Jacquelyn Arnold What can we say about the Green Fairy? Perhaps it's best for her to tell you herself... "Not much to say. 22, Londoner, low paid job on a fetish magazine, craving to start my Creative Writing MA in September. Have been writing for seven years or so, but who can say what from that has been worthwhile? " Artvilla presents but a handful of this young poet's fine work here. For even more offerings, visit her Slightly Soiled Webpage Holland Park I walked with you the asphalt tracks of your schooldays, while raw green tongues grazed our faces and I gulped down every last crumb of you. You told of the past, yet over the tender green evening, I barely understood why there was no talk of the future. © 2000 by Jacquelyn Arnold At The End Of The Season Eleven milky leather chairs engulf the full stretch of the room, soaking up the ringing stab of heels on marble. At five am, she picks her way through the hotel reception, mindful not to wake the dozing man lying like a god across his pale throne. She is at once aware that her legs, attenuated in skirt and slip as they work coolly across the floor in twelve hours will force her back home. Turning slowly from him, she moves into the sober night, tense against the insolent touch of the door. Temperate, uncomfortable hands trace the guilt-edged path to the gardens, where she stares for a full hour into the indigo pool. © 2000 by Jacquelyn Arnold Matchbox Morals I went once, with a man who could change day into night. As I sat on his bed (low slung, almost on the lino), he reached into his pocket and brought out a box bearing my name, slim and coarse like a matchbox (minus the flint, of course) and told me that if I looked inside, kaput. But if I could endure the hope of finding out its cardboardy capacity (and Lord! who could?) the resulting enlightenment would all be worth it in the end. I of course, had my doubts. Thought of my mother, but then - (I stayed the night though, and it was only in the morning I remembered a friend telling me a similar story, about my virginity.) © 2000 by Jacquelyn Arnold Discord I'd had a shower when I returned, having known full well that the lazy perfume of your audacity would remain. Still, I wasn't equipped for the scent that rests with me today. Marked this way I know that everyone can smell your tarnish; velvety and bruised, like old silver, and I have to suppose that in your complacent bed the semblance of my shadow is already fading. © 2000 by Jacquelyn Arnold
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