Girl on Primrose Hill, 2008
Like the end of some hipster vision-quest I find her sat, alone, at the foot of Primrose Hill. The rains have broken for a minute but her fringe still drips and her clothes have that hot, damp moulder of sun-dried fabric. My Cons are wet through and my hair sticks tight to my forehead, enough that I scramble my fingers through it every few seconds to look less of a geek. __________ I see in her the spirit of dead Amy Johnson, wild and challenging, but then I’ve been seeing her in people an awful lot recently ___________ I just let it pass: There are dead heroines on every corner.
She says Listen so I do, but she doesn’t use words. I hear I wear post-it notes across my chest, one line tracing from my right collarbone down to where my ribs join she pokes at the curvature between her breasts for emphasis. I start to wonder why this dream feels more important than most of my others, but as I do she begins to fade. Listen. In this bag I have- confused, she forgets what she wants to say. Silence instead _____________________ I ____ Once you wake ______ once you wake I melt away. I’ll __ I’ll just be “Material” _______Pathetic _______ Fuck you _______I wake.
The tube’s only moved on a few stops but the nap leaves me groggy and I panic until I work out I haven’t missed mine. The girl from the dream is sat over the aisle, leaning on her boyfriend and dozing, slack-jawed. _____He looks content. Beside me a nun reads the gossip pages.
© Matthew Sheret, 2008