Pitter Patter

2009-06-30T23:00:00.000-07:00

I've moved home. Come have a cup of tea and visit me here
x

2009-01-20T18:49:00.000-08:00

My mouth tastes of pennies today and I swallow hard, try to swallow it all down.
But the pennies keep growing until they stick in my throat and the sunset I thought so beautiful a few days ago, just seems to predict doom now. My teeth clatter on the metal and I'm afraid to open my mouth. It's keeping me locked up in my lonely cavern once more until I can chew through it or spit it out.

champagne in a paper cup

2009-01-13T17:32:00.000-08:00

It's a January of overseas friends and long lost common cackles, piercing sun rays, flowers picked at 8am, lavender rubbed between fingertips, projects of whimsy to unwhimsical deadlines, heartbeats that race, magic that appears in photographs, beer filled afternoons and not a moment to stop and breathe. I run down a pier and take the biggest jump, free falling and delve into a cool embrace. Breathing is easier down here.
x

shanty

2008-12-14T17:18:00.000-08:00

her sea pirate balances
on the edge of their rowboat,
that she’s a row, row, rowing
the long way back to shore
he’s rocking it
for her amusement,
her clutch and sigh
he’s jumping and twisting
he’s one triumphant joker
he’s wide eyed
abandonment
he does not see
the sea spilling in
her water eyes stung
by the salty high waves
as she rows faster
and faster
with aching arms
he does not see
her hic-up laugh
is one of panic

take flight, little ones

2008-12-02T17:19:00.001-08:00

I’ve been
picking up
sparrows
since
I was child.
I plucked them
from the snow
the cold
and warmed them
in mittens
coat pockets,
wrapped in cotton.
Now
I collect birds
from the streets,
the wind,
in bars,
under the sun,
on the run.
Broken winged swallows,
broken hearted eagles
that lost their way
to the hills.
I even
stop for the pigeons,
the dirty little rats,
hit
by kicking feet
and a life
of city dust
weighing
on their tails.
Their beaks
have grown bigger
over the years.
I can feel them
as they
peck away
at my heart.
Some of them
have mutated
pointy tip
teeth that rip
right into
that juicy throb.
It drip
drops
all over them,
speckling
their coats
in sweet
red honey.
Some of them
gave up
on themselves.
Some have flown
and soared
higher
than before.
Some still come
to sing to me
once in a while.
I’ve never regretted.
Their feathers
were all beautiful
up close,
even though
I may have choked
on a few,
or coughed
some up,
nuzzling warmth back
into them.
And my heart,
rather than
shriveling up
under another attack,
a beak
so ridiculously sharp,
it pierced
right through
the middle,
has grown
stronger,
rather like
hands
after honest days
of working the fields.
And I’m not afraid.
I’m not afraid
to rip it out
of my chest
with my own claws
lay it
under a fallen doves
weary head
for the softest
dream filled
sleep.
It may get cold
and dark
inside
and I
can get
so hopelessly lost,
following
flight patterns,
connecting arteries
back to muscle,
preempting falls,
wiping blood
out of my eyes.
But I’m not afraid.
I’m not afraid
to love.

2008-11-28T16:24:00.000-08:00

I got drunk on ridiculously expensive wine last night. I stole Beef Carpaccio from my neighbours plate. I told the waiters they were beautiful, then made out in the toilets. I feel wildly dark in my mind. Hopelessly wild in my heart. Darkly hopeless in my soul. And lost. Darkly hopeless and lost.

2008-11-27T21:33:00.000-08:00

The coin is spinning...
Where do I land?
This one has many faces.
There's the side of sleep forever and wake only to read books, write, take photographs of the abyss you fumble through, eat homecooked stews and skittles and never talk to anyone ever again.
Or get out and fuck through a myriad of boys-men while getting trashed at the bar on anything they wish to offer your thirsty throat.
You could pull your trembling chin up for gods sakes and get behind the wheel. Buy a van and deck it out with comic books and soft things in the back to fall asleep in each time it rains.
Or churn on the money machine and get the fuck out of here to immerse yourself in a world where humans can feel of interest to you again.
It spins and spins.
I'm tempted to slap it down flat with my hand.
But where will it land?

2008-11-26T21:44:00.000-08:00

I am...
mixing in some Tim Burton pictures into the next staff meeting powerpoint presentation and playing David Attenborough with The Natural Confection Company Jungle Jellies. Watch as squishy Monkey humps miniature elephant and purply snakey is bitten back by a most unjelly-like thingthing with sharp incisors, who most definitely is not part of the jungledom of us here jellies. WATCH OUT!

one small death at a time

2008-11-26T21:28:00.000-08:00

I want to close my eyes now.
My eyelids are heavy.
I can’t stay here.
I am walking.
I am running.
Faster and faster until my feet are treading air, higher and higher and I’m wiping the clouds out of my eyes and picking the trees off my clothes. It’s so blue up here, like the sea, and it has her pulse. My old dog runs to greet me. God, I’ve missed her. You are here too, my beloved friend. You’ve been waiting for me. There’s an almost finished crossword puzzle on your knee. You show me how to build my new home. How to pluck things from below to decorate it with. I choose some lavender fields, swamps, rolling hills. Horses with long manes that carry me over my home at such a speed it makes my eyes water and I almost forgot they do that. There’s no need for parallel parking. My horses just sway when I jump off their silky backs. I take the weather, all of it. I plant a willow tree, to remind me what melancholy felt like. We watch each others dreams for entertainment and throw popcorn at each other during the funny parts. There’s your hand in mine during the scary bits, though they become fewer and fewer. I order up vanilla bean desserts, but I make my own stew. It’s good for the soul. I blow the moon away when I feel like twirling to the thousand birds who sing just for me in the morning.
Yes,
I can close my eyes for this and never open them again.
I want to close my eyes now.
I close my eyes.

in a war, fear not

2008-11-24T15:02:00.001-08:00

it’s messy in here
there’s a lot of blood
there’s been struggle
there will be again
it’s ready for it
it beats like
african drums
it could herd the wildebeest
across the serengeti
it is gigantic
even when I am small
it’s older than me
it’s imperfections are beautiful
that
is my favourite type of perfection
my heart is epic
and aren’t you lucky
it’s beating for you

patience, lover, patience

2008-11-24T15:01:00.000-08:00

Patience. Love. Understanding. Repeat. Patience. Love. Understanding. Repeat.
Remember all those moments you tried so hard and the wasteland they ended up in?
You threw grapes at him while he was cooking with his back turned towards you, because you didn’t know how else to direct the bursting ache in your chest. The same one you got when you watched him shave. The one that forced its way out of your eyes when he let you shave him.
Perhaps connection is one you should take, not wait to be given.
Wait for the dark.
Let your open mouth hover over his lips and nose while he’ sleeping and wait for him to exhale, so you can try to steal his breath at night. It may be as close as you’ll get.
You know he’ll never be able to give you the understanding that rustling leaves can. He won’t let you make a fist around him and listen for the crunch the way they do. The way they trust you.
Oh, your fingers. They want a lot. They really do.
But they can hold and give you back so much. Paintbrushes, car steering wheels, type, type, type,. Turn on the shower, turn on the shower, pump up the volume. Yes, that song. Put the cork back in the fucking bottle.
Perhaps it really was all so much easier when you could blame the emptiness on circumstance. When you let them trickle through a revolving door, one by one because you felt pretty giddy when you ran your fingers up a big hard cock and for a sweat and tear filled while it all didn’t matter so much anymore. You didn’t expect to feel anything more than that. And there were no games to play.
I am tired of playing. I am looking forward to touching the air with my fingertips again. It never pulls back. I am looking forward to golden sunshine that is merciful and caressing. I am looking forward to autumn. And I am not afraid today at all.

can you feel my pulse

2008-11-19T21:07:00.000-08:00

Do you remember that guy we used to see sometimes in the milk bar across the road? The one that was always walking in there on his own and never walked out with much more? You thought he was kinda cute and I’d just shrug my shoulders. Well, I was getting some groceries at Safeway after work the other day and there were so many people there. God, I hate going in there sometimes, but I was really looking forward to making some pancakes because I knew they’d make me feel happy and I was hungry after all as well. Anyway, I saw this guy just sitting down in one of the aisles and I thought maybe he’d fallen down, but surely people would have helped him, but they just kept moving past him. At first I was going to turn around and pretend I didn’t see it, but then I pushed my trolley right into him. I mean, why the fuck would he jam everyone’s way when everyone just wanted to get out again too, you know? He didn’t move, he didn’t even look up, so I rammed my trolley into him again. Harder this time. It felt really good and I hoped he wouldn’t react so I could give it another go. So I could fucking kick the stupid thing right into his flesh. He did though. He turned to me and simply stuck out his hand. That’s when I recognized him. I felt a bit guilty at this point, so I offered him mine to help him up, but he just tugged and pulled me down instead. I didn’t expect that and it made me trip and hurt my knee really bad. He laughed a little at that. Fucker! So then we were both just sitting there. In the middle of this packed aisle. He was staring straight ahead and I was cradling my knee. It really hurt and I was enjoying just holding it there on the linoleum floor and I slid a little closer to him and reached into the trolley behind me to pick out the maple syrup which I then opened and took a big swig from. I let out a big sigh as if it were strong like whiskey and burning my insides on its slithery slidey way down into my belly. I was waiting for it to make a fire in there, but nothing happened. So I took another swig and then handed him the bottle. He took a sip too and then smashed it against the shelf with the cans of tomatoes standing tall like red aluminium monsters. Then he picked up some of the shards of glass and offered me his hand again. I squeezed it against mine. So tight, so tight I never wanted to let go. From our palms ran red little rivers and I named one of them Phillip. We started discussing where Phillip would travel to if he could pick his own countryside and we both agreed that the hills around him would be mossy green, like somewhere in Ireland. Yes, he smiled. Phillip would enjoy the misty sky there as well. It sure would be better than the bright fake neon lights in here I added. There was a pause then, so I leaned my head on his shoulder, let my hair stick to spilled syrup on his skin and closed my eyes for a moment. The rushing and running around us became Phillip’s mighty roar, snaking through his beautiful countryside, full of rain to feed him as we pressed our hands together even firmer until I asked the boy if he’d like to join me for pancakes. And his smile and nod finally made it safe to let go.

another year down

2008-11-12T15:42:00.000-08:00

The full moon laughs at my exhaustion. It’s my birthday and as I wait away the tick tock alone at home, alone how I needed to be, it cracks a little, this feisty stubborn heart. And it feels a little ill, all the way up and down and it’s still stubborn. It’s stubborn enough to call it hunger. Just hunger for pizza. I find the restaurant that’s usually empty and wait for my friend. The tables are huge at the back where it’s dark and the Italian rubs his belly as he looks me up and down and tells me I can smoke inside. There’s a crackly radio playing loud cheap romance. I open the wine and drink straight from the bottle while no one is watching until she’s here and she watches and I’m home in her arms and she lets me break a little in the spots where it’s safe to, where it can mend itself and she holds my hand and walks me home where he is, but he isn’t really and the leather sofa is cooler in this sticky night, sticky web, his sticky arms don’t feel right. And the dreams come knocking pretty soon, they come cackling into my throat until his hand comes to wake me and he’s not so sticky anymore. In the morning, I’m thankful for the sun, even though she’s fierce and I feel like I have my strength back for both of us. I feel like I miss him. I feel like I haven’t seen him in days. And even though I’ll see him tonight, I’m worried I won't see him all that soon again at all.

the sea, she sings as blue as she is

2008-11-11T16:51:00.001-08:00

My wings spread out
over these wheels
when we are driving.
Further,
further,
further away
until the hills are rolling
like crazy wombats.
The horses are leaning
like willows frozen mid-sway.

