hands are talking

A Good Conversation

2011-11-13T17:20:00.001+11:00

HIM: Discreet, is one thing I am not.

ME: Really? You strike me as a tactful person.

HIM: Noooo, I kiss and tell.

INCREDIBLE POEM

2011-10-02T19:14:00.003+11:00

In The Surgical Theatre
By Dana Levin

In the moment between
the old heart and the new
two angels gather at the empty chest.

The doctors flow over them as winds, as blurs, unnoticed but as currents
around this body, the flesh of the chest peeled back
as petals, revealing

a hole.
In it

the layers are fluttering—the back muscle, the bone, the chrome
of the table,
the tiled floor with its spatters of blood—

—fluttering as veils over the solid,
fluttering—

The angels, gathering. Small, and untroubled, perched quietly
on the rib-cage, its cupped hands trying
to keep in.
Around them the hands of the doctors,
hurrying—white flaps,
white wings—
the clicks and whirrs of the lung machine…

Do you want it to be stars, do you want it to be a hole to heaven,
clean and round—

Do you want their hands, dipping and dipping, flesh sticking like jelly
to the tips of their gloves—

Hovering at the edge of this
spot-lit stage,
loathe to enter, loathe to leave, is it terror,
fascination,
the angels too occupied to turn their gaze to you?
Go down,

go in.
The angels perch on either side of the hole like handles
round a grail.
The bleeding tissues part, underneath the solid shimmers
black, like a pool.
The lights above the table enter and extinguish,
the light of your face

enters,
is extinguished,
is this why you’ve come? The frigid cauldron
that is life without a heart?
I know,
I'm tired of the battle too, the visible and invisible clashing together,
the hands with the scalpels

flashing and glinting like flags and standards,
fighting,
fighting to the death—
When they cut you down the middle you fled.
The angels descended.
You came up here with me,
with the voiceless

thousands at the edge of the curtain, hearts beating
with ambivalence.
Do you know if you want it? Is that jumble of spit and bone
so worth it
that you would go down again and be
a body
raging with loss, each beat of the heart

like the strike of a hammer,
spiking the nails in, to feel, to feel—
I learned this from you, Father, all my life
I've felt your resign to the hurt
of living,
so I came up here, to the scaffolding above
the surgical theatre

to watch you decide.
Can you go on with this mortal vision? To the sword rearing up now
in orange fire, the angels turning
to face you poised at the hole's
brink, their eyes in flames, in sprays of blood
their wings beating
against the steel wedge prying open the rib cage, is it

for you? Are they protecting
you?

But you bend down, you look in, you dip in
a finger, Father,
you bring it to your mouth and you taste it,
and I can feel the cold that is black on my tongue, it is bitter,
it is numbing,
snuffing the heart out, the heat,
the light,
and when will they lift the new heart like a lamp—

and will you wait—

the doctors pausing with their knives uplifted, the rush of wings
stirring a wind—

This poem gives me chills.

Looting the Party (a work in progress)

2011-08-12T21:28:00.002+10:00

Just a snap shot of a piece I'm working on, currently switching between writing it as a dialogue and as a prose piece. Stay tuned.

MAN: When she tells him, she loves him; her face will start to crumble/ (gleeful expression)

WOMAN: Crumble? (Distressed)

MAN: (he walks up to her and grabs her jaw) her chin will pinch, like yours is now and the skin will dimple. (he continues to hold her face, very close to his) It will look as if someone has taken a chisel to her face.

WOMAN: Blood? I don’t like blood! Will it be messy?

MAN: Everything will cave in; her cheekbones will turn to dust. Her mouth will fill with the crumbled remains of her face. She’ll hate the taste and spit it out. All of her head will go with it. Take the nose as a token if you like? They tend to stay in one piece.

WOMAN: This is when I strike?

MAN: Yes. Pull of rings. Take all the jewelry. If you struggle, suck them off the fingers, or take butter from the dining tables and lather it on their hands, this works very well. Check the undergarments for money; you never know if they are the type that hides things. Take anything you deem to be of value.

WOMAN: Will there be others, working? Where do I put it all?

MAN: Don’t concern yourself with anyone else. The alter, pile all the booty there.

WOMAN: What about him? Will they all fall apart or is it just her? The one I target?

MAN: The party will continue. They’ll all be getting too drunk to notice. One will fall and then another. There will be plenty of work, you’ll be busy tonight.

Quote

2011-08-12T19:59:00.005+10:00

"Before you diagnose yourself with depression or low self-esteem, first make sure you are not, in fact just surrounded by assholes" - William Gibson

Christopher's Story

2010-10-11T22:43:00.000+11:00

These are some very rough ideas for my story about Christopher.

Christopher is very good at games. He doesn't care if he wins or looses and that’s his secret. He just lets it happen and everything works in his favour.

Christopher mourns initiative.

Christopher thinks his voice should replace the woman’s voice on the tube saying “Please mind the gap”. His is so considerate, much more so than the lady.

When you go to sleep, Christopher sneaks into your room and takes very fine very long rods and attaches them to the end of each of your eyebrows. He moves them up and down, up and down. This is to create pretty television snow in your dreams.

Christopher has an abnormal amount of chewing gum in his digestive tract. He was bullied at school and his is a terrible thing when you have a fondness for gum. This bully would often sneak up behind him and give him the most terrible fright and he would accidently swallow his gum, whole.

Christopher isn’t colour blind, but he pretends to be. Just because he can.

IF YOU HOLD THE BIRD TOO TIGHTLY, YOU’LL KILL IT.

2010-09-19T13:16:00.002+10:00

- a collection of moments where the body and mind, sync.

