Itinerantdaughter's Blog

Due to the travels of Super Sandy, I am gloriously shut up in my room like a voluntary Anne Frank.  In this time, I have been writing and blogging all the random shit I had planned on making good on for months now.  Here, below, is the full poem that served as the title for Fiona Apple’s second album, which is most often referred to in shorthand as “When the Pawn…”

When the pawn hits the conflicts he thinks like a king

What he knows throws the blows when he goes to the fight

And he’ll win the whole thing ‘fore he enters the ring

There’s no body to batter when your mind is your might

So when you go solo, you hold your own hand

And remember that depth is the greatest of heights

And if you know where you stand, then you know where to land

And if you fall it won’t matter, cuz you’ll know that you’re right

“Of course, the survival instinct is the most vulgar of all human instincts.  And naturally, like Jesus, I felt a greater pull to crucifixion.  But where I was going to find Judeans ready to condemn me and witness my martyrdom with the appropriate gusto?  And there can be no martyrdom without an audience.  Which is why, in the end, I chose to go shopping instead.”

~ Viola di Grado, 70% Acrylic, 30% Wool

I saw Melissa Broder read her poetry at apex art space in Tribeca last year and was instantly in love.  Cute as a shiny new button, Broder read her poems with a twinkle in her eye and a lilt in her voice, and after reading the dark gems below, perhaps you’ll see why that might be compelling.

Powered

A lamp powered by blood is called

a miracle and a legend

powered by blood is called a church.

I am not against anything

not even infinity I

just don’t want to be made to watch.

My consort’s head is burning hot

so I take it off. This is not

how compassion works but it works.

What of next? Next the headless man

and I go dancing on a death

til we’re dumb dumb dumb and blonde blonde.

Oh how I love a dumb blonde neck.

No universe tells it to stop

and put an apple in its mouth.

Gold Lipstick and the End of Summer

Who knows what old ladies are?

They want their copies back

Some cannot recall past lives

This must be satisfying

I must be lazy

I can barely grow old

I am hiding in the bottom drawer

All my girls are there

Aloha girls

Road-stained warrior trucking girls

Ski holiday village girls

Girls with forks of fat

Saintly girls on rosary hum

Disco marigolds

Gingerbread goodie-goodies

Little punk rabbits.