Is it the horizon?
Is it the sea?
No dear,
it’s just you and me.
My hand on your knee.
Fuck, I feel free.
And the silence
between the choirs of the tree
is when the ocean lullabies its
‘hello, where have you been’
I can run in any direction
Oh,
I can run in any direction

The sea,
she feels safe
as she carries us out
and your hand is perfect
resting in mine
as her waves throw us
here and there
Your hand is perfect
closing around mine
as she fills your lungs with brine
Your hand is perfect
clinging to time
as she washes across your frown
And I’m happy to drown,
love.
I’m happy for you to take me down

I’m happy for you to take me down

2008-10-28T19:04:00.001-07:00

I’ve always loved a magic trick. Especially cards. You can have endless fun with those. I’d love for you to teach me the one where you guess the card I’m holding by looking into my eyes. closely. For a very. long. time. Here. Let me practice some more. On that bench there. But you always preferred to perform bigger and louder tricks. On stages. With audiences. And sometimes daggers. Your most notable one? To disappear completely.

a thirst for trust

2008-10-28T17:21:00.001-07:00

Under the willow tree, this little fish can breathe out of water. I sip on a cider and wonder when he leaves today with the empty bottles if he’ll ever come back with another.
And so there’s a rhythm to my heart at the moment, opening and closing like tired gills.
Opening with a calm pool of patience, when arms wrap around me and the sudden safety, the deep comfort, the belly of a double bass is teasing.
Closing with my lips pushed on yet another strangers when his kiss is a barely there, eyes over there, he could be anywhere type of revelation.
It’s a smack then a sigh, a hollow and a high.
And though the wind through the branches is a sweet lullaby as I stay awake, licking my fins, listening for his returning footsteps on the moist grass, I do hope he arrives with crates of apples. With time to sit with me discussing the fresh bubbles that will slither down our thirsty throats and the sweetness on our tongues as we watch them ferment together.

honestly

2008-10-26T16:30:00.000-07:00

The truth is that it isn’t. Words can’t carry truth, because it twists and contorts at lightening speed and neither a black or gold heart will ever truly sing it. And sometimes life’s just too short or too long to second guess a smile.

fine and mellow now please

2008-10-21T19:32:00.000-07:00

My silly anxious pit would like to make me curl up today inside myself where I don’t speak and I don’t need to answer. If there’s the urge for words, I can learn a new French one – a bout de souffle (breathless) - and make it my new favourite. I could take the big mug and sip on hot honeyed milk, then hurt my teeth, sinking them into a cold magnum ice cream. There’s a button to press play for characters to come alive on a screen. They could be in the south of France. She could wear jeans really well, and, … and, …and he could tell his friend about her smile that kills him so. They could kiss to the soundtrack of my coco pops, pop poppety pop smack, swilling in my bowl while I sink into the cloud bed and imagine it to be more like this:

obnoxious anxious

2008-10-21T19:31:00.000-07:00

There’s a pit
in the bottom
of my stomach
where a tired
ol beastie
growls
when he yawns.
He’s
a strong arm
strong coffee
coughing
on caffeine
and pulls the reins
hard
on my jaw
with a paw
full of scratchy things
he sings
like a roar
and makes me clench
the bench
under the sky
full of storm
that was only just blue
before
in his room
doom
is the only shade
of bright
from this belly fire
I might
have to look
to the wind
for guidance
you see
perhaps if I sat
by the mango tree
could it smell like the sea?
my feet free
of shoes
and my toes
remembering the grass
my fingers
can dig away
and clutch at the dirt
the hurt
this shirt’s
hard to button
with these dirty
fingers
that shake
when it wakes
this tired ol’ beastie
when it stirs
in my tummy
funny
how he knows
oh
with his weight
and that sneer
but I’ll kick
him back good
with a trick
or three
a paper aeroplane
a popsicle and tea
under the tree
of the fruit
with the stones
we’ll stone him
with those
and glue him
with the juice
the syrup
to shuttup
and leave me
alone

bedtime stories

2008-10-20T16:17:00.000-07:00

You sleep too much she says as he wipes the crumbs out of his eyes.
She didn’t understand the feathered doona offered him a feathered reality. He shuffled out of the sheets and into the late morning sun, blinking away the rays with the remnants of an all enveloping dream. He’d have gladly curled up a little longer like a hurt and wriggling worm in the belly of a dark numbness, but scratching the dog good morning behind the ears seemed like a stronger, manlier thing to do.
___________________________________________________________________
We stretch out on the Sunday sun canvas of your bed and paint the ceiling of your room with crayons that we have attached to long sticks, so that reaching up doesn’t jeopardize the position my hip is in laying next to yours. We’ve drawn a pathway between trees and a river that I can almost hear. You blink away specks of light traveling up and up in your eyes with each blink.Little fluoro diamonds. And you ask me where I think the helium balloons go when tired fingers release their strings.
Anywhere you want them to go darling, I say. Anywhere you want.
___________________________________________________________________

He took her milk wrists with the young veins and pinned them to the bed. She dug her nails into her palms until they bled red ribbons into the white sheet creases. Looking down at them as he nuzzled her raw with a gravel beard, she thought of them as baby whales being harpooned. She wondered if there was a ship over that crease there, that little big wave, just around the corner coming to rescue her, but as he reached right up to her wet little mouth and blew a cloud of smoke through her lips and his wheezing made the bed tremble and the sheets, the sheets, the waves were getting higher until she felt herself sink in them and knew they’d all be swallowed up under the force of his storm.

control the brakes or go skidding into it all

2008-10-13T18:21:00.000-07:00

I punch the walls in the shower with a lame fist.
I’d love to give it a proper go, but I’m a little embarrassed.
Even in front of myself.
So instead,
I write an affirmation on the steamed up shower screen with trembling wet fingers,
like stiff little ghosts.
Keep the drama under wraps.
Keep the drama under wraps.
Smile.
But you see,
it’d be so much easier to be your own puppeteer
if your limbs didn’t always get caught in the strings.

milk, bread, toothpaste, 12.15 meeting in boardroom

2008-10-12T16:14:00.000-07:00

The sun is getting up earlier and stronger each day. I vow to try and keep up with her.

Parties are making me sad. Hearing about the ones I left early is making me sadder.

My fingers are stiff playing the f-chord on my guitar. I still sing to myself though, even though there’s always a missed beat until my hand has placed itself on the strings correctly. I don’t think I’ll let you hear it just yet.

The best and equally worst text message depending on the sender is ‘I’m at your door’

My friend said she thought I was the funniest person she's ever met today. I liked that.

I have a wonderful and never-souring relationship with my bed.

I don’t understand why bartenders always put a straw in my drink. I hate straws. What a fucking waste.

I’m thinking of adopting a pet rabbit. A big fat fluffy one with lop ears that I will let lose in my apartment and talk to all the while doing house chores. Perhaps I’ll call it Elvis.

It would be funny to cause havoc in a supermarket. If I ever went insane, I think that’s where I’d do it. I’d build a fort out of the toilet paper, use avocados for war paint, squirt tomato sauce on shoppers and tell them they’re hit, lay banana peels down one aisle, pour a litre of milk into a whole box of rice bubbles and pretend the snap crackle and pop were the enemy approaching with their guns and wave a plastic bag as a white flag when I’m ready for them to take me away.

I didn’t run for the flashing green light crossing the street to work today because the song on my ipod was good.

My friends are so happy. I love them so much. I’m so quiet. I think I’ll go home.

I think I’ll die my hair blonde tonight. I’m pretty sure I’ll decide on dark brown instead.

I had $4.50 left in my wallet yesterday. I spent $4.- on daffodils on the walk home.

I still miss you.

drink

2008-10-06T23:11:00.003-07:00

I wanted to tell you so badly today. I wanted to tell you instead of writing it at 2am in a bar on my own. I wanted to tell you about the past. How it visited me this week and how it slid off my back. That I myself seemed to be water off my own back and it terrified me that I couldn’t get a grip into my own spine. That the worse things got the more I laughed. I wanted to tell you about the gig tonight. About how talented those young kids were and how distant I felt from it all. About the drunk guys hand on my right bottom cheek and the girls hand on the left. I wanted to tell you everything. Again and again. Like a rehearsal. Until you knew it. Until you knew me. I wanted to explain to you that seeing you today made it hard for me to walk. That you’re the only thing that makes my heart beat waiver. That I want to fuck myself up so badly right now but that seeing you unwell hurts me more. That I wanted to look after you and tell you you were the most beautiful man on earth. Again and again. I wanted to curl up behind you while you were sleeping tonight, my cheek against your back, listening to you breathing, the safest sound in the world, tighten myself into the smallest ball and whisper into your ear that I got so drunk that I couldn’t spell the word future and that for the first time that made it seem like somewhere I wanted to go.

just like poker

2008-10-06T23:11:00.001-07:00

You know that game with the battleships on paper? Where you have to try and guess where the other persons ships are and give them the coordinates to sink them? B4, D12 and so on.
I wonder how long you can fool your opponent, when all yours were hit and sank years ago.