EYE on the driveway, looking at the stars.

On the driveway, he said “It’s funny to kiss you”, she looked at him and a tear left her eye and took with it its blue colour. The blue ran down her face, thick syrup goo that dripped into a blob on the pavement. Then, with nothing left to keep it there, her eyeball popped out. Stark white and hollow like a ping pong ball it bounced down the driveway and onto the road. He watched on in amazement, waiting for her to respond, to say something, to be horrified. But instead, in the silence of his astonishment there came a rustling from the hollow of her eye. Out pushed a bird, perched on the bridge of her nose it shook dry its wet feathers and flew away.

From her.

From him.

The 24th year is a struggle. They say, and I suppose I say so too.

The clay hardens. Change is no longer slow and easy to ignore. It is abrupt, alarming and can make you late for work.
It happened at a party. I was chatting, standing in the round, laughing. Then, through my wine soaked vision, I saw him kiss another.

I said, ‘My face is caving in’ and those around me looked and quickly caught the falling pieces of my cheek in their palms. It was winter and everyone was covered in wool. My face was the crumbs on their sleeves.

They all peered at me.

“Where do you want me to put your...face?.... Harriet?” one said, holding the largest part of me.

“Maybe you shouldn’t say anything. You look very loose. How are we going to hold you together?”

“Does she need to sit down?”

“Is he still kissing her?” I said.

“Oh, Harriet! Is this what’s going to happen every time? Yes. Just let him go!”

Restless viewing.

It used to only happen occasionally and then it became more frequent. She would lie awake and check her phone and read and put the book down and toss and turn and do this over and over again.
While lying wide awake, staring at the ceiling, two fine rods attached to the end of each eyebrow would move up and down and up and down at a furious pace. The speed created a television snow that hovered over her brow and kept her awake all night long.

September thus far

2010-09-19T11:03:00.001+10:00

Cinema evacuation

Football injury

Relocation

West side

A dip in a soup of old people

I heart GPS

1 dread

Borrowed outfit

‘This tastes like nerds’

Going organic

Prams

Babies

Dogs

Frisky Agnes

Online shopping

Walking

The transport saving of a lifetime!

Bushfire Shakespeare

Locked in a foyer

Wardrobe cull

Fugazi

Master do-to list gets done

In progress.

2010-05-15T15:05:00.002+10:00

24 Years Old.

The clay is hardening. I check for change most mornings and I shift carefully, so it doesn’t set. The others around me; their foreheads are shiny and their bodies are greasy, new and indent with ease. They change slowly and find life less tiring.

It happened at a party. I had been talking, I was standing in the round, laughing. Then, I saw him kiss another.

I said, ‘My face is caving in’ and those around me looked and quickly caught the falling pieces of my cheek in their palms. It was winter and everyone was covered in wool. My bone, crumbs on their sleeves.

They all peered at me.

“Where do you want me to put your...face?.... Harriet?” one said, holding the largest part of me.

“Maybe you shouldn’t say anything. You look very loose. How are we going to hold you together?”

“Does she need to sit down?”

“Is he still kissing her?” I said.

“Oh, Harriet! Is this what’s going to happen every time? Yes. Just let him go!”

I can tell you I am...

2010-04-11T13:02:00.001+10:00

- Rather compulsive by nature.
- Going to show the organism whose the boss. Apparently I’ll be very good at it.
- Fond of lap swimming.
- Deeply rooted in my earth, others have been known to call this loner syndrome.
- Subconsciously disturbed and it is all David Cronemberg’s fault.
- Very insistent on beauty.

Life Altering Quotations

2010-03-25T14:28:00.000+11:00

"Kraft was a skinny, harmless kid from Pennsylvania who wanted to be liked, and was destined to be disappointed in even so humble and degrading an ambition” pg 62 - from Catch 22 by Joseph Heller

Response to Little One, PS it's Ok and Erise

2009-11-26T20:14:00.005+11:00

NOVEMBER

Skipping Lord Brunchington’s for a fight
The Convent
Finding The Vorticist
Saturday Afternoon Heartbreak
Good sex
Bad party
Talk of rape in Collingwood
Tears on my nokia
Housecleaning with the Go-Between’s
Watching amazing Street Cricket whist making the bed
Pending house inspection
Performing with half a heart
Laughter with Zoe Rotthier
Cocktails and Hungry Jacks
Hugs from Steve
6am cab ride to work
New arrangement isn’t working
Glen reunion
Cara reunion
Peter Stuyvesant Blue in a pouch
First time at 1000£Bend
Free Slurpie Day
Park after dark
Fitzroy Pash
Gentleman walks me home, you don’t come home.
A German visitor sleeps on the couch
EnRoute through Melbourne with $2, an iPod, Chalk and Rilke
Getting Stoned
You come home for a shower and stay
My appointment with Jason
Admitting a little bit of me has died
His amazing smile
ROYAL BLUE FOREVER!
Piking on a date
Organic white wine, one whole bottle and no hangover
Threatening to walk in front of a truck
Comedy in Northcote with psychic children
BootCamp
Seeing my Grandmother for the first time in 13 years
Dark chocolate ice cream sandwiches
Summer Challenges
The Date
Lots of love left for my friends
Hot Bitches with full tummies embrace at the Grace
Cut lunches
Betrayal and more heartache
Unrequited love
Not believing a thing Bob Dylan says and moving on....to Billy Bragg
Day drunk
Cut and Dry
The apocalypse starts on my first coffee date with BHC
Getting refused service at Ding Dong
Sharing the Beyonce love
Outfit suggestions via text message
Moonbeam and I walking on the same wire
I WANT TO CUT HIS COCK OFF!

