April 9, 2013
/a job’s a job/means to an end/

anything is a means to an end, ultimately.

any job is boring

spending time

gathering independent wealth over 

enjoyment.

you don’t have to be an adult any more

than you want to be an adult

was it wise to agree to an

extension how can you be sure

how can you ever be sure

you always have your family to fall back on

not everybody has a family that they can

fall back into

you would be mad to waste it mad to waste your intellegence

mad intelligence 

don’t waste it you’re the only one with any real intelligence

if you’re so intelligent why are you so desperate

so desperate to waste it

the roof over your head is the final nail in the coffin. 

anything is a means to an end, ultimately. 

5:49pm
(Notes: 3)
  
Filed under: Aimee Bea dogs with jobs 
March 15, 2013

I went to a lecture on Berlin dada in the 1940’s at the Southbank Centre a few weekends ago, Hausmann was one of the artists who stuck in my mind (I wrote his name in my notebook in the dark and everything) I really liked his SOUND POETRY.  

1:44pm
(Notes: 6)
  
Filed under: Aimee Bea dada Hausmann sound poetry 
March 10, 2013
O HOLY HELL

dull fuck.

mundane dead behind the eyes hi how are you

meaningless futile fuck

holy hell

holy capitalist hell what kept me from the door so long?

2:15am
(Notes: 2)
  
Filed under: Aimee Bea record fuckfuckfuck 
January 23, 2013
Sometimes.

Sometimes it’s less than nothing

further below zero, colder than 

five inches thick white freezing up the pavements

and i’m looking down at my sunset boulevard fingertips

half chewed with restlessness and i’m thinking how did i end up here

and why are you still staring at me through your woody allen glasses?

why am i swapping my eight hours sleep for six and then three, is it

because it’s not just the sky that’s still bright but the air glowing all around

us so i can feel it in my lungs orange and warm but frosty when i breathe it out.

Sometimes it’s persistence 

Sometimes it’s getting lucky with timings it’s all timings it’s a construction

of time i’m built of time i am hours and minutes transformed into arms and legs,

stiff shoulders and problematic genetalia. 

But sometimes it’s even more

even more than more even 

more than i can consume 

even when i race to consume it

and i’m in it and i am it and there

is no question that i am living it.

Sometimes it’s not about having

a kettle or a toaster or a damp

drywall or a another smoke

or another click or another

stroke or another fuck

sometimes

it just is.

London, January 2013 

9:59pm
Filed under: Aimee Bea poetry not strictly mania 
October 29, 2012
For Hannah, for space.

10:07pm
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: space translation aimee bea hannah 
October 29, 2012
SPACE (postmodernité)

goodnight my little hazelnut is that it is a cow-supelement my station? time, Soliel, NONS short nap works closed the dams. but I love the boulle boir eat and I am very death with iei of my heart after my tet, and my friends. the French are good but green cow. I love Soliel, I live for Soliel. the cow and the dog runs and short runs with my couers you. NONS will the next larry and Lorraine and French door because Larry and Lorraine aves English is good! strawberries, endive, garden, DIY, decxies, fish and cheese. I love all my mowing mowing my couers Soliel my little dejourner I am very hurt because you’re not after not here with me. aimee, bienvue and good travel.

BY HANNAH, TRANSLATED BY AIMEE FEAT: GOOGLE TRANSLATE

9:59pm
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: postmodernité space translation aimee bea hannah 
October 15, 2012
FIRST NOTES ON SPACE

space exists only between us
six scattered length and widthways
six scared
bodies lost
bodies found
my body the furniture
the clutter
the unclear upsetting the clarity in the space
created by the coming together of two individuals
invited into one another
occupying each other
until the skin tightens and the precipice is reached
space is personal pubic hair preferences
space is heaven and opening opening opening
space is not breath and spit and sharing
it’s six spaces set at the dinner table
nostalgia for sweetsalt
for never-ending christmas-
paper chains
never-ending swimming
never-ending naked
never-ending number seven
space exists only between us
and we reel and write
and fill it in.

Aimee

12:37am
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: aimee bea poetry notes space 
September 5, 2012
GENERATION: THREE STAGES OF DILUTION (PART 2)

I am you in the mid-eighties, two full moons
for eyes sitting in a car next to that boy you
pretend not to remember the name of.
Smoothing your palm down the back of your
hair dry and static. You can’t see me yet, I
am the bitten down nails on the raw tips of
your ringless fingers, mild post-teen acne
and all of the tears you cry over your mild
post-teen acne. I am your eleven pm week
-end curfew and your old-fashioned parent
-ing style, your scruffy shoes, soft nose and
eventually your 32 DD’s. You don’t know yet
when I will come or where i will come from,
only that one stray blonde strand will continue
the umbilical line, where every blemish is
an epitaph of the skin that came before it.

1:49am
(Notes: 3)
  
Filed under: aimee bea generation poetry part 2 
August 22, 2012
GENERATION: THREE STAGES OF DILUTION (PART 1)

three   stages  of   dilution 

w         a             t     e        r

a    change   of

c          o          l        ou      r

col/our

we      are    made        from the same mouth

breaking     down         vowel

                                                  sounds

i   a r t i c u l a t e           her/she

are/our               

i a c c e n t u a t e 

three   stages  of   dilution

a           lost       generation 

of                        

                           sounds. 

1:43pm
Filed under: aimee bea generation poetry 
June 12, 2012
There is a book shop near the top of the old high street in Falmouth that I can never remember the name of. I went in there for the first time over the weekend [it’s hardly ever open] and came across this gem. Here is a Pinter Poem for you all, courtesy of the bookshop with the name I don’t remember. AB Poem and all the others wary now attentive to flowers and all the others unsmiling recalling others smiling in gardens wary now tendering flowers who recall faces of others recalling others unwary in gardens who tender their gardens recalling others wary with flowers

There is a book shop near the top of the old high street in Falmouth that I can never remember the name of. I went in there for the first time over the weekend [it’s hardly ever open] and came across this gem. Here is a Pinter Poem for you all, courtesy of the bookshop with the name I don’t remember. AB

Poem

and all the others
wary now
attentive to flowers

and all the others
unsmiling
recalling others

smiling in gardens
wary now
tendering flowers

who recall faces of others
recalling others
unwary in gardens

who tender their gardens
recalling others
wary with flowers

12:05am
Filed under: aimee bea falmouth pinter 
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