I had to write this for an application. And, look, I’m not going to lie, I was pretty pleased with it. Who knows if that means the application will go well or not, but in the meantime, you lucky people get to read it.
Also, you might have noticed I’m struggling to write things at the moment (ANY of the things), so I figured I should share WHATEVER THE HELL I HAD.
So, anyways, here it is. Soho as a person.
In her younger years,
Her voice was like a knife that cut through the darkness,
Because she only woke in darkness
And she didn’t talk, she screamed.
When those around her are nestled in floral pastels,
Sagged in softly collapsed settees,
Their wrinkled fingers wrapped around waning cups of tea,
She has a penchant for sharp lights and sharper sounds:
Seeks them out and lets them cut her.
She likes the prettiness of glitter,
Not for its delicacy,
But for the hard edges of the sparkles and
The hidden pricks of corners that catch under your fingernails.
She has had a hundred lovers,
So many that it would take a lifetime to think back and speak their names aloud,
One after the other,
With the significance that each deserves.
(She takes a quiet pride in not favouring a ‘type’,
‘Oh, how boring,’ she’d sigh on perfumed breath,
Chin sinking towards her flattened palm and eyes rolling heavenwards).
She coaxes them still:
men, women, young, old,
The endearingly hopeful and the quietly crushed,
Her alternating faces the siren’s call making
Each new devotee feel at home.
And each new one thinks they know her
Deeply and completely
Intimately and concretely
But each is wrong
Because what one person could see
All of her at once and not be consumed by confusion?
Her single constant is the
Blood red still clinging to her lips,
Which on other women might cause mutters of,
‘Mutton’ and ‘lamb’,
But on her looks correct,
As if she was dragged into this world so garish and so gory
(and she probably was, if anyone was left that could remember back that far)
She is not just the aging party girl,
The one whose diamonds are cut glass,
And whose bronze and blonde colourings are stored in bottles.
Yes, she knows all the people you see in the magazines,
The shiny-teethed smilers from the telly.
The gods and goddesses of the silver screen,
Are regular guests, pressing their cold hands into her warm one.
But this old bird has seen things and done things,
Felt thing and said things
You wouldn’t dare face in your nightmares:
Heaving, disintegrating green-grey houses,
Sunken-eyed and leaking corpses,
A pregnant woman pierced with nails,
Are all images she tries daily to forget.
So if she spends her time now
Winking at the young and the witty,
Flattering the powerful and the beautiful,
Seeking out the rich and the stylish
Well, then, who can blame her?
She’s had her fair share of broken hearts and broken limbs.
Sometimes she thinks she’ll move to the country,
To search life’s meaning
In the silent significance of slow nature.
But the screech of hot rubber on tarmac
And the smell of a thousand bodies twisting through
Frenetically jumping lights,
Pull her up each time.
And she thinks,
What could be more meaningful than this great mess of humanity,
Trying desperately to fit together?