Eleanor Jackson is a Filipino Australian poet,
performer, arts producer, cyclist, writer, gal
about town, feminist, freewheeler, and
friend. One day, she is going to be an
ideas curator. Which basically
means, she will tell you
exactly what she thinks.
Until then, you’ll have
to read between
the lines.
these pretty things
Somewhere in the backyard of this memory is you and me and a fresh opened beer and the cigarettes that we still smoked when no one was looking and we could convince ourselves it was terribly grown up. How it all feels like bullshit now. The call you are never going to make, and the making I am never going to call. You wish you had Sylvia Plath, but I wish I had a black crow, flying, black and ragged, tree to tree.
You tell me you are going to miss me when I die, and how can we be kinder and kinder to each other when one day I am going to die and leave you alone to all that relentless guilt. That, I said, “is the luxury of the living”.
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1. Monday
2. Tuesday
3. Wednesday
4. Thursday
5. Friday
6. Saturday
7. Sunday
Your days are numbered….