it's goddamn marvelous

2008-10-06T23:10:00.001-07:00

she skips across the field
hair aflutter and silent heart
legs all springy
and she delights
in her feet
kicking off the heads
of those yellow flowers
hoping they’d all gang up
into a yellow headed war
against her knocked up knees
as she crawls
and trawls
through the tall grass
in search of a burrow
in wait of a scavenger
a deathly creature
a thin starving thing
to sink its teeth
and make her feel
any-fucking-thing

the rorschach test

2008-10-06T23:09:00.001-07:00

She coughed up ink.
It splattered from her mouth
onto a piece of paper.
People gathered around to watch.
They took the sheet,
turned it this way and that
trying to decipher
the mess from her insides.
They folded it in half
reopened it
and all took turns
to make sense of the inkblot.
She started choking on the dark fluid.
It wouldn’t stop pouring from her.
She gasped for air,
She pulled out her hair,
As they walked off and left her there.
She drew her last breath
before drowning in her inky sea.
A man raced back
with the paper in his hand.
He was a minute too late
as he read aloud
mighty proud,
the word ‘loneliness’
to her washed up fate.

faster, faster

2008-10-06T23:08:00.001-07:00

I didn’t talk to anyone at work today.
I counted the number of telephone rings on each call until people gave in and hung up. If they left a message I would either email them back a few hours later or just ignore it. I only dropped things into the boss’ office when I knew he was on the phone so he couldn’t stop me to ask anything. It always makes me grit my teeth when he takes too long to finish a sentence and inside I’m saying ‘c’mon, c’mon’ and it sounds bizarre because I even hear myself think it through clenched jaws. I did make a cup of tea and a few colleagues said hello, but luckily they were quite busy, so it was o.k. for me to just smile and tilt my head in acknowledgement. These silences suit me just fine. It’s the ones when I’m out of the office that I’m trying to manage better. I want to want them more.
When I was a child I went riding on a horse. The first time it galloped, I panicked. I felt so out of control and I was so little and my arms weren’t very strong and it just sort of took off with me you know. I started to get a little scared. But then after a while, I tricked myself pretty good. I made myself believe that I actually wanted it to go faster and that this rattling around was really nothing. The funny thing is, I began to lean forward, into the wind and I started to enjoy the rhythm and the cutting of the air and how my skin felt in it. My heart rate slowed down and all of a sudden I really did want it to go faster. All of me did.
That is what I’m trying to do now. See, if I convince myself that I actually want to be alone and free, my heart rate might slow down again and it won’t be such a struggle anymore and I’ll be happy and I won’t even think about you anymore and when you see me in a café or on the street, you’ll wonder at my confidence and independence and that grace I’ll be exuding will drive you insane. You’ll want to be close to me so badly, but I won’t answer your calls.
I’ll just be counting the number of rings before you give in and hang up.

adventures from an office chair

2008-10-06T23:06:00.003-07:00

Let’s get out of this town. Pick a direction and let’s drive. We can pick up a scruffy stray at the lost dogs home (shall we call him Reginald?) and stick our heads out the open car window with him, tongue lose into the great unknown at a speed that makes our stomachs giddy. Turn the volume up on the car radio and sing along at the top of your lungs with me, because I’m burning baby, I’m bubbling over, can’t you feel my heat?
I’m tired of high end suits, high heels, high ambitions, high tea, high rises, high and mighty lies, highly strung executives being high on drugs and power. It’s high time. I’d much rather be high on life, see the high tide roll in on angry waves while you and I recline on sandy banks feeling the sun set on our skin and the horizon while we are waited on by a walrus butler in a waistcoat and monocle. We can get drunk on the breeze, raindrops in empty fields and strangers lips. And perhaps, we just might, in this world of bouncing clouds, knee high grass, tree choirs, river lullabies, bare feet, fresh bread, sneek-a-peek sunrays, stories and laughter with our racing open hearts, find ourselves whilst getting lost.

nice day for a sulk

2008-10-06T23:06:00.001-07:00

It’s cold out today. I nuzzle into my shawl stepping out of the door in the morning, pick up a coffee and walk to work. My breath creates little ghosts in the air and I imagine them going on a journey. This one here in front of the green grocers as I smile hello, it picks up fruit to bake a delicious surprise for its other ghost friends, sitting around a cloud in the sky. This one smacks its head into the phone booth before calling a lover it fought with the night before. I can hear its whispers behind me as I stride on. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry”. And in its tone I can hear the ache it must feel as if its stomach was turned upside down. And this one, this one here, it browses the antiques in the store. It hovers over pirates chests, remembers the souls that sat in the chairs from when it too was a body of flesh and bones and it giggles as it pulls out old records, wishing it could show his buddy, the one that escaped from my mouth to the pub to drown a little sorrow.
At work, I turn the heater on and rub my hands. My ghosts have disappeared and I feel so lonely and the clock on the wall, it’s standing still. I wish it’d do something more joyful, like skipping, or bouncing, but standing is what it will. I text a friend, I know who’ll understand. “I want to paint the town red, I want to see it bleed”. All so I can fall into bed exhausted and dream and join my ghosts around the cloud in the sky and share the cake and maybe feel less lonely too.

in my street

2008-10-06T23:05:00.001-07:00

Tessa shuffles in boots with teapot from the counter
with the pretty waitress
to the high chair by the window
with the pretty sunshine.
She’s always seeking
a high seat to perch on,
something comforting
about her feet dangling free perhaps,
unable to reach the ground.
The café is busy
with jostling cups,
clitter-clatter cutlery,
movement and chattery
and plenty of noise to hide away in.
People kiss cheeks and whisper gossip snippets
that grow wings
and find her ears.
Words travel up and over
the pages of her book,
mingling with the sentences before her
and she’s swilling around
in alphabet soup,
though none of the voices manage to drown out
the one in her head.
‘Fool.
You silly fool’.
It’s a day only a long shower,
Dad’s oversized striped pyjamas
and the words ‘fuck off’ can fix.
The shower finds her as soon as she steps outside.
Rain gushes and swills at her feet.
She grins as she cocks back her head
and lets it wash the hardness of the day off her face
in tiny rivers
that snake
and cling with her hair
like sticky honey.
Her dress,
a little sponge of flowers
that drink
and drink
and drink.
Umbrellas in primary colours spurt up around her
like giant neon mushrooms
and a car accelerates through a growing puddle,
like a belly of a ship,
splashing it up and drenching her entirely.
There’s a guy next to her.
Wet slacks
and brown-browed frowns
and curled down lips
that yell
and scoff.
‘Fuck off’,
he wishes to the automobile prancer.
She glances across at him,
in all her dripping little flotsam,
all dance-eyed,
happy sighed,
wonders at his anger
and thinks,
Fool.
You silly fool.

zodiac element: water

2008-10-06T23:04:00.002-07:00

Water I

It had been an afternoon of sun rays
and thirsty skin
until the rain hit hard.
Her heart had been beating faster the last few days
and the thick drops falling on her mouth
as she let her head fall back seemed to calm her down.
He had been watching her,
standing there with her arms outstretched,
her hair
sticking in streams to her face
like dark honey
and her dress
clinging to her body
as she let it soak through.
He walked out under the pouring sky
to meet her skin.
His tongue traced
lost drops on her lips
as she opened her eyes
and blinked away the blur.
Oh, he knew her well.
He picked her up like a china doll,
carried her out of the wet,
waltzed her in the door of her apartment
and didn’t untangle his fist from her thick hair
until it had dried into
a tight
neat
curl.

Water II

She thought she heard the clouds break open
behind her
as she walked
a 2am stretch
back home.
But as she turned around to face the roll,
it was simply a cat
jumping out of a garbage bin
and her paws
pitter-pattered her
to her street
like raindrops
for company.

Water III

I like it here,
under your sea.
Floating on my back,
seaweed fingers tickling my spine
in your all enveloping love.
I am so weightless
and my skin welcomes the cool.
Above me the sky is loud.
Sunlight,
shining bright,
tries to break the surface.
Dancing all around me are fallen stars,
tired of the sky’s demands,
seeking refuge in this here wonderland.
Some of them
caress my skin on their way,
hide under my drifting body,
exhaling in relief.
The silence is a trusting soul,
a whale’s breath
embracing me with all its life.
Dear dark,
dear deep,
dear still and silent sea,
let me rest here a while longer,
until a fishing hook snears me
and pulls me back up to air.

Water IV

The lake just dried out one summer.
Water levels lowered and faded
until it was nothing more than a muddy pulp.
She watched them disintegrate all around her.
Her fellow fish friends.
Their scales grew thirstier than bones
and storms became storms of dust.
Some of them,
they flapped their fins
like birds
with broken wings.
It was painful to watch.
Some were clever
and grew limbs
and feet.
They walked out of the crater
in brave search of a new paradise.
Of a clear glacier fed pool
under a merciful sun.
She wiggled and dug herself in deeper
into the cool slug,
slowed down her breathing
and waited.
Pregnant clouds would surely find her in time,
or the earth would split beneath her
and she’d drop down to its depth
and slip into a wetness beyond.

Water V

A shower is a great place to cry
as is the rain
or the swimming pool up the road
or anywhere else
that caresses cheeks
mingles with your salt
and cries along with you too

Water VI

My dog grabs the leash behind the kitchen door before I can and it trails behind him in the wind as he flies out through the front garden while I check for keys in pockets and push fingers into mittens.
The sea breeze tickles my nose
and I sneeze
as I catch up with him.
By the time our legs hit the shore
we have exercised ourselves warm
and we exhale bigger
and bigger
clouds into the crisp air.
The beach is completely deserted
and my skin pulls over my face tight
and rosy cheeked
and almost hurts from smiling.
I take off my shoes and socks
and roll up denim hems to reach my knees.
The sky is wide open,
the sea angry
and wild
as we run together along the shoreline,
chasing waves up and down the sandy banks.
And I can hear her breathing,
the sea,
in
and out,
adrift
and her heart
is pounding
and as free
and screaming
as mine.

through the holes in your souls

2008-10-06T23:04:00.001-07:00

He always thought
her eyes
mirrored water
forever on the move
and deep
so deep
it terrified him
in her dark depths

She thought
his blew through her
like the air
winter air
cold and fleeting
almost
as if
they didn’t
want to be trapped
where
nothing grew
either

so
he held his breath
and she pulled
her shawl
around her throat
for warmth
and together
they both
fell victim
to the elements

Build that wall

2008-10-06T23:03:00.003-07:00

She could sense his lips across the table, slightly parted through concentration and her fingers itched to meet his skin. She was confident all the way up until those few words a moment ago. They’d felt like a kick to the stomach leaving her bleeding internally. It was like she was drunk. Her lips disengaged from her clever mind which come to think of it didn’t feel so clever today at all. She tried to reason with her nerves, which snaked like veins, grew thick with poison. They crawled and crept, they flickered over and down her eyelids, they anchored into her stomach, built roots on her intestines. They took advantage of her open heart, her tongue hostage and held her thoughts ransom. She wished she could pull them out of her insides like giant noodles. The realization that they were part of her, indeed born of her made her scoff. No foreign planted seedling. No cruel persons spell. Just her heart and souls black toffee, their soot and grime left over from their busy working selves. So she leaned back over her notepad. Thought she could disguise her ways, that if she poured it out through ink on paper, he’d understand, move his chair a little closer and put his arms around her instead.

it's just that...

