of the page
And list

Astronaut

or

Astronomer

as your choice of two
Then write the names of everyone you know.
But
I always wondered if there was room in the Margin for Error
Maybe sometimes we can be one and choose to dream of being the other?
If we didn't dream
There wouldn't be either option.


I scribble my findings in the margin

Convoluted algebra for such a simple solution.

I would like to be married one day- have children- teach them things i'm not supposed to:

How to swear in Spanish, how to start fires, climb trees, poach fish, develop sarcasm, and give them the option to dream of being in both columns

 

My performance is graded:

 

For sitting on the fence, defending my defiance, and decisions based on cold hard logic

I get a D for Science

 

For my candidness and lack of reticence

"What we dream we can be" stance
I gain an A in Philosophy

 

I do not pass your test

 


My columns are of equal size

It just appears I spelt my name wrong .


 


(c) Marjorie Razorblade 2007

 

 

 

Warning to All

 

This is a warning to all that I know,

The next few months of my life

This is how it will go:

I’m now taking hormones-

So some things will grow,

And Testiculated responses will not be:

 

“Marj you hairy bastard, I bloody told you so”

 

 

Month One is the ‘man drugs’

I might stand up to pee

If it happens I’ll call you

Come over and see!

I’ll be chatting up women, bringing birds to my place!

Or be brimming with shit and get slapped in the face

I’ve bought a mans razor…

But that’s just in case

But I could sit in a barbers chair

And that would be ace…

 

 

Month Two will be oestrogen and I’ll be in tears

All the hard work I’ve built up over of years

Will spectacularly nose dive I’ll be up to my ears

With Chick Flicks and pink stuff

And poodles and queers

As I’m not really that girlie,

I’m all for Pizza and beers

This is going to be painful

I may look like Ray Mears

 

(but with tits…so just Like Ray Mears)

 

Month Three I’ll be something though I’m not quite sure what

My skin might be orange

I might be a kumquat

And I’ll have no sex drive

No diddly-squat

I might join a freakshow

I might start smoking pot

And drive a Pink Taxi

Through the Royston Vasey plot

 

Oh

God Almighty

 

I fucking hope not.

 

 

So this is a warning to myself and to others

I’ll be pro Womens-Lib while I’m joining the brothers

I’ll piss on two legs while applying my lippy

I’ll be hard as nails but still slidy and slippy

I might start drinking halves in applying the brakes

I’ll be into the footy, next day making cakes

And most of the time- well I guess it’s not that much change,

 

But it’s a warning no less

Just in case

I act strange.

 

 

Marjorie Razorblade 27/3/07

 

 

Comments: Back on the Hormones I go... If I die during this exciting time of change, please make sure I’m buried in a red cocktail dress with a cigar wedged in my mouth and one hand on my bollocks. Thanks a million.

 

 

 

 

 

Getting Over It- Three Little Words- Big Connotations-

Happy Endings

 

It was a spectacular failure his methods too vague,

Infected by his love: akin to the plague

And his sharing of words with others, he dispensed with aplomb;

“Live! Laugh! Love!”

(Well Heavens above)

How can one person so right

Just be so bloody wrong?

 

Getting over it has been hard, thank Christ I’m now succeeding,

I can finally say it was not him I was needing

And nothing on earth now would change my decision

“Advance! Laugh! Love!”

(With amended precision)

How could one person so blinkered

Have not made a revision?

 

It’s almost six months since I packed up and parted,

And something inside of me has finally started

I’ve found something better than confounded duplicity

Love    Love    Love

(In it’s and my eccentricity)

How can one person so wrong

Lead to such heartfelt simplicity?

 

Lessons from this curriculum you might pen down as caution;

How easy it is for love to be blown out of proportion

And just how to analyse over something desired

Find True Love

(Nothing else is required)

And now one person so right for me

 

May have already transpired.

 

 

 

Marjorie Razorblade 2007

 

 

Comments: Here’s to happy endings. And more importantly, new beginnings wherever they may take you. Just who knows what will happen in this crazy messed up world of endings and beginnings?

