'Twenty first century cold war peacetime containment plan // no. 26 love song', by Eva Woolven
i met you at the heather-field trying to sing sunday girl as loud as
possible without scaring the neighbours and the people all in the field
that never happened but what’s that for me to say
seeing as i know the german word for “without”
i can pluck two fingers on an old-string guitar .
i’ve got cultivated beauty and i think about it too much .
overwhelming hatred for brigitte bardot and the tear of the bread
yeah and all the stops and clucks of the alarm clock .
& in the heather-field you had trousers from h & m .
and it ruined the appeal or rather the appearance of what wasn’t and what should have been
what should have been there was me . i should have been your legs ,
and your apparel and the hedge and all the different things a flesh can’t be -
if i can’t sit inside a skin-sack leather sack birkin bag what can i be? / in the heather field
i can talk to people without even opening my mouth .
the evening frost lies heavy on our heather and i know
that if i was a horse i’d beat you under .
this cultivated beauty of our orchard here .
you be my baby hey i’ll be your richard nixon detente
i’ll be your absconding little fuck and all the summer dissolves into
all the stops and starts of heavy boughs and kant . and the
train-ticket split the greatest declaration of love
what a summers day to be without you hey?
you have polystyrene on your eyes and on your feet the sound of thunder
and if i were a horse i’d beat you under