2008-10-06T23:03:00.001-07:00

When I met him my voice carried forth so much promise. It flowed, this healthy river with fish jumping excitedly, bursting with stories and laughter. It was deep and rather rich with juicy algae in the depths to swim down to and entangle himself in if he wished. We traveled. We traveled fast. His tongue would come and taste the wet on mine and the spark in his eyes caught the light bouncing off the rippling streams. I could see us arriving at sea together, soaked in adventures and drenched in embrace and fingers and skin and lips,
oh,
his lips.
But as he sat me down to tell me we were traveling on different currents, we were both surprised at how I’d suddenly turned quiet. At how my sentences seemed broken and resembled a mere trickle and at how quickly I ran out of water, drying out and all the fish that had leaped too soon found themselves stranded in mud and gasping for air.

happiness is a glass of red on a school night

2008-10-06T23:02:00.003-07:00

A Coonawarra Cabernet
tickling the nose
with a label of prose
swilling
in balloon glasses
to Billie Holiday
making
the tightest of friends
with her velvet mouth
and thirsty tongue.
A clockwise turn
of the volume dial,
a well rehearsed swing
of her wrist
to her hip
a few square metres
of privacy home
she could call her own
even if renting meant
blue tac
instead of
nail peppered walls
A flung shoe
A ripped off belt
and fling that too
a private lap dance
for the sturdy
tall
leather clad
chair in the house
a slip of a fine and dainty strap
down a shimmying shoulder
a roll down
of the stay-ups-no-more
the close echo of a belly laugh
that squeezed eyes like lemons
and drew tears like wind
with a dear friend
who’d bend
in delicious cackle agony
a full moon
spilling chalk paths
through midnight velvet sky

She held all that between her fingertips,
like green peas,
all bursty
and envy-green.
On Tuesday night
she decided to mash them all
into her creamed nutmeg sprinkled potatoes

And woke up the next day

with a nasty hangover

the rooster moans and the cleaning lady is left with ashes

2008-10-06T23:02:00.001-07:00

The road stretches out onto an endless desert horizon that tugs me along, lassoos me into its unknown. I crossed the border into Mexico just over an hour ago. The windows in my car are wound down but offer me little relief from the dusty heat. My mouth resembles the dry, barren landscape you are standing in when I pull up next to you. You’re thin, like a shadow dried up in this here desolation. Your boot treads on your cigarette butt as you move towards me. My legs shift on the leather seat, unsticking themselves and I can feel your fire from here.
—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—--
We drink tequila from dirty glasses and lower them back on to a wet bar. The man behind it smirks at us and refills them. He has bad body odor and a dog he doesn’t treat well. Your hair hangs in greasy strands over your eyes and drives me crazy. My fingers itch to wipe it out of your face, then find a place to tangle themselves in it. I picture myself as a cat licking it back behind your ears until my tongue is raw and seeking your lips for healing. You sit close, pinning your eyes on me and you rarely blink. It’s making me giddy, slightly dizzy, tipsy even. But it could be just the heat. Every word we speak carries this intangible weight, that leaves me feeling exhausted as if I were learning my language entirely anew. It’s dark and there is no cool breeze. We wet our gums some more and perspire small translucent beads that drip drop off our cheeks as we shake when we laugh the way we do.
-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-
You take me without pardon, I lay in your reins and when we slow down I read the history in your scars. The room seems caught in explosion with a staggering heat that drips off us, soaks the sheets and clouds the air. I want to drink you in. You drink from me, I can feel us drowning.
—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-——-
In the morning you shave with my blunt razor and hotel soap in the shower.
You say the water is scorching you while my heart is burning, a fistful of love to the stomach.
We are moths.
The flames slave.

And we both go up in them.

buzzing night bees

2008-10-06T23:01:00.001-07:00

She’s awake at 3.52am
with yesterdays mouth and tomorrows eyes.
The blinds give way to velvet and silence.
The streets are inky
and the moon always lunatic
like her hair that danced the tossing turning dance with her pillow.
She lures the neighbours cat into her apartment
and teaches it a new name.
Sam.
Sam looks up at her.
Long-whiskered,
stripey-tailed,
silverbullet furry ball at her feet.
They share some triple cream brie.
Hot flushed skin and cotton knickers
meet the cold seat of the kitchen stool
and she pours herself a glass of wine
to toast to the bowl of full cream milk
she’s set on the linoleum floor.
They talk.
She mutters her words through fingertips into thick fur
Kneading in questions.
Petting in secrets.
And Sam, he purrs back his clever answers.
Universal truths.
Wisdom and knowledge,
in exchange for dairy offerings.
He slinks in figures of eight
like a slow toy train
against her ankles and woolly socks
before disembarking on trash can journeys
in black night alleys
and will make sure to serenade her awake
for another secret rendezvous soon.

and when it rains, I’ll run for cover under the oldest house with the loudest roof

2008-10-06T23:00:00.000-07:00

The ship sank deep when it came off the tracks of the waves.
Just days before, she’d climbed on board his shoulders when his smile offered itself as a safe platform to step onto. They’d danced along the floorboards, as the belly of his boat slithered through caterpillar mangroves, past houses with held in whispers that hung like crooked teeth on slopes. The sea seemed so lazy, so she took off her shoes and sank into his muscles. She looked up at the grey sky in their eyes, unalarmed and was pleased she could smell the rain approaching. His lips always tasted better through it. The coffee in her mug grew cold and bitter as he turned his back on her, so she stumbled over the piled up baggage in the aisle to see out the window on the other side what could be causing it. It looked like winter. The rain had slowed and frozen into snow. She wasn’t afraid. She always understood where autumn went and why it came back, but he never did. Turn back that is. She could see now that his fingers were webbed and he was breathing through gills. The wind rushed up her bare legs as she stood there in his striped shirt and her feet felt soggy. She looked down at her toes, willing them to be fins.
She should have known better than to board a boat of paper, but she loved the feeling of drowning too much.

Blue-white underpants

2008-10-06T22:59:00.000-07:00

His smell still lingered in the rooms. It clung to her body, all needy, no matter how wide she opened the windows. No matter how many times she lost herself in the shower.
The sun promised a fresh start this morning as it streamed through matted hair and dried the water droplets off her skin as she stood on cool bathroom tiles. The warmth tickled her nipples gently the way his breath sometimes would.
She folded yesterdays washing, including two pairs of his underwear and that T-shirt that always pinched a little across his chest.
She took a deep breath as she thought back to when they’d stretched out under a candy sky with bare toes like little piglets, muddy and squealing in delight as their owners lips found a million ways to move and fascinate.
Before they moved in angry lines. Before they trembled. Before tears mixed with spittle on their shaky platforms.
She held out his boxer briefs, all stiff to the touch from the sun and climbed into them. Wrapped them around at her waist and secured them with a bobby pin. She would allow herself this just for today while she used the other pair to scrub the floors and scour every last scent, dust and doubt away.

yum

2008-07-08T21:49:00.003-07:00

I wanted to warn you girls today not to wear over the knee socks. The air is crisp as fresh white sheets and bites and nips at delicate skin and my thighs feel like baby mammals exposed to the elements by their mothers careless abandon.
Unless of course, you had someone with two strong but gentle hands, covering them every step of the walk, which would be entirely hot but rather unlikely, in which case, you should try and walk out the door naked today and see if his hot hot hands can keep up with every inch of your body.

origami

2008-07-08T21:49:00.001-07:00

I’ve been folding lately.
This corner of my mind
to that corner
creating origami landscapes
for thoughts
with deep crevices
for the devil to hide in
and edges
of ideas
so sharp,
you could hurt yourself on them.
I’ve scrunched up failures
and thrown them in the bin,
pushed cranes
across a sea of light
and I’m watching my dreams soar
in the form of paper airplanes,
all pointy nosed
and determined
and I think
I’m able to tend
to the tiny paper cuts
on my fingers
all by myself.

talking through pillows in clouds and echoes

2008-07-08T21:48:00.001-07:00

When you and me are thrown,
when we’ve shed our skin
and scales.
After our lips are all different types of wet.
Wet from you,
from me,
to be free,
oiled
and ready to move
some more.
After the throat has exercised
its strings
it sings
and foreplay was like warming up
in moans
and husks
before striding onto a floodlit stage
where we both play the lead
slowing our speed
and our dialogue is of the spontaneous
intimate sort
that makes the audience sink
their muscles into red velvet chairs,
tickles their hairs
and wraps them in blankets
of truth.
When the pressure is off,
on the floor with my dress
there is no need to impress,
when the animals can relax
their coloured feathers
and release their tall necks,
when they can fall back
on to all fours
let their collars curl back up
behind their ears.
When fingers start to tiptoe
gently back around
the paths they hunted on
just minutes before
and they discover
undercover
how beautiful the scenery is
now that they have time to stroll.
When we stop teasing each other
about our differences
and I think,
yes,
I’d like you to teach me
about the complexities of jazz music
and you smile
while I explain
the beauty
in the simplicity of a dance performance.
Your voice sounds sturdy
reverberating through your chest
and I feel beautiful all of a sudden.
So beautiful,
without my mask,
in my bareness,
naked and soft,
once you’ve peeled
away all the hardness
that the wind
and day coated me with.

sticks, stones, words and bones

2008-07-08T21:46:00.000-07:00

She keeps her head above the water,
wades in on tippy toes
clenching the sand firmly between them.
She clings to algae and mangroves,
Wraps her legs around a buoy

_'why won’t you let go darling,
It’s safe over here.
Let go of that branch,
no need for fear’_

She squeezes her eyes shut,
shakes her tresses.
She won’t,
she can’t.
Not again,
not here.

He picks her up,
swirls her around,
lays his lies in her hands
lets them mingle in the sands.