SUMMER PROJECTS!

2009-11-15T12:46:00.001+11:00

Thanks to Elise, I am inspired. This summer will be PACKED!
I shall wreck of buzz words such as: PROMISE, PRODUCTION and PRO-ACTIVITY.
So, everyone out there: Send me a SUMMER PROJECT!

So far:
Write a sonnet by my birthday (31st of January)

Write a series of poems set to a theme: Summer of course!

NEW ADDITION, to read "Infinite Jest"

MY LIST FOR IMPROVEMENT

2009-09-25T21:36:00.002+10:00

- Regular exercise
My disposition should not be ignored.

- Stridency
Be hard or go home.

- Drive myself insane
In order to attain a certain level of self gratification; I have not successfully achieved with hair cuts, expensive clothing purchases and the like. It is time to get results.

- Be consumed
My preference will be with the self and not the other, as the latter is proving to only result in heart ache.

All Poets are Afraid of Sex

2009-09-06T18:38:00.003+10:00

SHE dressed sexy for her first meeting with The Poet.
It was alright, she felt, having been told once by a young man buying Murakami in the Brunswick Street Bookstore that “All poets are afraid of sex”.

Standing in wait for the number 19 tram SHE received a text message from a Philosopher, who was riding past on the tram going in the opposite direction. He said SHE looked like a circus performer. Perfect. SHE thought.

Upon her arrival in Brunswick, which was really Coburg, but SHE decided not to mention this to The Poet as it might hurt his feelings. SHE was greeted by an oversized stuffed bear beached in the driveway of his home. In a fit of violence someone has taken a knife to its belly and its stuffing bled down to the footpath.
What a contradiction to witness the crime scene of an inanimate object. SHE felt it to be a very disconcerting beginning to the relationship with The Poet.

Nevertheless SHE rang the doorbell and The Poet answered the door with toast crumbs covering much of his face. SHE felt he may be quite partial to cream cheese in the morning as apposed to the afternoon, when most people would eat cream cheese. Or was SHE was getting confused with soar cream? Either way it certainly wasn’t shaving cream that glued the crumbs to his face.

The Poet’s house was not what SHE expected. SHE thought he would own a lot wood, that his house would smell of beeswax and he would socialise only with cups of peppermint tea and gum trees. But alas SHE found he much preferred to move in the circles of Milo, racing car bed spreads and carpet stains.

Well, if dreams where reality SHE would spend a lifetime swallowing her yawns.

So SHE stood in the kitchen with the couple. The Poet and the toast crumbs. What riveting conversations awaited her? SHE knew SHE would spend a lot of time scratching her face and talking about people with celiac disease. The distraction would be like quick sand, slowly sucking her ability to converse down the into the lino floor.
SHE felt the need to distract herself from the mess on his face or for him to at lease introduce her to the crumbs. Maybe she should have bought a hula-hoop with her and proceeded to spend the morning performing useless tricks in the hope it would make The Poet laugh heartily enough to shake the crumbs to the kitchen floor.
Instead SHE said, you have something on your face. The Poet replied. Oh…err. Thanks for saying so! It says a lot about the type of person you are.
SCORE, she whispered.

The Poets kitchen was large, one might even say abnormally so. SHE, again, was disappointed by this. How was SHE to have awkward flirtatious conversation with The Poet when they may as well have been standing on opposite sides of a railway line?
The Poet held up a variety of tea bags.
Although SHE had exceptional vision and had on numerous occasions been told by her optometrist SHE could be a fighter pilot, SHE was simply too far away from The Poet to distinguish between the bags draping his fingers.
SHE would have to admit that she couldn’t make out the labels. How mortifying.
The Poet did not seem interested in the tea bags at all and threw them into the sink in exchange for a giant tin of Milo.

The Poet wanted to make his guest a glass of Milo?

Suddenly it all became clear to her. Was The Poet was attempting to make himself unattractive? Did he want to repel her? SHE stood brewing, how could a milk moustache possibly be endearing at this point in the relationship?

Tea would have been preferable. Tea spoons, sugar cubes are visually sensual aids that SHE was convinced would entrance The Poet. For goodness sakes just take a minute to think about a bubbling kettle of steaming water being ever so slowly poured into a shapely teapot. Tea parties the little known aphrodisiac.

SHE kept referring to "The relationship”. SHE kept thinking about what he must think about her? SHE was being a self obsessed nobody. Sure SHE could walk out of the house thinking he was some sort of frigid socially awkward beast. But really SHE was the one wearing hot pants at 10am on a Wednesday morning.

But wasn’t he intrigued? Her interest, her gentle prodding emails to meet The Poet. The numerous evenings she spent at work, well after dark discussing her growing fascination with Kevin the Security guard. Did this not come across?

Are all poets really afraid of sex?

SHE needs to be educated on the stereotype of The Poet.

Please direct your imagination to Exhibit A: The Poet.

You will notice in his natural habitat he permits himself higher doses of stimulants generally in the form of coffee. The highly caffeinated artist feels comfortable amongst the presence of symptoms such as dilated pupils, bad breath and the irregular openings of the sweat glands when no physical exertion has been performed.
Completely reliant upon sensory experience The Poet will rarely be seen in footwear and is of the attitude cold weather is good for the disposition.

Thus it is fair that SHE assumed the want of body heat would be of great importance to The Poet.

The Poet, in his highly creative prime will generally develop colour blindness, thus as you may observe the bright purple pants are a mistake and The Poet actually believes he is melding beautifully with the autumn colours of his neighbourhood, sporting a handsome olive green.

SHE will leave The Poets house in Brunswick which is really Coburg with a heavy heart.
This is due to her failure to understand the page and the person are always vastly different.