All the answers to the riddles of love are contained within my finger-tips and one keyboard. This is the power of hindsight and foresight (with insomnia of course) combined and pinned down.

I write this for everyone who is heading down some rocky road of inevitable endings. You can’t see the light until you’re eyes grow accustomed to the dark and then, well, there it is. There is ALWAYS a light even when you think there isn't a snowballs hope in hell of there ever being one- I've seen the light!  And its blinding!

 

 

 

 

Reversible Cactus

 

If Top Gear makes you judder,

It’s  just middle age dear,

it’s not “Retro”

You wanted a Diablo

But you drove an L Reg Mini Metro

 

In your head you're Michael Schumacher

In real life honey, you’re in the pits,

I see you creaming one over Clarkson

I watch you developing those man tits

 

In bed you dream of Testarossa, and Alfa Romeo

On the school run you note the kids have puked

in the glove box

Of the Ford Mondeo

 

You should be thankful of the Mid Life Crisis

And X - to the - Z pimping up your ride

Poor bastards....driving the Reversible Cactus

 

With the

Middle aged pricks on the inside....

 

 

(c) Marjorie Razorblade 2007

 

 

Comments: If one more middle aged man talks to me about Top Gear, i'll run him over in the car of his choosing. Money is no option.

I want to talk about:  Guns- tanks- swords- cats- kittens- poetry- monkeys- places I haven't been- the sea- and stories about Nazis. Why is that so difficult?

 

 

 

 

 

The Apple- (Prose for the Junior Psychotherapist)

 

“Maybe the reason you cannot find happiness is because your upbringing was confusing.”

 

I’m no Psychoanalyst like you, but I know a thing or two

My Childhood was excruciatingly happy thank you

More happy memories than I can shake a stick at

The Commune like the Ozarks, we had ducks, bees, a goat and two chickens which were mine

Paxo

And Knorr

Yeah I named them

And now the official collective for Chickens is 'a Paxo' between me and someone else that is

Thank you.

I had a tree house, wigwam, fox cubs under the porch, fennel, runner beans and a forest, I could stay out all night and play all day, my first moment alone in the woods I slept in the bushes and went home for breakfast; orange juice and honey on poppy bread and sat in the forge and watched my father hammer out straight backed swords or painted with him in the studio watching colours being mixed together, or I sat in the garden propagating seeds with my mother and learning the basis of Mendelson’s genetic hybridisation, canoeing with my older brothers, camping, hiking and always always always laughing.

I laugh. You look lost for words.

I give you some.

 

I can’t find happiness now because I’ve had my fair share

 

Nothing can touch my past

 

Not even my future

 

I’ve got nothing to strive for

 

 

The Commune is gone, the land is sold, the chickens have been eaten and the river has dried up

 

I have words in my Head

 

They don’t come out of my mouth

 

And that’s all I have to say

 

“You say a lot in your poetry”

 

Not really. People, myself included just pick out the bits you can relate to now, parts you find awkward stick in your mind, it’s a fabrication which you cling to. They’re just words.

 

“And your father, artist, writer, bad tempered know it all? What would he say about you do you think?”

 

That ‘the Apple didn’t fall far from the tree’

There’s no need to search for answers in my past Junior psychologist

 

 

The future and the love that it contains, is psychosomatic to me

 

 

 

(c) Marjorie Razorblade 2007

 

 

 

Comments: I don't see a psychologist. I have a friend who is training to be one.

She 'practises' on me....for when she faces someone 'difficult' so she says. Funny. I'm laughing. Ha ha.

 

 

 

 

“Protect and Serve Motherf*cker!”

 

So, aside from shooting nasty people,

I can’t really understand the attraction

It must be appealing to be shot at and get fat around the mid section and eat donuts all day

But then that’s just ridiculous,

I wouldn’t expect that to actually happen…

A cardiac being the only kind of arrest this would result in and a speeding bullet through the gastro-intestinal tract would take care of that in a heartbeat, or distinct lack of one I should think

But you’re one of the ‘good guys’ aren’t you?