_‘Say it, bitch!
You know you’re close
It’ll be so much grander,
if you brush away those woes’_

He rattles her lose,
shakes her,
breaks her

_O.K._
she thinks
_O.K. Here I go._

_I love you,
you knew
I love you,
I really do_

_Aah
There you go hun,
that was great for me,
made me come,
real hard,
made the fuck so hot,
Don’t you see?_

He wipes his face
from his feast,
just another beast.
He lets her fall,
sees her drown
and doesn’t even turn back
to watch the last bubble burst

stale days, fresh bread

2008-07-08T21:45:00.000-07:00

“All off, thank you”, I confirm to the waxist while I lie back and think about the rest of my purchases and errands I want to run today. It’s our 3 year anniversary and at first I was disappointed this morning as you canceled our celebratory picnic by the river to attend a work field trip and left me between lonely sheets in bed. I sucked it up though. I truly did and decided to plan a surprise dinner for you instead. The farmers at the market load me with fresh herbs and spices and weigh my arms down with pumpkins, runny cheeses, aubergines, garlic and crusty breads. I cook all day for you, my love, a banquet of 8 different dishes and I wipe down the work of the hours from the stoves and kitchen tiles before dashing into the shower. The hot water excites my pores while I exfoliate and buff away at my skin. Through the steam I reach for body butters and lotions that linger in the air mixed with a spray of my favourite perfume. I paint a red little pout to match red nails and dark cat-like eyes behind velvet waving curtains of caramel hair. In the bedroom, I tighten up my corset, one hook at a time and slide my fingers down its skeleton pulling in my waist like gentle slopes and waking up my breasts. My toes slide into feather light thigh high stockings which I attach to suspenders that tickle milky thighs and I lengthen myself in 6 inch heels. There is just enough time to light a candle on the table and stir the pots one more time before you walk in the door and comment on how wonderful things smell, slap me on my bare bottom and to my horror leave it at that to sit, choosing the feast on the table instead. I cry a bitter embarrassed little tear into the curry and hope to god it upsets your stomach, while I suck it up, one more time, smile and hand you a bowl.

dirty laundry

2008-06-22T18:21:00.000-07:00

An octopus climbed into my washing basket this morning. His tentacles wrapped around my dangling stockings and he hauled himself up and nestled into the sheets. I poured him into the top loader, doused him with the remainder of the washing powder that hadn’t been spilt over the floor, closed the lid and pressed start. It didn’t take long for him to find a spot to unbalance the machine, making it spill all over the laundry mat and then freeze to a halt. In the dryer I noticed him spit little ink droplets on my whites and then he followed me all the way home. I tried to escape to the pool up the road. I thought he’d lost sight of me as I slid in, submerged myself and paddled with all my might. I felt the webbing in my hands and toes expand and my breath adjust and I turned onto my back and let the water stream over my shoulders. But as I opened my eyes, I could see he had clawed himself up into the sky, arms outstretched like a giant tent above me and he wept now, poured his poison all over me and the ink got in my eyes and I couldn’t see where I was swimming anymore, so I climbed out and ran for cover. Under the tree, I picked up a towel from this mornings wash and it smelt clean and felt warm and comforting on my skin. I wrapped it tightly around myself as I walked out into the winter day, willing it to hug me just a little bit harder, as I heard his arms slap on the concrete behind me, propelling himself forward. He stayed close all the way back home and squeezed into the shower with me where I sat on the tiles and hung my head. My wet hair clung to my body like a net and I started to sob into it a little. Mr octopus must have gotten a bit scared, for as the ink washed out of my eyes and I picked myself back up, I finally saw him disappear down the drain.

of cupboards and pencils and things

2008-06-17T21:14:00.003-07:00

Did you know, that when I was little, I was the rat girl? My teachers cast me for the leading roles as runaways and tattered dress wearing strays in all the school plays. I got picked on sometimes, but mainly, I just blended in with the wall. I was always a good chameleon. I used to spend hours or days alone in the cellar in my room with my markers and pens and fresh notebooks, which I used to fill with imagination and melodies and stories which I could tell myself later when I tucked myself into bed in an empty house. I whistled to the birds in the sky, confided in the cat and conspired with the neighbors dog. And I still do. I learned to fall in love with melancholy because it didn’t abandon me and the loneliness etched itself into my skin. I cut it with razor blades in clean lines under my breast to hide its evidence and it bled. It still does, rolling down my cheeks. Perhaps I could explain to you that inside I’m hot lava, leaking from my always volcanic heart.
Your face is one I want to whisper to. To say, I love you. I fucking love you.
But I reach across you for another piece of apple and cheddar, my head held high, while I still wish you held me with tightly clenched fists, that we held each other and that for once, you didn’t let go. I still do.

a walk in your weather

2008-06-17T21:14:00.001-07:00

You watched me
feeding the sparrows.
I watched
your eyes
smile into a moon crescent.
You watched me
watching.

And I watch you
walk out
into the loud,
busy street.

I’m the stray that follows
you home from the pub,
pushing up under your claws.
You grip
as you stride
and you pet
my weathered fur.
I keep close
on your heel,
dodging kicks to my face.
The sun is hopping
on hot little feet,
right
to left,
to right
behind silver lined clouds,
trying to squeeze through
for a moment
to kiss your cheek,
but you’re racing
out of her shine
and I glance up
through sparkling eyes.
My coat
shivers in her warmth
and I think
I can stop
and just smile
at her
for a while.
I think
I can cry
pressed against that wall
in her shade.
I can jump
in this puddle of rain.
I can float
in this wind through the day.

You watch me
stretch under the tree
I watch
your eyes drift
to a grey horizon.

I tuck
frozen hands
into pockets
and scrunch receipts
into tiny balls.
They fall
like paper snow flakes
and leave a trail
for you,
should you turn around,
missing my pitter-patter toes
and my pink tongue
at your fingertips,
my love.

the bridge to reality is a mere hop

2008-06-15T21:26:00.000-07:00

I can hear them scurrying downstairs. They have grown, the rats. They are plump with life and they are freaking me out a little, to tell you the truth. I closed the door on them yesterday, after another one of them gave birth to a dozen squirming ugly pink creatures, writhing, like a pool of maggots. And then it happened. I saw one of the elder ones take a bite. There was a weak little squeal and I quickly turned my head in shock, too disgusted and terrified to interfere. When I looked back, there was one little body less in the pod. A nauseous wave came over me, forcing me out of the cellar. I locked the door behind me, flew up the stairs and out of the house and drowned out any thoughts of them needing food or water until the guilt stuck its little teeth into me the next morning and argued back and forth with the disgust and the growing fear and the noise penetrating the cellar wall.
I make my way down the steps slowly, juggling little trays in my small hands. I stop at the door and hesitate for a moment, but I can’t block it out anymore. The screeching is getting too loud and I swallow hard as I place my hand on the doorknob and turn it. There is pressure on the other side. I push a little more, create a gap and a line of rats falls through it, followed by more, pushing from behind, creating a flow as high as my waist. They have multiplied and I feel sick in my gut as the door opens now to reveal a massacre, a room of doom. Bloodied walls enclose corpses of pink hairless rats, squashed, grey bloody ones on their side and chaos and terror and I can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t breathe and I’m suddenly sitting up straight in bed, my hair clinging to my face and gasping for air.
‘What’s up babe, did you have a bad dream?’
He rolls over and lets his arm drop over my lap.
‘It’s o.k. babe, I’m here, go back to sleep.
You worry too much’
I get a drink of water and curl back up into his body, my heart still racing until the alarm goes off and pushes me under the shower, dazed and prickly skinned. I catch the peak hour train from his place into the city with bodies pressed against me from all angles until we all spill out as if the train were punctured. We pour into the streets, into the chaos, into the swirl and confusion and my stomach matches itself to the sickness I felt a few hours earlier. As soon as I get to the office, I book a weekend getaway for us in the country, far, far out of the city.

danger in the shores, ring in the courage

2008-06-11T19:46:00.000-07:00

You shouldn’t have done that
I’m pacing.
Back and forth.
Back and forth
and I hear the sea laughing.
The sea,
whom I love,
who knows me.
Cunt.
I thought I did it right.
I ripped my heart out.
I held it high
up over me
as I waded in.
As my toes tingled
in your murky shallow shore.
I moved on
and sank a little more.
Into your wet
and you were beautiful
I didn’t have to open my eyes.
I felt my way.
I felt you around my thighs,
then my waist
guiding me further.
My arms were stretched
above my head,
you pinned them there
and you see,
they were still holding my heart,
so high,
you couldn’t reach it
and you were inside me,
kissing my breasts
and the waves were crashing,
they were fucking smashing,
you’re violent in your gentleness
and you know how to play
and your mouth reached to my ears
and I stretched to breathe
as you whispered,
as you wrapped
yourself around me
and pulled me down,
into the dark
and I forgot it up there,
just for a moment
though its beats were so loud
I let it drop
saw it sink,
down into the dark.
I untangled myself
from your forrest of arms
I dove after it,
I grabbed it tight.
We came back up with a splash,
my heart and I
and I carried it back to shore,
laid it under the sun
We coughed up sea water from our lungs
and I tucked it in
at 6pm
while I pace.
Back and forth
back and forth
willing it to sleep it off
make it through the night
and I hear you laugh
while I suck on a spoon,
clench a jar of peanut butter,
turn it up,
the music,
drowning out the voices
in my head.
I told you so

the weather lady predicted a sunny day with few showers

2008-06-10T18:46:00.000-07:00

We’re in your car, driving down this lonely street. We’ve been here before. There’s a chill in the air, we can both smell it. It creeps up slowly, a storm like this. Our stomachs know before we do, they hollow with the approaching dark clouds. They hunger. They roll. They thunder like the weather, like waves in a sea bringing in the snow and laying it on the icy shore encircling your toes. In and out. In and out, until they’re numb. You look over at me, pleading, and your hand grips mine. We need to pull over. We need a place to hide. I spot a motel down the road. Its neon sign is flashing. The manager frowns as he checks us in, he knows our kind. We take the keys from his hand and we run for our room. It’s on our heels, it’s nipping at our ankles, this fear. This god-awful fear. We let ourselves break once we close the door behind us. We are stones crashing to the floor. Our arms search for each other. It’s dark, so dark, we cannot see. You find me first and you tug at my jumper, pulling me across the floorboards. Your breath is closer now and I exhale in your direction. I find your legs and pull myself on to them. I need to get these clothes off you, they are crawling, mine are clawing, rip mine off too. You are hard and I slide onto your lap, trying desperately to push myself into you until our skin is seamlessly bound. Fingers can’t quite claw enough as you try and pull me down deeper, your face pressed tightly to mine, our tongues laced with each others wet and my legs wrapped around your waist and it’s starting to hail now. So loud, baby, it hurts my head. You’re covering my ears with your hands and the thunder seems a little fainter and I think I can breathe in again. The air seems safe, trapped between my lips and your neck. Your cheeks are soaked in tears and I nuzzle them as your heartbeat slows down and I think we’ll be o.k, you and I. We’ll be o.k.

