Category Archives: Roberta Lawson

She always did want some kind of God figure; a something-so-overwhelming that she might dissipate into mere molecules in its presence. She always did want to be simultaneously smaller and larger. Deep down she’d always wanted to worship. Not God … Continue reading →

He is born in suburban isolation, raised religious; steeped in rugged individualism and the superiority of the self. Aged seventeen he flees for London and New York, for Bangkok, Delhi, Jaipur, Tokyo. In thronging hordes of people at first he … Continue reading →

The first time – when things were ropey-precarious, and tentatively she hovered at the still place, it emerged between her eyes. A presence larger than everything that had gone before, greater than all yet to come. And the horn pushed … Continue reading →

Not the skin or the hair; not nails, teeth; no gentle touch. It must be the gut. The only way that any of them will find what they’re looking for is to go for the gut, and reach inside. To … Continue reading →

She is writing up the business proposal: Excel and Word documents, razor-edged laminate folders, two hundred thousand cups of black coffee. The telephone shrills. Her parents – in flat tones – would like to buy her a house, a car, … Continue reading →

In our palms, small talismans. In our palms, small found objects: a photo, a gemstone, a discarded note. Hand to hand we pass back and forth these tokens as substitutes for love. Here we do not mention the cold – … Continue reading →

1. They rub her belly, tickle her ears. When she growls, they chuckle. In her head she’s roaring. “What a cute meow” they say. They smile when she rubs against their legs. “Get the fuck out of my territory” she … Continue reading →

Transcendental meditation, (accidental astral projection,) past life regression, hypnosis. She’ll try anything – almost. Some days: anything. Just to remember the thing she has forgotten. The thing that must be, must be there; is scratching like flint against her relationships, … Continue reading →

In another life, she was a sea-wave. His face creases up a little when she tells him this. He humours her. How did that feel? He sounds like a therapist. She thinks of clear arcs of orgasm washing over her. … Continue reading →

. 2001 The trees on these street are magnificent. Young families with dogs and prams walk happily down it. Here – number 77 – the house she almost bought. The rooms are large and airy. Her loom glorious in the … Continue reading →

Mummy says I am: pretty as a princess, a child model to be. How I pose, how I prance, how I am praised. Let me tell you that my favourite things are the giddy glass jars of Harrods jellybeans brought … Continue reading →

I read that hyenas come out of the womb already fighting. In that sentiment I recognised you. Inside me you kicked and cartwheeled– me bent double with nausea but still a strange smile on my face- convinced that after three boys, … Continue reading →

This room is their bedroom, only larger. Somehow it is every bedroom she has ever known. Outside this room are animals and movement and life. Inside this room a spill of boxes, shiny, sporting loopy bows. She will open these … Continue reading →

She smells like cinnamon. He tastes like sea-salt. Her hair is the colour of the apples on the trees. His is dark and curled, soft like animal down. When she strokes him, he purrs. In the mornings, evenings, they swim, … Continue reading →