Introducing Alexandra Pereira,
from this moment onward
the gatekeeper of the Pariah Press Blog
[Email her at email@example.com
with blog submissions and enquiries]
On the 40th anniversary of her death and the publication of her novel Hour of the Star, I wrote this for the author Clarice Lispector.
Her house was full of mysticism
Near to the wild parts.
She told everyone it was a bungalow
With the aim of being left alone to climb the stairs. I was Childminded in the mystery chains and tangled in concentrations of poppies,
My lunacy in Rio,
When I found the lady with the cat’s face.
And in the top corners of conservatories, this meditating medium, this flame haired weirdo, breathed Death
over Brazil. She shot and
She assumed that every house was built
for the everywoman. She shot to screens I’ve never seen. She smoked in every house muttering
‘This is my Real name.’
In her mystical house the roof was wet, Agua Viva, living water and those Impeccable manners of hers were grinding
Right up against
A Middle Earth, a casual extrovert
already off with my head, off my head, her hands_____
But in the book of her house
Under the watch of the clock
Under the watch of her grandfather
I started to think about the baby blue sky and the navy blue clouds My hero the Royal Marine
And how much I’ve seen in the pages I found.
On the hour of the star of David, her house moved further away and she dropped the final cigarette
Their twinkling lights and fire, visible through the dark clouds are like a gold necklace I dropped down a drain. I dropped you down a drain.
One I couldn’t retrieve but wouldn’t miss.
And closer there’s another house
But never another Clarice
Lying there winking a Real fool’s gold
A rock I’ll own, making me think that it’s Funny
! that a story must have a name