When the day is short

2008-06-05T23:09:00.001-07:00

I woke up sweating from a nightmare in the morning. One where dream and reality get each other confused and tug at corners and images until one of them surrenders and fades, yet stays close on track, keeps watch, so it could pounce back again at any given moment.
I turned around to find his chest and that place. You know that place, the safest one in the world, with your ear on his throat when he talks and the vibrations of his voice lullaby you back to harbor. Because there’s no sound more winsome, no steadier pulse and no smell more secure.
But the sheets next to me were cold and I didn’t even need to close my eyes again to cave back into the terror.

with a thousand windows watching

2008-06-05T23:08:00.001-07:00

Up high on the rooftops
where the city packs a punch
and the wind means it,
I lift my skirt up over our heads
and you lick me warm
while winter tickles.

I almost forgot that it was twilight, lover.
I almost forgot that darkness steals you away.
Takes you back to her.
And my fingers
have to unhook themselves from your hair.

Ah,
but you didn’t know
that the brick wall
hard against my skin
scraped a little
and left a gift
rosy red
and pinched my hip
to remind me
that it ever happened at all.

Sometimes

2008-06-05T23:07:00.000-07:00

...I wish I could pluck his lips and spear them with a cocktail stick. I’d lick at them at regular intervals and when they are wet enough, I’d rub them between my thighs.

dirty morning coffee goodness

2008-06-05T23:06:00.000-07:00

Nipples can’t lie in the morning,
with a chilled winter sky bearing its warning.
But with cinnamon skin
and burnt orange hair,
i could show him warmth.
I visit him most days.
He grinds coffee beans,
pours velvet
and slides it down my throat
before the sun has climbed up over the horizon.

He smiles as I walk in the door,
all early eyed and dewy sighed.
(_come on, make me sigh a little more_)
We small talk and he asks if I’m well,
(_I’d be better if you moved a little closer_)
pitter patter glancing,
shy eye dancing.
He stretches to reach a top shelf,
his t-shirt reaching up with him
(_just take it off_)
and exposing rum and raisin dimple
from the hip,
(_grab mine_)
in a stomach that moistens my gums.
His arm wrestles with lean muscle and machine
(_wrestle ME, don’t be mean_)
‘Would you like sugar?’
(_Yes please,
you tease_)
But I shake my head,
swing my curls
as he paints milky swirls
that impress the girls.
(_impress, press, PRESSS!!_)
His hands move fast,
they are so clever
(_I’ll show you where to put them_)
He lifts the cup,
brimming with aroma
(_just spill it over my dress_)
and wipes a lonely drop with his fingers,
that he brings to his lips
(_oh, ohhhhh_)
and kisses its tips.
His tongue is swift,
it’s pinky red
(_my pink is swelling_)
He hands me my drink
And accidentally brushes my finger
(_@%^&(*#&^&_)
And I smile my goodbye
rush back outside
to where the air calms my flush,
chills down my red,
cools my cheeks
and sends mischief back on her way

of dolls and scars

2008-06-03T22:38:00.000-07:00

I’m waiting for my tram.
My red painted lips help disguise my bed hair as a deliberate kitten do and give me something to hide behind, a person more confident and ready to fight than is true.
The raspberry muffin I’m eating lets me forget for a short while how tired I am and how terrified.
It’s just another day that started with a hangover headache and a man’s body beside me. I climbed on top of him before he quite woke up. His hands gripped my hips and I let him wrestle me onto my back. We lazily ground against each other for a while and the gentleness rocked me steadily into the morning sun streaming through the windows. Sex always makes it better, lets you feel close, if but for a moment. I felt warm towards him while I watched him in the shower, swaying back and forth under the hot water and I resisted the urge to jump in with him. Though I was keen to have him leave fairly early, I felt instantly lonely the second the door closed behind him. I could have confided in him, asked for help, but nowadays it's hard to trust anyone.
The tram door closes behind me, like a hiss and sends a chill down my neck. I take a seat next to an elderly woman clutching her groceries. Nerves gather in the pit of my stomach and argue back and forth with my thoughts which gather speed as the tram accelerates. I bite down hard on my lip and by the time I reach my stop and tread down from the steps with shaky knees, the red has vanished from my lips and there is nothing left to protect me from what is standing right before me.

Take a Seat, Pride

2008-06-03T22:35:00.000-07:00

It always fails to place itself correctly,
my pride.
Or my lack thereof.
Very rarely does it walk into the bedroom
or interrupt love.
Yes, baby,
yank my hair like that.
Enslave me.
Bite me.
Fuck me.
Hurt me.
Oh, please hurt me.
Sex just always shoves pride right back out the door.
It prefers itself abandoned.
Stripped bare.
Naked.
Exposed.
Vulnerable.
to suit body and skin.

And love,
it never cared for pride much either.
A love without grit,
without wantonness,
seemed like a love not worth having.
A defeat of it’s purpose,
in a way.
Oh,
but my pride found a good home at work.
It got in the way quite a bit.
It wouldn’t let anyone tell me what to do
and when they did,
it would circle around me.
Pacing.
Push up all the little hairs on my back,
Right up around my neck.

When people started to call me stubborn
and a snob,
but could walk all over me once close,
I knew we had to fight it out,
my pride and I.
I sat it down,
looked it in the eye.
I rattled at it,
tried to make it understand.
That it was running us into the ground.
That if love pushed it away,
it needed to push a little harder back.
I needed it there,
I said,
putting a hand on it’s shoulder.
It hung its head,
unusual for pride.
Took my hand,
squeezed it tight.
Promised to stretch itself around a little.

Well,
we’re working on it.

But I still like rough sex.

To Touch a Hunter

2008-06-03T22:33:00.000-07:00

She woke up because she was cold.
Chilled and rattled into consciousness.
There was no cover to pull up around her.
Not that it would have made any difference if there was.
Her limbs were powerless anyway.
Arms outstretched.
Wrists bound to a metal pole,
an arctic crucifix.
She looked down at her body.
Her flesh was naked and exposed,
covered only in goose bumps and dirt.
As her gaze covered the length of her left arm
to her stiffly frozen fingers,
she could see a sparrow pegged by it’s wing at the tip of them.
Eyes closed.
Neck dangling.
It appeared to be dead.
Lifting her head, she made sense of the wind.
There was nothing around her but a muddy frozen swamp.
Her lips felt dry and she ran her tongue over them to check.
The cracks tasted of salt and blood.
Weak lips,
she scoffed.
Bloody dreamers.
She pressed them against her shoulder blade.
Pale blue skin cooled their heat and sting.

She remembered the fight.
It had been a fox,
larger than life,
disguised,
hiding under a lambs dress.
It had attacked as she knelt,
exposing the sparrow on her collar bone,
as she stooped,
as she trusted,
as she blinded,
as it tore,
as it ripped,
as it bit,
as it knew.
Foxes always do.

Time in the wasteland went by
until she felt movement in the air
and the fluttering of wings on her fingers.
It was the sparrow,
awakening,
trying to escape.
She whispered to it,
reassured it,
calmed it’s quickening beat
so it wouldn’t hurt itself any further.
It quickly recognized her voice and stopped struggling.
She turned her wrists,
Gathered its small body in her palm,
stretched its caught wing
and cupped its quiver.
Its tiny soul started to warm her skin.
The blood tingled in her fingertips.
And they,
in turn,
warmed the body of the bird
and it warmed her back again,
until her joints could bend,
they creaked.
And the stiffness gave way to pumping veins.
Her right hand,
coming to life now too,
it summoned its strength,
it tore away.
Broke the wire in two
and unbound the rest of her too.
The bird,
unpegged,
it collapsed,
with her,
and fell to her lap.

She noticed the chicken bones stuck in her throat,
sharpening themselves more and more against her breath,
though she couldn’t remember swallowing them
or the feathers that she coughed up.
That’s what you get for running with foxes.
The remains of their feast.
A bitter taste.
Her closed eye lids gave way to hot little tears.
And the sparrow,
it glanced up at the rain,
clawed itself back up to her collarbone and
drank from her cheek.
It grew stronger and soon took flight,
brushing away her frowns with strong wing flaps.
Throwing up the dusty air escaping with her thoughts.
It flew up high,
it literally soared.
And from up there,
so high,
it’s easy to see ahead, you know.
She kept close to its flutter.
On the heels of its pulse,
guiding their way out of the desolation.

She’d come across many more foxes in the future.
Some of them,
they’d run,
some would try and bite,
but there were some too,
they renounced their teeth
and advanced with care.
They pushed their head up under her fingers
and let her feel their fur.
Let her trace their shapes.

But she knew to check every lambs mouth
and to approach slowly,
holding her hand out in peace.
So they could smell it.
Sniff at the scents that lingered.
Of the snows,
of the mountains,
of the islands
and the sand
under the sun.
Of the marshes
and the fjords
and the bees
and their honey
and of all the other skins and flesh
that made her up.

And the sparrow,
that nested by her throat,
it curled up in her hair,
sung in her ear
and revelled in its safety once more.

Yaseminka

2008-06-03T22:31:00.000-07:00

She was a pretty little elf.
Dresses neat and tidy and so polite her eyes would fall to the ground, though she saw aplenty.
On her own, she danced a lot and curled her toes.
Dug them deep into the ground and enjoyed the earths whispering lullabies.
One day she twirled herself further into the dark forest.
She smelt the trees and the moist ground and let the branches and the wind guide her away.

Suddenly she stumbled on a pixie,
shuffling and swaying in the clearing.
She was about to run away but the pixie’s dance kept her gaze
and instead she watched
and then said,

I want to shimmy like that.

The pixie smiled at her and stretched out her hand.

I’m not sure I can take it

said the elf.

I don’t always know how to let go once I’m holding
and it’s been a while,
my fingers are a little stiff.

Don’t worry

replied the pixie,

this is a lesson where it’s most important not to let go.
In fact,
I will be squeezing your hand so tight you won’t have a choice.

So she took a step towards her
and they quickly found their rhythm.
They sang to each other and realized that they often knew the same songs.
When their feet grew tired and heavy,
they sat down on mossy rocks
and soaked them in raindrops.

I think I want to smash your toes with a hammer, they are so good

confided the little elf.

The pixie returned the mischievous glint in her eye, bit her in the shoulder and muttered:

I love you too

The sky started to close up over them and it’s dark ink spilled dome-like over their faces.
They took refuge under a rock and quickly fell asleep.

In the morning,
the sun was kinder and warmer than she’d ever been and the little elf,
who’s hand was still clenched tightly in the pixies,
stretched and yawned.

She realized with a growing smile
that she hadn’t slept so well in a

very

long

time.