I think so

I know you’re always going to win, whatever happens in the film, it’s just the way it is,

You save the day, pack heat, eat pussies for breakfast

(If you would now like to admit your superpower is being incredibly thick skinned I’d be quite relived, In order to deflect bullets you understand, or at the very least- smut filled prose)

As yeah of course I’m worried, marginally concerned at least

Terrified of Death by Murder at worst

It’s just that I would like very much for you not to get killed if that’s ok

But I would be happy knowing that one day you might slide across a bonnet on your backside (sorry across a ‘hood’… on your ‘fanny’ (*arg *) of a stolen vee-h-ickle and scream

“FREEZE!!

Protect and Serve Motherf*cker!!”

 

And maybe,

 

You could think of me when you do this…

 

 

Or at least shoot that arsehole right between the eyes and tell him it was from me.

 

Thank you x

 

 

Marjorie Razorblade 2007

 

Comments: I wrote this for someone who is leaving the UK to be a Cop in New Yoik. If I were going too, (and I wish I were) he would be arresting me for boot-legging, supplying arms to third world countries, being the evil overlord of a mafia style drugs cartel, protection racketeering, smuggling cocaine, pimping prostitutes, making many people ‘sleep with the fishes’ all whilst wearing marbles in each cheek and talking incoherently. Cat and mouse escapades; ending in someone’s untimely death. It’s all quite appealing actually. Maybe I’ll go anyway. Every man needs a reason for existing, even if it’s only to blow my brains across the wall of my crack den with a Magnum.

 

 

 

 

 

A Typical Afternoon in Hyde Park

 

I lay on the grass with Krishna, looking at the blue sky

Thor thunders past on flaming roller skates

Ra looses his sunglasses

All the while Vishnu wrestles himself on a park bench

Kali looks longingly for War

War paints her lips scarlet and snaps shut her compact, through her silver eyes she watches Pestilence going through the rubbish bin, disinterested in her brother

Famine feeds the ducks imaginary invisible bread

Lady Luck faces Death over a table to play a round of Poker

Lady Luck has three straight flushes and a Full House

Death draws Snakeyes and a Dead Mans Hand

Neither win, neither loose

Anarchy demonstrates for his right to demonstrate on a soap-box under a sweeping London Plane

With the Green Man hanging upside down from the branches

I watch Random factors dance in little circles on the lawn

All day I waited

God, as usual failed to show

A typical afternoon then.

 

Marjorie Razorblade 2007

 

Comments: If Gods were living breathing living beings and not anthropomorphic personifications, I’m fairly sure this is what they would do on a Sunny day in the park.

(…I know a man who tells me he is a God in the eyes of women. I think Buddha is a fairly accurate representation)

 

 
Sweet
                                    dreams.
   The screaming the whining from the baby upstairs
                                    bores into my soul 
like a hammer drill
   I sit up in one fluid movement and put on
                                    the light still half 
asleep, on my bedside table
   I say 'there there' to no-one who's there
                                    there
   Is this what I should prepare myself for;
   The crazy lifestyle of the lady downstairs
                                    who collects weirdo's 
like old buttons
   A magnet to the hopelessness- a crusader for
                                    the lost-cause and your
   retribution for a wasted life you all want
                                    vengeance for
   Scales of justice tip to the unborn
                                    and I, the surrogate worrier 
for the
   troubles of the world, listen to sleepless
                                    babies and cries of 
uncertainty
   of something they do not yet understand
   And tonight, once again, it is I who cannot
                                    sleep without tears
   As the muffled lullaby rocks my burnt soul
                                    to sleep,
   I close my eyes, and dream of someone's
                                    comfort.
 

(c) Marjorie Razorblade

 

 

Comments:

I hate sleeping alone. Being childless

Suffering from insomnia- it's all too much to take

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