2009-09-05T16:46:00.003+10:00

Where Are You Tonight? (Journey Through Dark Heat) By Bob Dylan

I am so obsessed with this song, I can't stop listening to it and just look at the lyrics!? They are incredible!

There's a long-distance train rolling through the rain, tears on the letter I write.
There's a woman I long to touch and I miss her so much but she's drifting like asatellite.
There's a neon light ablaze in this green smoky haze, laughter down onElizabeth StreetAnd a lonesome bell tone in that valley of stone where she bathed in a stream of pureheat. Her father would emphasize you got to be more than street-wise but he practicedwhat he preached from the heart.A full-blooded Cherokee, he predicted to me the time and the place that the trouble would start.
There's a babe in the arms of a woman in a rageAnd a longtime golden-haired stripper onstageAnd she winds back the clock and she turns back the page of a book that no one can write.
Oh, where are you tonight?

The truth was obscure, too profound and too pure, to live it you have to explode.*
In that last hour of need, we entirely agreed, sacrifice was the code of the road.I left town at dawn, with Marcel and St. John, strong men belittled by doubt.
I couldn't tell her what my private thoughts were but she had some way of finding
them out. He took dead-center aim but he missed just the same, she was waiting,putting flowers on the shelf.
She could feel my despair as I climbed up her hair and discovered her invisible self.*
There's a lion in the road, there's a demon escaped,There's a million dreams gone, there's a landscape being raped,As her beauty fades and I watch her undrape,I won't, but then again, maybe I might.
Oh, if I could just find you tonight.
I fought with my twin, that enemy within, 'til both of us fell by the way.Horseplay and disease is killing me by degrees while the law looks the other way.Your partners in crime hit me up for nickels and dimes, the guy you were lovin'couldn't stay clean.It felt outa place, my foot in his face, but he should-a stayed where his money wasgreen.
I bit into the root of forbidden fruit with the juice running down my leg.*
Then I dealt with your boss, who'd never known about loss and who
always wastoo proud to beg.There's a white diamond gloom on the dark side of this room and a pathway that leadsup to the stars.If you don't believe there's a price for this sweet paradise, remind me to show you thescars.
There's a new day at dawn and I've finally arrived.If I'm there in the morning, baby, you'll know I've survived.I can't believe it, I can't believe I'm alive,But without you it just doesn't seem right.
Oh, where are you tonight?

*AMAZING!

Feedback, please.

2009-08-20T13:38:00.006+10:00

Dear Readers,

If you are out there, gimme some feedback on this.

Bare stage, centre and downstage is a large free standing bathtub.
The tub is full of water.
Inside bathtub are two men. They are fully clothed.
On the floor next to the tub are several bars of soap, a wash cloth, a scrubbing brush and some industrial bleach.

MAN ONE: Slow, it was all very slow and measured and the tones of all their voices were similar/

MAN TWO: (So…)They’d spent a lot of time together?

The intonation was very pleasing to them, as when people like the same colour. They had chosen a pitch and stuck with it.

It bothered me slightly,/

Bothered you?

….In the showers amongst the steam. Were they meant to be uniform?

Like the birds that shriek and never chew, just swallow?

Scrunching up his nose They sneaked, as if performing exercises that would better define their shadows. I did not watch, rather I ogled as they rubbed one another’s backs, soap and foam creating marbled ripples on naked bodies. Stands and becomes physically involved in the descriptions
They were proud; proud of themselves and of each other.
It is funny the way they grabbed at their flesh, as if to make sure the brilliance of their composition is real. Not a mirage.

Was there a leader?

Shaking his head They were so slow, so slow I could barely make out their faces.

Are you having a dream? Maybe you are talking in your sleep and I am simply here to note everything down, for later.

Batting away the questions with hands Why can’t I move the bar of soap over my body as they do? I am too fast, too repetitive.
I cannot form ripples.
I cannot form.
I am not part of them.

With this toothbrush I wish I could glide across my crooked dental structure and make the shapes they do, in the showers, amongst the steam….

You already said that!

What?

You already said that, at the beginning. About the shower and the bodies and the steam. We already know.

Who is ‘we’?

Us?

Don’t snap at me. We seem to be stuck here together.

Yes, I am here next to you, listening to you. I have been responding? All this interrogation, this whole conversation is a bit tiresome, don’t you think? And the water, it’s gotten cold.

I just want to be like the people in the showers, I want to be able to move and form a whole as they do.
I cannot form./

A whole? If everyone felt whole there would be no yearning, no…effort? Can you think?
I mean, really place a fine tooth comb back over your life to a time when you were really persistent?
You just didn’t give up.
I find that I persisted with people, with friends, lovers.
Something so complicated, somehow becomes a tangible, attractive a pursuit. Not like the future.
That loams over ones head, heavy and different and angry.
Angry because it thinks you will splinter its smooth surface with mistakes and tangents.

But, for me to persist is just to watch?

Silence

Oh, you bore me.
So these people, these figures are they sexy?

They’re beautiful.

Sexy?

Perfect.

Sexy, isn’t perfect. On this line, Man 2 turns away from Man 1, resting his chin on the edge of the tub.

What were they doing? What were you doing? Did they notice you watching? Do you like the feeling of being watched?

pause

Do you? Turning around again Man 2 stares at Man 1. Their faces are now incredibly close to one another. It should be visually clear to the audience that Man 2 is making Man 1 uncomfortable.
Man 2 quickly bores of the uncomfortable situation he creates and breaks the stare.

So watching them; is that like having a shower and watching television at the same time? Or reading porn on a tightrope?

What?