The Illusion of Slaves

2008-06-03T22:29:00.000-07:00

I wanted to part your lips with my tongue and your chest with a dagger.
To get at your heart.
To wrap myself around it and sew you back up over me.
I tied back long blond locks and floral dresses.
There was love in my hair and hope in my palms.
You knew me better.
You ripped that shining glow from my shoulders and I stood there.
Bare for you
and I meant it
and wore it naked.

I picked up the clothes from the floor after you left and the outside ripped through me and chilled my bones,
rattled them.
The dress was dirty then and torn,
so I went out and bought some darkness and delighted in the tights whenever they ripped.
I joined cats in the backwaters.
Hungering and hovering for strangers to dice me up.
I watched their mouths while I stood choking
and my scalp tingled in their fists.
And their fingers.
They were rough, hard and everywhere.
It was a cold growl in a hell where the fire had long gone out.
And I learned about the sea when I went back to the water.
You know I did.
And I swam to be driving with you again.
To a no-mans land.
Making lists.
‘10 people you hate and why’.
With my feet free and my toes playing on the dashboard.
The wind tussling my hair in excitement and repeating myself over the loudspeakers’ gospel to us
and wearing each others smiles again with pride.

To Race with your Beast against a Storm

2008-06-03T22:27:00.000-07:00

My horse smelt of dust and hay.
Strongly so, even on such a cold winter morning.
I leaned in to soak it up, my hand gliding down his strong neck and whispered my hello.
My father had already tightened his saddle and after jostling with the reins and bit, I led my horse out of the stable to meet his.
Our breath competed for clouds hitting the chilled tight air.
One hop and pull and I was up.
As high as Dad.
We decide to take our time that morning, traversing through the forest.
Loose armed and legs hanging lazily off the sides of our safe treading animals.
We headed down to the river, knowing it would be deserted in this weather and took lefts and rights off forked paths that lead into valleys.
And we talked.
We talked about my schoolwork,
all the things I wished to be
and the things he’d wish for me.
When we hit the thick fog at the bank of the river and felt the earth soft under the hooves, he turned to me with a slight tilt of the head.
“Let’s race it to the end!”
My heartbeat accelerated even before my horse did and I dug my heels into its flanks to shock it out of its trance, my fists clenched tightly into its mane
and off
we
were.
The ice in the wind roughened up my cheeks to a crisp red and demanded tears from my eyes that travelled back and out of my face, mingling with my hair flailing wildly behind me.
I thought about the advantages I had over my father.
(Just a small girl with new legs, still strong and determined.)
I thought of how proud he would be to see me pull up and take charge,
headstrong into the bitter,
the cold,
the destination,
ahead,
ahead,
ahead.
to the end of this freak scene.
Of how he would be able to loosen his reins with a smile, seeing me so far ahead of him.

But I got lost in the moment.
Let the beast beneath me take me for its own ride.
Listened closely
to its tremor,
its breath,
it’s beat.

I closed my eyes and smiled.
Intoxicated with the rhythm,
the speed,
the smells,
the scenery.

And when I opened them again,
I realized with a sinking heart.

I was never quite able to catch up with him.

Naked as I came, a little faded from the winter

2008-06-03T22:24:00.000-07:00

You collect bodies and souls like butterflies,
pinned neatly to your wall.
Pretty wings
gorgeous things
Shining colours.
Coaxed with the promise of a big open soul,
bleeding honey,
small drops all over your chest
until my tiny feet get sticky in it
and my wings are glued.

I fell again,
Lured by the sides of your mouth
and the way they create smiling crevices,
by how much I wanted my mouth to be near them.

the pins were a shock to my body,
when your indifference laughed it’s evil laugh
and you pierced me right through.
I couldn’t feel it at first.
I sat listening to everyone’s words when I felt my body grow cold
and my head heard thousands of needles drop on a concrete floor.

It wasn’t until my throat felt swollen and I couldn’t breathe properly
that I looked down at myself and saw the wounds
and the trickle of blood running out of them.

I can’t free myself.

I am hoping.
Always hopeful,
regretfully hopeful.

I am hoping someone will enter this small room and find me.
Gently pull these pins out of me and lift me off the wall
to be placed firmly by your side,
feeling the earth and all it’s life
in between my toes again.

to spring-clean late in the year

2008-06-03T22:20:00.000-07:00

I have a love,
it’s ten storey’s high.
It towers,
achingly aware.
Exposed and unshielded.
It has sturdy walls,
in a determined sort of way.
Earthquake weather safe.
Its appearance is a little dated.
There are marks and cracks and bruises
that speak of vandalism
and a rough neighbourhood.
But please step inside
and have a browse
at all the pretty veins.
The doors are wide open
to allow for easy access.
There’s a room with velvety cushions,
that mold to bodies like tongues
and embrace like lips
and gentle arms,
begging for you to take off your shoes.
She wanders its corridors,
my queen of joyful whispers,
watching you come,
making you come,
then watching you leave.
She’s awkward in the mornings
whilst watching your limbs climb into clothes,
aching to climb in with them,
neatly tucked into your shirt.
And she draws the curtains when you close the door,
wishing you’d stayed for supper.
She lives on her own.
It seems the safest choice.
She sweeps out the mess you leave
and sings lullabies
in her crying shower.
She holds a key to the dungeon
where the fierce creatures dwell,
with their fangs
and their claws
and their chains
willing you into their clutches.
To keep you near.
Without the fear
of losing you.
If you can handle it,
she’ll open the door
for them to lunge,
to eat from you
and to feed you back.
To tear you open
and to lick your blood
into a clean wound
that will heal into a smile.
And she will lick her lips
while watching yours
and prepare for her next visitor.

Jolly Good and Peachy Keen

2008-06-03T22:17:00.000-07:00

Your veins seem to be a great place to get lost,
bouncing to and from your heart
but
I find myself in a house of flies
and silicon lies
where the paint on the walls is peeling
and there’s a hole in your roof
the fridge greets me with Dijon mustard
and a halfempty tub of margarine
and well,
I need some fine wine,
travel time,
for me to be mine
and you,
you need to be nicer

Trust in a disposable take-away cup

2008-06-03T22:10:00.000-07:00

She stretched out under the sun,
chewed a piece of grass
and exposed her freckles.
They grew dark with worry.
But that was their issue,
not hers.

The sun would always be there,
burning if you got too close.
She clung to the rays nonetheless,
made them appear beautiful,
for she had to think that.

So she could concentrate on the warmth,
the distant embrace
to numb out the hard blow to her stomach,
(the boy’s stones)
after she heard those words.

The most beautiful girl from 1973

2008-03-30T20:24:00.000-07:00

This hot endless summer strings herself through long weekends.
She parches skin and tongues thirsty for cold beer and laughter whilst she paints faces with freckles.
She breathes over honey-hued shoulders knocking against each other at jostling tables of hands on glasses and smiles that reach to the corners of eyes.
Her hours are all-night diners and we wait on each other in short skirts, frills and skin.
She holds with bold arms, chuckling at waves of hair she’s kissed before friends noses tangle themselves in them.
Her black nights are hot with moist gums and groins that meet and greet, shedding frowns like clothes under a blanket of youth.
She tastes of salt and smells of honey.
She smirks at our open voices and hollers through new accomplices’ swollen lips,
‘Are you guys rock stars?’

‘Sure we are’
we sing back at them.

All my tired pretty horses

2008-03-30T20:22:00.001-07:00

I like to get up out of bed at night when my thoughts are hissing and flicking their scattered tongues, weaving in and out of my ears.
To wear nothing but cotton undies and a woolen jumper while sitting at my desk, one foot curled tightly under me, indulging for a moment in the luxury of the midnight silence and the empty space surrounding me.
Feeling royal in a Collingwood flat.
Chasing ghosts with thickly buttered toast and black cherry jam.

I’d like to write down some of these slithering snakes, to pluck them one by one out of this browning apple and pin them for you to understand.
But you see, it’s easy to catch and talk about the big ones; deaths, rapes, cheaters and all the other gods and events.
To be completely honest, they are lazy and not worth worrying about as much as their size may suggest.
It’s the small things that churn me. Flexing their tiny bodies under my skin. Resembling translucent maggots rather.
The devil is in them, hiding because he’s too ashamed and embarrassed, petty in his jealousy and mistrust and digging himself in deeper with tiny teeth, a whole round mouth full, every time his ego is bruised.
Feasting on my juicy insides, eating away with each new disappointment until one day there won’t be any of me left and they’ll fall off chalk bones.

Saturated.

Bellies swollen.

Gluttonous little fuckers!

A girl like you and boys like abandoned ship bells

2008-03-18T17:25:00.000-07:00

You’re a weather pattern.
You’ll fall like the leaves when your heart grows cold, hibernate until you’re ready to blossom again and wear short skirts and attract the bees when the heat almost becomes unbearable.
There’ll be a drought and when it rains it’ll pour.
And pour it does.
They wait politely for you to take your pick and have your way with them, while you wish they would just have the guts to push you against a wall and have their way with you.
Politeness is a killer in the tug of love and sex. These things are never meant to be polite. They are intrusive by nature.
And intrusion is what you want.
You want the eyes to hold your breath when hands are around your throat and your knickers around your ankles and you need a crooked accepting smile to be sent your way when you’ve opened up and exposed yourself, little by little.
So you throw the reins up into the air and hope one of them will catch them.

A Night of Black and a Day of Deserts

2008-03-16T21:43:00.000-07:00

‘Your skin is making me think I should go home, I don’t know how to act around it and I want to hurt you, I’m so crazy about you and your face makes me wish I could punch it and squeeze you up into a tiny ball with all my might, you’re so beautiful’, he whispers.
‘It’s o.k.’, I say.
I understand.
I have wanted to bite people fiercely too, a thousand kisses deep out of bursting love in a moment in which it’s hard to contain.
Somewhere where nails become claws and limbs become hooks in skin like rice paper.
It’s a restless night between you and me.
But in the morning there’s a cheery wave from stranded you.
Stranded in my town called indifference where it doesn’t really matter which street you walk down or turn you take, you just end up back in the main square with the dim lights.
I’m afraid I just don’t see you.
And I grow sad.
Because I wish I felt that need to hurt you too.

It's hard to breathe when you're choking

2008-03-02T20:01:00.000-08:00

Have you ever thought about what it would be like not to feel physical pain or know the concept of it?
How liberating it would feel to punch that wall without hesitation?
To aim your knuckles at his face guilt free, thinking the only pain anyone would feel would be your sorry heart?
To whirl on a rink of ice on your skates without fear and run down that hill so fast, tears welling in your eyes, tripping over your undone shoelaces, the concrete smacking your teeth, getting up and just keep running?
To pat a shark and tell him it’s o.k., you get angry too.
To break your bones by landing badly, after you jumped from so high, but didn’t worry, just contorted yourself in the air, your mind at one with the wind and air licking your body on the way down? You could just get back up, snap your limbs back into place and walk off in front of that green car, just to take a better look at its driver through the windscreen.

