Deborah Levy - An Amorous Discourse in the Suburbs of Hell

that my cheeks

now itch with bumps

and welts

i think

it’s

pollution

He

I need a woman

To live for

Play the piano to

Cook and have babies with

Share a bed

An address

To measure the sum of my self against

I’m getting on you know

I wake up in the morning

There’s a little pile of hair

On the pillow

A deciduous

I’ll drop my leaves

For you any day

I am here

In all my shedding glory

For you to

Love.

‌

she

you want a woman

to complete

your plan but

it’s not my plan

it’s not my plan to be completed by you

i keep falling

in and out

of myself

just as i fell out of paradise

i like it that way

sometimes i don’t like it that way

for better

or worse

it’s the only way

‌

He

You would destroy my fragile peace

(if you could)

With all the fury of the dispossessed

Look at you hovering above my porcelain egg-cup

You are too big for my possessions

And my possessions are too big for you

Linked as they are to an earthly family tree

I cannot find you on Google, no road no house

No town no country, all you bring to me

Is pain

‌

she

discontent is not unattractive

the stage magician who knows nothing of alchemy

and plucks bright balls

from his sleeves grinning

is far more hideous than you

‌

He

Discontent is not an achievement

It is not something to win

Like poker or golf or an Oscar

You are suffering

From the absence of

God.

Look how you flap

Your torn wings petulantly

At my modest wallpaper

‌

she

i am suffering

from absence point

blank, there’s

a hole in my heart

tween you and me

a long-maned horse

could jump through it

with room to spare

‌

He

Hey, Hey!

Let’s let the good times roll

Into the horse-shaped hole in your heart

Listen I’m under the

Influence of your sleazy

Vowels … I’m going all funny

And my eyes are shining!

‌

she

aw …

i love you

like this!

‌

He

C’mon sweetie

Squeeze into the motor

Let’s do 30 when we should do 20

Lets roll over the speed bumps

Let’s do that now

While my tank is full

And the price of petrol

Is stable

‌

she

just one moment

while i take

this fishbone outta

my teeth.

‌

He

No. You’ve lost

The moment. It’s

Gone. Stanley is

Himself again.

‌

she

be someone else

pleeeeeeeeze. just for

the helluvit.

‌

He

You hurt me

With your desire

For other. I am

Who I am and I

Am fond of myself.

‌

she

now you

made me cry with pity

for my poor undone self. all ruffled

and done in

by aristotle’s concept of unity.

(384–322 BC)

‌

He

What do you want

From a human lover?

An

Abstract and

Totally useless

Way of seeing to

Plunge

Toes

Waving

I know you swim at sunrise

With the newts and water voles

In the mud and silt of our Thames

Buffeted by currents and the wash from boats

(I have to blow-dry your wings for hours after)

No one would have you

Wet and melancholy

(You’re sort of inconsolable)

Weeping tears of gas

Over the spires of north Ilford

Talk to me straight

Like a motorway

Stay in the left lane

Do not use the hard shoulder

Do not drive against the traffic flow

It’s a straight conversation.

‌

she

sit here.

Yes here.

that’s nice.

straddle my angelic

hips

with yr small town

thighs.

‌

He

Like this

My sweet feathery

Tormentor?

‌

she

it will do.

you ask what i want from a human lover?

i’ll tell you straight

like a motorway

a clang! a clamour! a new expression!

‌

He

That sort of dumbwitted answer

Infuriates the logic

That makes me employable

‌

she

it is true

i am a little feverish

soon i will fly to frinton-on-sea

to raise a glass with jane lynne thorburn at the three crowns

and then move on to campohermoso

to catch up with francisco rodriguez garrido

trouble is

there are knots in my hair

trouble is

the world is murderously mad

climate maladies, pharmaceuticals

lack of privacy, arms trade possibilities

child marriage in yemen and other tragedies

i will have to look (again)

at aristotle

(384–322 BC)

who i have mentioned

before.

under his

toga is much to peruse.

if i was to try on his

theory of tragedy

and agree it imitates human acts

i would have to come to the angelic conclusion

that if i was to imitate the acts of human beings

i would have to imitate her not as she is

but as she could be

‌

He

Erm … I find your

Angelic hips alienating.

You thrash about in some bedlam

For the winged and divine

Forgetting you have a mortal

On your knee. My moustache is

Full of froth. I don’t understand

Say again what you said?

‌

she

i said nothing

i said nothing

i said looking

down into the suburbs

and beyond

i saw

sad stars fall

like halos

on men and women

howling into the damp crease of their past

i saw first worlds

blister the skin

of other worlds

zebras

gallop through

burning suns to

the shade of long

grasses, and

somewhere else, love

affairs in old hotels

with balconies

i saw beggars beg

in every language children fear

death in every language

and i saw you

weeping on your doormat

decided to become

a commuter

between heaven

and

the suburbs of hell

you seemed like a good

sort of man

an accountant

with culinary tendencies

tho’ lacking in charisma

(look at your tie)

the task

to

bring you

into

the light

and dark

of uncertainty

the two great themes

of classical science

chaos

and

order

undressing and

dressing and

cross dressing and

overdressing and

addressing envelopes

‌

He

Sounds like hard work

To me

I like plain shampoos

Soaps

Ecologically sound

Detergents

One hundred per cent

Wool

Good strong tea

Olive oil (budget permitting)

I like the light

To be just light

And the dark

To just be dark

I do not wish to live in a grey area

Or to read between the lines

Love must start on the first line

Continue on every line

No line without love

And then she marries me

That is my wish

‌

she

get off my knee

stanley …

now!

i try to introduce you

to the way i see things

and all you want is a wife

a wife and a second-class stamp and a bath

a bath and a donut and a product to kill moths

‌

He

You’re just a totalitarian angel

Full of self-rapture

I thought you were a divine messenger

In fact you’re a glutton

With wings

‌