I am just raising the stakes. Distracting us, I can tell we are both going to end up with a cold or worse a chill. Your lips are blue, not as blue as your eyes. More like the blue of the ocean on a cold day, when it has nothing to offer you. Would you like to see? Your lips? I can find a mirror..../

The ceiling isn’t very high. Don’t bother with…You shouldn’t even be here. What if they come back? I am trying to keep a low profile. I could be a crack in a tile. I could just keep watching. I don’t have to stop….I won’t stop.

Is watching enough?

What else is there?

You just want to live vicariously through others?

Stop asking questions!

Okay, I am going to stay and watch. THAT.... was a statement.

Statement?

Now, you are asking the questions. I am going to stay and see what all the bloody fuss is about.

Standing up Do you think, wet clinging clothing makes you more appealing? Perhaps the ripples of the clothing could be mistaken for muscular definition?

PFFT!

Well, the heaviness. It could make me slow, tranquil.

STOP!…shhh

They are both at once motionless and silent.

What are we listening to?

The lapping...You must feel calmer now?

Man 1 remains silent

Cover your eyes

Man 1 obeys the command

Perhaps when you open your eyes. I can be interesting to watch? This will merely help us to pass the time. Till they come back. I can take off my clothes. You can practice. Watching me?

Still with his eyes covered I’ll watch you; but please don’t take your clothes off.

What? The movement in the water, as I remove my pants? Are you afraid it will give you motion sickness!? I’ll be slow, careful.

No….motion sickness!? Shaking his head, eyes still covered by his hands No, I am far too discerning to see you naked.

You could never be as slow as they are.

I am not relating to you very well. And while I’m at it, people should always answer a question.

Man 1 removes his hands from his face, so he may see again You don’t even know me.

Man 2 splashes water at Man 1’s face.

Don’t sulk, you’ll change shape. You will be bulky and cumbersome and there will be no where to put you. Nobody likes a waste of space.

What are you? A little man from God? Fuck you!

Something is taking form within you and I don’t like it. You are lively. I don’t like it. Do you want to watch or not?/

What would you like to say to them? What should we say to them?

“Serve me love, like a knight. But be sure to use a sharp knife. Be pensive, not encouraging”…. I find enthusiasm for life, repulsive. Man 1 lets out a large exhale ‘sigh’…My expectations will flounder, won’t they?

Something is Illuminating within ourselves… we’re having a simultaneous premonition.

But we’re both wrong…

Nodding…And now our bulbs burn brighter.

Man One reaches over the side of the tub and grabs a hooded jumper lying on the floor, he puts it on, pulling the hood up onto his head.

Take off that hood!

There’s no point, fruitfulness has moved to my periphery and I’d rather forget it's even there. They are NEVER coming back!

It is terribly dangerous, especially for one whose wish to see and not be seen.

At least the danger gives me a little thrill

You’ve just got too much time.

Yes, I find I write ‘To Do’ lists when I’m unoccupied. You should see my dairy, its full of them, it is embarrassing.

Just think of the state of your memoirs....

Conversation Over Breakfast

2009-07-31T18:56:00.000+10:00

Mr: You are not yourself.

Sir: Which self is lacking?

Mr: What? You’re very distance; it’s as if you’ve been dislodged.

Sir: I have relocated recently.

Mr: Your inner monologue is a dreadful bore, it’s so....need it now!

Sir: What’s wrong with a sense of urgency? I’ll be damned if I care whether it is all about consumerism or not! I’m a doer!

Mr: I tell you....you are NOT yourself at the moment

Life Changing.

2009-07-03T19:57:00.001+10:00

Sir: ENDORPHINS! Have changed our lives.

Mr: I always forget. But we are very different now.

Sir: Trust me. I suggest if you aren’t aware of any difference and/or change in countenance, to follow suit anyway.

Mr: Is feedback welcome?

Sir: It’s encouraged!

Mr: I have an example!

Sir: Excellent.

Mr: If we stood behind lead light as the sun shone through the glass, our hearts would glow.

Sir: No bleeding here!

Mr: We haven’t cried in months.

Sir: HA! There you go... some evidence.

Mr: We read differently.

Sir: AND! More importantly we are read differently. Others are able to insert commas and breathe at the sight of us!

Mr: It is the unless, limp, unhealthy heart/

Sir: That drips grimy sugar blood. All that instant gratification...

Mr: Makes them thick in the head, they ply themselves with a cardboard insulation/

Sir: I’ve seen it!

Mr: A bulky eyesore to the clear brainers. They have no space to think.

Sir: We walk on clouds.

Mr: But, you know people do look excellent hung-over.

Sir: Only for one day! Endorphins, have changed our lives.

Sticking To Your Guns

2009-07-03T19:19:00.001+10:00

Plans. Yes. Plans.

Make time.

Plans?

Make time!

P....p...plans...?

Make, time...!

(have)....Plans?

Make....TIME!

Ihaveplans.

(and) TIME.

Stolen Goods

2009-06-08T19:33:00.002+10:00

I think I have stolen this Good Mood?

Perhaps.

Is it because I don’t put my head down when I am walking? At the moment

anyway.

Tomorrow will it

be at the bottom of my bag

bent?

People don't take care of things they find or...

...steal.

I was in a rush and then I forgot about it

and slowed down...

...and

was late.

I am early when I am nervous and history is proving that my nerves are relaxed

these days.

I seem to have collected it somewhere between here, right here

and six years into the future, that’s what I am thinking about, whilst being late and slowing down

and picking up

The Good Mood.

Collecting it and smiling about change that I don’t have to deal with...

...for at least four of the next six years.

THAT’s

when I started to walk,

slowly.

