“What was it like—-being married to Mick Jagger?” – (American journalist)“I had to be a hell of a whore in the bedroom.” – Jerry Hall (American)Five woodblocks to make five woodcuts for prints.The more roundedThe cuts, the slower, more perilous. InstrumentsFucking sharp. I’ll moveLike Jerry Hall for Jagger.When I was twenty-two! The Englishman!Victoria station! London pigeons still the only beautiful bird. Blues
Their grays their fan-tails all around, pigeons surrounding, the
Beautiful youngYoung man falling. So sweet and clean that Englishman’s shirt.Before he fell he threw a bouquet cone newOf flowers to me blurtedBefore he fellThese are for youFlowers thrown forward. Then his fall.I did not last long there let the English throng bend to tendHis dazzling twisting head let them touch that soft clean shirtDid not touch station floor bouquet did not kneel did not stay beside hisSeizure, convulsions. (The flowers surely not for me—he had not fallen for me!)(Who were those flowers for?) Sweet in expatriate pain of twentiesThe what-must-I-do-next-pain of twenties—I was not
Fine or important enough—-to stay. Ghost and drifted
Once medicals were called.These are for you, he had criedIn that second before falling—-pool-cue eyes to mine. Yes, should haveStayed, following with flowers. Telling all at hospital I was his.Some time beforeHe was ableTo disagree?People say they remember nothing about DenmarkBut harbor. Red blue yellow, their breakfasts, harborThe mermaid there.On soccer fields in America sons moon-loyal dodging ball I drinkTea with milk. EnglandYou stay with me. EnglandYou stay with me. I think and sip. I remember his soft pale shirt.Pleasurable, once done, the woodblocks for making prints—My fingers. Such pleasure in their ache. The blue-red, red-gold—bleed.