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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.