I dwell in a tunnel.

I saw some of myself today, just a little.

A bit. Of myself.

I admit this in the tunnel because there are no

shadows.

It is dark so

i can’t stare at the good bits.

Angles above the eye, but below the eyebrow,

the cheek bone.

The places that cast shadow and I always enjoy

these bits

of Me.

I saw a bit

just a bit

of me today, across a table, not ominous... but

...with a much faster heartbeat.

No point dwelling.

It will only make me

more late.

Tomorrow

I’ll think it was...

...healthy.

To have

just a quick slip in and out of the body

mindful

not to stretch it and

loose its shape.

Rambling Draft

2009-06-07T11:55:00.001+10:00

Voice One: Stitch up your sides!
Voice Two: STITCH!
Voice Three: KNIT!
ALL: MEND!
Voice One: Sit in the gutter with your needle work
Voice Three: It’s been exciting that’s for sure.
Voice Two: We’ve burst the seams/
Voice One: You’ve burst the seams?
Voice Three: THE SEAMS HAVE BURST!
Voice Two: Souls spilling...
Voice One: Watch!
Voice Two: Everywhere/
Voice One: like oily puddles in the supermarket car park.
Voice Three: They’ve been crying.
Voice One: We all cried.
Voice Two: It is true that those who burst shed tears.
Voice Three: Eyes are tired from crying/
Voice One: Eyes are glazed and shine like the inside of a foil wrapper.
Voice Two: The wrapper of a chocolate bar/
Voice One: in the hands of the boy in the car park/
Voice Three: he didn’t have to cry/
Voice Two: this time round/
Voice One: he walked out of the automatic doors, sweet in hand.
Voice Three: His blood like ours is thick and greasy.
Voice One: He holds it in.
Voice Two: Holds it in?
Voice Three: He has not burst.
ALL: MEND!
Voice Two: They don’t want to sit in the gutter.
Voice Three: We can’t have people spilling everywhere.
Voice One: My eyes are sore/
Voice Three: It’s the glare, the reflection.
Voice One: The Soul is bright/
Voice Three: It is very bright.
ALL: MEND!
Voice Two: Stitch up the sides.
Voice One: Everyone has an acquaintance good at handy work.
Voice Three: Everyone knows a mother.
Voice Two: Are Mother’s good at handy work?
Voice Three: It all depends on whether or not the wounded are students.
Voice One: Why?
Voice Three: Because you have better social skills if you’re learning...
Voice Two: What if you’ve already learnt? What if you have finished learning?
Voice One: The students, they cultivate conversation/
Voice Three: study is social.
Voice One: Haven’t you noticed/
Voice Three: That you aren’t very good at making conversation anymore?
Voice Three: Everyone always talks about the same thing.
Voice One: The eternal monologue, It’s a bore....
Voice Two: Surely the spilling, the leak with be a good conversation starter
Voice One: I just want a clean line; I want rows of them in the gutter, mending themselves.
Voice Three: We should all take care
Voice Two: We are very precious
ALL: MEND!

Words Of Wisdom

2009-05-15T18:05:00.002+10:00

I was in dire need of this mantra...

"I expect nothing of this conversation but our mutual entertainment"

Booze

2009-04-22T08:50:00.001+10:00

After a bottle of sparkling
fine bubbles,
zesty and plucking my strand of decorum, frayed.
Pink, flushed skin like sandpaper,
cries to clean sheets as they try to recall a suppleness.

It will be windy in my dreams tonight.
A tacky mouth
is the window shutter snapping openshut,
the sloppy tongue
lathered thick with the white paste of truth,
foul smelling.

A lie is like a garden rose, fresh and transient,
you’ll remember it.
The truth, like manure will help you grow.

In Magazine Moods

2009-04-08T23:28:00.001+10:00

In magazine moods
you can read and understand everything.
It is illuminating, I enjoy saying that word so much and it makes me think of Lee in Secretary.
So,
I’ll sing myself to sleep with these five syllables and wish you would leave me a tape on my dining room table for when I am in moods such as these.
Record on both sides with a complete breakdown of everything you think, in general, up to this very point in time.
It should be so to the point that it will be at once frustrating and painful to press stop and “deliver the goods” to my wooden table.

Oh dear…
I am feeling capable of clarity and that translates to me having another shot at contemplating what is going ON.

So,
we weren’t on a desert island, starved of choice.
There wasn’t to be any primitive lust manifesting itself as we sat on the couch and surely if such explosions were to take place, hindsight would reveal that it tasted exactly the same as everything that ever come before it, how empty. To be avoided.
But!
Our habitat was plush and conversations got built. Oh!
They were mighty and tough and they grew and we climbed them in an evening.

IT WAS PLAIN WONDERFUL.

In the past you would have pretended certain discussions were like a running tap and we SHOULDN’T WASTE WATER!
TURN IT OFF! You’d say.
It would leave me to make do with washing our wounds in some tepid muck.

I know that my magazine mood could be far better spent reading a newspaper. It pays to be well informed!
But!
I won’t be pretending that I don’t murmur about us to myself, please don’t either.
This wound isn’t attached to you or me, but we are standing and watching it,
The Weeping, Gaping Wound. The imagery is a poor choice I know, but we aren’t dressing it and would we exist if we did?
We spray beauteous perfume in its general direction and then we snatch at each others lips and pretend our tongues don’t grow longer from reaching and we pinch each other skin closer.
Then,
we let go and are a little baggier than before and we exercise distance and it is instantly strange.
But WE have willed it so.