Things we left to the Fire

2008-03-02T19:58:00.000-08:00

I meet him at that little bar up the road, my heart two skips ahead of me.
It’s been a while.
We smile broadly, it’s only polite.
Our words trip over each other until filled glasses come to our
rescue. And we’re moving right along.
He speaks with armed teeth, a mouth of bullets as my hands grip my
drink clumsily and I hear them. Screaming. Becoming unwired. Pondering
the flesh below the curve of his spine.
My mind comes apart like fairy floss. Tongue lose, missing his salt and musk and I follow a late second.
I admit having turned to boys with noisy fingers and louder lips but
don’t mention my head having been far away, somewhere full of shhh…
and tree choirs, my arms outstretched and spinning so fast the world
became one big comet in front of my eyes.
I don’t wish to know who’s skin has been resting beneath his hands,
because frankly it still makes me feel sick.
Success stories outdo each other, achingly aware of their insignificance.
We sit there a while, my past and I, contemplating all the things we
left to the fire and I grow irritated and hurt at the lack of them.
I think how funny it is.
How funny to love and hate in such equal measures.

I'm not here, are you?

2008-02-12T21:14:00.000-08:00

A honey month turned sour

Maggots in your morning shower

Bad news in a lonely hour

Violent hands to make you cower

Lined up sparrows, dead

Girls in short skirts, overfed

Unloved man sharing your bed

A tormentors delight, you said

The Moonlight Became Her

2008-02-11T14:38:00.001-08:00

She pulled the curtains across the morning window. Rude sunlight,
meaning well, like so many of us, smacked his face suddenly. His groan
stopped her in her tracks. Not because it was a fierce one. On the
contrary. It was the softness, fightless and hollow, that woke
her up so brazenly. He had been used to the curtains drawn, a dimness
to which his mind was at ease and his body could rest with. A curtain
drawn for the last act of his show. He certainly didn’t feel like
there was an encore he could deliver. There was no strength for weeping or
drama. He had taken his bow and she fell like roses on a stage.
Her applause, cheer and happiness just reminded him more of his
loneliness and with that the solitude almost felt inviting, his warm
blanket he could rely on, because you know, you only have to rely on
yourself for that. His bed had become his raft when life started to feel more like a leaky boat in a shark infested sea.
She had left him his space for a while now.
Bravely tolerating his silence.
Today however, she returned the room to its slumber, coating it with heavy eye lids and drapes. She crept under the sheets and let her fingers travel to meet his. And with a
firm grip, they took a leap. He found her by the sound of her breath
and she let the hairs of his chest tickle her lips. The darkness
became a beautiful creature of velvet and ache and in it they started
to love again. His face grew hot with tears and his tongue fat with dryness.
The pain in his throat reminded him to live and squeezing her palm tightly in his,
he opened his eyes. Speckles of light threw him into dizziness but as
his eyes adjusted to the blackness, he could make out the rough edges
of the furnishings and as he tilted his head, he saw the dint in the
pillow, heavy with her scent laid into its round cradle and the flattened
sheet where she once lay, ice cold.

Your heart is an empty room, let me hear the echo

2008-02-05T03:00:00.000-08:00

Her parents’restaurant used to be her palace. She’d come home from school, pull the red velvety curtain across the bar section, press a few keys on the jukebox and do her homework sitting on a high stool in the peace and quiet of the evening. At lunch she could demand escargots smothered in garlic and herb butter and at 7 years of age she could pour a perfect beer. On weekends she would occasionally join a table of farmers drinking Schnapps and playing Jass until she was sent home to put herself to bed.
Her father taught her impeccable manners. He only ever smacked her for a racist comment she’d picked up at school or for calling him an idiot. She used the words please and thank you often and still to this day grits her teeth at bad table manners and is especially aware of them around her parents. Even though she herself sometimes struggles to find the confidence to hold someones gaze, she dislikes people looking away when spoken to.
Her mother taught her empathy, love and compassion. Also things she finds hard to shake, seeing them more as a hindrance these days. She was often quite lonely, though for a while at home she enjoyed the company of a couple renting a room in her parents house as they couldn’t afford to live anywhere else. She was from Singapore and he was African and sometimes frightened the hell out of her mother when she came home late at night finding him sleeping on the steps outside the house curled in a blanket. Even in the middle of a snowy winter. He just liked the open outdoors, felt too claustraphobic inside. I guess habits were hard to shake for him too.
On her 8th birthday, she received a new pair of rollerskates. She practiced often and loved gliding across the smooth floor in the cellar of the restaurant, where all the stock was kept. One day she slipped and fell badly. Sahip, the new kitchen hand was walking down the steps with a few empty crates. He put them aside and helped her up. But he stood too close. And as the blood trickle trickled from her knee down her leg, he kissed her with his teeth and his tongue and his teeth and his lips and his teeth and his teeth and his teeth.
And as his hands started to fumble with her underwear, all the way up that skirt, all her confused mind could tell her was: not to be rude, not to be racist, not to be rude, not to be racist…

Little House of Savages

2008-01-23T17:10:00.000-08:00

I haven’t even cried for you. This comes as a surprise to me too. Maybe you giddied me up to such heights unashamedly fast and unhesitated that I must have expected a crippling crash. You didn’t even allow for enough time to plan a weekend getaway or next Sundays breakfast and paper, so I guess there was no ‘life crumbling’ moment to indulge in or a habit to miss. Even so, it seems years ago that I sat on the kitchen floor hugging my knees rocking gently, when crying felt more like vomiting, when the pain felt surreal.
Maybe I’ve successfully learnt an ‘adult’s ‘ ways of dealing with these things or maybe thinking of myself as two separate people, the griever and consoler, is just mad. But who else will eat packets of corn flakes by the spoon with cold milk with me when I’m feeling blue? After all, I’ve studied myself well enough to know what tickles my fancy. I know which ballet class will calm a racing mind, that a glass or two of Tanqueray will be my finest reward after a difficult day at work, that reading a book will make me feel less alone, that standing in my underwear at the kitchen sink eating a perfectly ripe mango will make me tingle with pleasure. I know that painting with some rock n roll in my ear and a glass of wine in my hands will make me feel invincible, braving the wildest angriest waves, lion hearted in a floating, fearless way. My fingers have learnt their way down the sheets at night to still buzzing thoughts and fight insomnia. I know which friends to call to make me laugh which ones make me feel like they understand and which friends will accompany me to feeling oblivion and slamming the empty bottle back onto the table. So, you see, I’m a master of my own self and so I make a vow never to abandon myself and that everything will be o.k.
And just as firmly as I believe this, I come crashing down again, with one word and one foul swoop.

Coffee Toffee

2008-01-21T16:10:00.000-08:00

I love my morning walks to work. A piece of calm before the storm.
Dayvan Cowboy by Boards of Canada moves me along whimsically this morning, lullabying through my broken ipod earpiece. A stomach and mind of yesterdays wine urges me on, begging for a roasted brown beaned release. Here's my stop. The aromatic smell demands it so. Sitting at the bar, waiting for my soy latte to be poured by able hands...hands, hands...i'm stuck on the hands. Gaze moves up, my coffee boy. Yumm!! Morning treat supreme. Please take your time with the coffee...oh o.k., have a nice day!
I know I'll be back tomorrow.

velvety kisses

Mine's not a High House

2008-01-19T21:17:00.000-08:00

I am running out barefoot to collect freshly laid eggs in the morning. A little cracked pepper and salt over a poached two on crusty, gutsy bread for you.
On a hot summer night, they'll crown the best salad nicoise you'll ever try. The sun will be twinkling through the bowing trees in the backyard. We'll chase the dog around and play like children under the sprinklers until we collapse onto the soft grass and make love, shedding our wet clothes.
In winter eve's, we'll have a drink in the bath, paint beards out of the bubbles and suds and rub each others feet as we talk about great exotic plans and ventures.
We'll stain cookbooks with splashes of gourmandism, whilst preparing caring feasts for friends. Creamy soups with thickly buttered bread, pungent curries heaped with fresh coriander and my poire tarte tatin.
When you walk in the door (the best sound) I'll tiptoe to reach your height and level myself with your loved face with those eyes and those lips, throw my arms around you and thank the universe for allowing me.
Should I rise from a nightmare, the smell of your chest will bring any of my lost ships safely back to harbor.
Quiet weekend mornings reading the paper, interrupted only by the occasional 'hey, listen to this...'. Midnight munchies of toast sitting in our underwear on cold kitchen stools. I'll butter yours if you butter mine.
We won't have much money, but will spend it thoughtlessly on good wine and punnets of fresh berries.
Nights apart, making our own seperate memories will be worth the distance just for missing you. Just wake me when you arrive home so I can say goodnight.
You'll know how to make me laugh and what to say when I don't want to, but also when to simply stop me, trace my lips with your fingers and hold me strongly and without hesitation.
I may wear the same dress a few days in a row, walk into the house with grubby knees and leaves in my dishevelled hair after spending the afternoon lazing around the garden, but I will feel more beautiful than ever.
I propose we both have our own seperate rooms. I will most likely paint in mine and collect things older than us. I won't ask or judge what you do with yours.
If you've had a bad day I'll promise not to question you, unless you are wanting to talk about it and not to touch you until you are ready, fighting the urge of standing next to your chair and holding your head in my arms and kissing your hair.
Should your friends come by unanounced and feeling blue, I will let you do the listening and talking and pour you both a drink. I know you'll switch the kettle on for mine.

And when I finally find you, you'll have already found ME.

A Sky so Blue it Bursts

2008-01-19T20:49:00.000-08:00

I like it here, under your sea.
Floating on my back, seaweed is tickling my spine.
I am so weightless and my skin welcomes the cool.
Above me the sky is loud.
Sunlight, shining bright, rude and intruding, tries to break the surface, tries to smack me, like the little bitch deserves. It crackles and somewhere I hear friends and enemies laughing or crying. I can't say for sure.
Dancing all around me are fallen stars, tired of the sky's demands, seeking refuge in this here wonderland. Some of them carress my skin on their way, hide under my drifting body, exhaling in relief.
The silence is my mother, embracing me with all her love.
Dear, dark, still sea, let me lay here a while longer, until a fishing hook snears me and pulls me back up to air.
I'll breathe, I swear.