Conversations in Reflection

2009-04-08T18:01:00.001+10:00

Lately I have been snarling at my reflection.
One should be careful otherwise they end up eating their own tongue.
That’s NO fun!
Certainly not for the likes of you…
I think I look furry.
Perhaps you’re slowly becoming your animal totem?
I think that would make me rather proud.
Well at least use it to pounce, prowl and perhaps
Puncture some incomplete assumptions!
How can an assumption be incomplete?
If it lingers and lets you hover over reality as if it’s
Pending?
Exactly.
Well, then this is Perrrfect.

In My Dream

2009-04-07T16:39:00.002+10:00

I dreamt of growth
it was taller and more empowering than even your stature.
You are Ease, visually speaking and my dream reflected this perfectly.
In your bedroom there is so much wood, still breathing the soft hum of life
just happening.

Through the window just above your bed
a gum tree branch hangs in
and stays permanently for a chat.
You let its limp limbs stretch out and rest on a pillow.
Does everything in here elongate?

You imprinted my fingers with eucalyptus and trusted me to make you a cup of tea and I forewarned that these things come down to chance.

My mouth just spluttered out
crumbs
with the timing of garden sprinkler.
I’d rehearsed everything I said and it sounded stale.

But in this room
your room, I tasted change.

My passageways are clear and you will shortly cease to be just an idea.

Relaxed

2009-03-25T15:23:00.002+11:00

I’d sucked hard on the disappointment, like you do with nutshells after a particularly good meal.

I know I tend to exaggerate the size of my heart but I don’t let that stop me from going about my business. I’ve held a ticker tape parade in the name of excitement every day of my life.
If I run out of coloured paper and will rely on spirit fingers and the prickled strains of my hair in the wind.

Drive fast! I say so the colours blend and the world is given to you in a different combination.

We had the perfect combination; first relaxed attitudes and then all the trimmings; freshly brushed teeth, rain, a spotlight and a slow dance. In the moment I felt we didn’t need to be as big as we were, seeing as we weren’t trying to prove anything or play a role.

And…

we were rewarded with an emptied mind that let in the jangle of life just happening.

These additions had they not been there, gleaming and reflecting in the pavement, we would not have ordered them.

We were enough.

Change-Version 2

2009-03-23T21:07:00.002+11:00

Desperate and armed only with a sandwich board advertising: AUTHENTIC SELF EXPRESSION. I roam the streets in the hope you’d see and it will strengthen my enthusiasm and hopefully restore the circulation in your arm, for I have been squeezing you too tightly. My only instructions will be to scrape it straight off my tongue and serve it immediately.

It is all in the mind and I could run away with the future and even though it hasn’t happened the arches of my feet grow higher, I am lifted.
I acquire some extra hands; no doubt these will only encourage my compulsion to gorge. Let’s hope they are put to good use. Twenty fingers now to swear with, to cross my heart.

All these changes, I can’t see yet. But it makes me forget the pace of my breath and the blister between my toes.

Tonight, I will lie down next to you at a party and watch the clouds, brainstorming the identity behind their shapes. I’ll be the first to say what has been on my tongue since this morning, “That one looks like us”.

Change

2009-03-23T14:47:00.002+11:00

Today
I awoke to find the arches of my feet have grown.
I am lifted, higher.
With this new found height I will sidestep down the street wearing only a sandwich board, displaying: AUTHENTIC SELF EXPRESSION. To be scraped off my tongue and served immediately.

I have acquired some extra hands, four or so. They are restless and tangle with anticipation for use. Has my body adapted to my compulsion to gorge? Fucking oath!
They should be put to good use, I will swear with all four. Twenty fingers, to pat my belly and settle me.

I am all change, recent and unfamiliar. There is no expression in pieces. I would perfer to look, lived in.

Tonight
I will lie down next to you at a party and watch the clouds, brainstorming the identity behind their shapes. I’ll be the first to say what has been on my tongue since this morning, “That one looks like us”.

Sitting At The Counter

2009-03-15T10:48:00.002+11:00

Close up.

The lips are flat, but brightly coloured. Soon they will purse together or be licked. Then they will inflate and glisten.

Lick.

The faint smell of sour milk, morning mouth and aged breath. The mouth is waxed and there is the memory of waking and of sleeping limbs made new with sex.

A goal.

Thought about but not spoken or written down. It is dressed up, but looks dull to the mind.

It is taking effort today to knead possibility into dough, to bake it and serve it this evening.

INSTRUCTIONS-Version 2

2009-03-12T16:59:00.002+11:00

The furnace of the heart is fickle. It can burn through attraction faster than a match stick.
The well trained point the flame in the right direction, to keep it lit.
It is important to remember a bad mood will mean possibility no longer exists; everything becomes predictable.
Excitement really does use a lot of gas.
As someone once told me, if you say a word too many times, it no longer makes sense. The same goes for questions.
Do I want it? Can I have it? Do I want it? Can I have it? Do I want it? Can I have it?
At very least, be discerning.
Understand the palette,
know what tastes good and what ‘gets’ you.

orginally posted December, 2007

Me

2009-03-11T21:24:00.001+11:00

On the bus at night, the lighting does nothing to help the glassy nature of blue eyes. So, when you see me you will think I am terribly sad.
This isn’t the case, my moods are stable. If I were I showerhead, I’d be the proudest in the street.
Never. Ever. Dripping.
You either turn me on or off.

If you saw me in the morning, the kind where the clouds start to blush red at 8 o’clock and you know it is going to be a scorcher, a fierce day. I’ll encourage this feeling.
As you step on the bus, I’ll be the sharpest point, defined. Not a hue, a colour!
You’ll think…she’s burning.

I prefer this. Please get on my bus in the morning.

A partnership with Intent.

2009-03-08T12:11:00.000+11:00

I ate you a second time and I wonder, why? I thought about your sexy dream with a monster in the back of a taxi and I wanted to write a story about it. I don’t think you should read too much into situations because decision making is often, empty. How annoying to kiss with a blank mind, it does nothing for my aspirations to become a romantic. Lately ‘romantic’ has only been used in negative context in my company. My feet were traced the other day; it is so delightful to be the witness to purpose, to be in a partnership with intent. Maybe I will concentrate on being me in my dream within a dream within a dream where I have children and I love them very much.

Not Tonight-edit

2009-03-06T16:08:00.003+11:00

I don’t want to look at you
there is no enjoyment in it today and that is what we’re here for; we’re in the bar for each other?
I love to look
no to stare. Last time we went to a concert, we witnessed a visual masterpiece. Everyone shut their eyes, lids down in respect for the sound.

Sitting next to you I notice I am swallowing more than usual
it’s a quick fix for a dry mouth.
The shadows you create make me want to panic. You are angular, like gaudy jewellery screaming but making no sense. I gulp my beer to wet the whistle and thicken the blood.

Your gesticulation is out of control, you cup your hands over your mouth and you hold the back of your head. Are your thoughts heavier this month? I want to offer you a cup of tea, but it will just make your face red.

Edging closer to make sure you’re alright I notice you’re wheezing.
In your lap is a heavy beating mass.
Your heart. And
you can’t hold it
can’t handle the weight.

Real and Stolen Conversations....

2009-03-02T14:32:00.006+11:00

Meeting

- Hey! How’s it going?
- Crap, I just spend the morning with a moody fuckwit. It’s made me irritable. Everything is suddenly irritating. Especially when people end sentences with a preposition.
- What?
- An example being someone just asked me “Where’s the library at?"
- HA!
- I’ll get over it.

Text Message Discussion

- Have you heard from him since shit Thursday?

- Nope. Nothing.

- Is he dead to us?

- YES!

Stolen One

- Woah! That's a fucking huge bruise you’ve got there.
- I feel off a horse and it ran over my leg.
- Ouch! First time rider?
-No, I was cocky and requested one with lots of “go” .
- Oh...you hedonist you.

No good at it...

2009-02-27T12:52:00.009+11:00

I can’t roll cigarettes very well.
My hands get too moist from nerves of light splintering and sparking in my mental space.
It’s distracting the hue is strong and it crowds me.
Don’t get the wrong impression; they’re not clammy, just sensitive.
It takes me by surprise; I never remember the way things are;
it took me a long time to remember that a kiss is soft.
Lips are not a hard surface.

Perhaps I have found myself in tune with the earth
with the shaking of a civilisation yet to come
their fists flagging within me a reminder of,
POTENTIAL.

So, I thought about my crumpled paper, post roll when you smiled the other night.
It’s noticeable now you’re getting on,
wrinkles
fine ripples like the ones between my sweaty fingers, sittting just above the cheek bone accentuated by
The Grin. The genius invention,
the mouth is my souvenir of humanity.
They are not lines fit for a piece of origami. Although I am rather fond of the way they fan in a semi circle.

So, the other night you stared and I shook.
You’re a pretty straight shooter.
You don't have pending history beneath you, rather you wear it in its tattered glory
leather splitting at the sides.
God damn I want a steady hand,
If I had a cigarette I’d have something to do, as it seems, we don’t really have much to talk about. You're lucky pal...that age often equals character. I've got nothing on you...no specfics to dirty the lens.
What is the internal civilisation trying to tell me?

Is there something interesting happening between you and me?

Hopeless Romantic

2009-02-22T10:50:00.003+11:00

Your relationship with someone is 90% in your own head. On a good day, say 75%, leaving 25% for dynamic conversation and good sex.

It would be so much easier if we could just strip the skin.
Scrap it and intertwine bones. Because when you get that deep noises can’t lie.

Bone on bone is hot, primeval…
The noises we'd make would be nice and loud and drown out the tactless twang of the voices in our heads.

There’s no effort in romance because you’re in a sense wining and dining yourself. You choose your own underwear, you check yourself out in the mirror before and after a shower. You think about them the way you like.

Bones in Bed

2009-02-21T13:30:00.001+11:00

Last time we laid down together I could feel our rib cages intertwine. Our bones had never touched before. The noise was tactless, a twang that made us both grin.

I kept looking at you and you asked me What do you know?
I knew then and there that people are the most beautiful when they smile.

Mouth

2009-02-14T21:31:00.001+11:00

I like to supply myself with a diluted sensibility.
I find it comforting to know I can get as wet as I want.
Consider my surprise when I awoke to find myself strapped for time and dripping.

I wasn’t making something out of nothing, the mirror reinforced I was soaked through.
I’d slipped and fallen in.

I didn’t splash?
A SPLASH: it sounds far too good for how this felt. A splash is clean and pleasant looking.
I smashed!
A SMASH: it may look good, but it sounds horrible.

***

I am very wet and all I can think about is your mouth and I keep listening to the song you lip-synced two lines of in front of me.

Have I fully realised the significance of the mouth? Well, let’s not kid ourselves, your mouth. Yours isn’t like what I imagine Mrs Darlings to be, a hue soft and graceful hovering over her face.
Yours doesn't need to glow, you know it’s there and words curl out of it beautifully. They are words free to move because they are shaped with purpose.

Your mouth. I want it.

The movement, your lips are shifting my sensibility. Just like the day when my brother’s voice broke. Everything is a lower register, a thicker consistency, a longer beat.

Definition

2009-02-14T12:38:00.000+11:00

pur⋅vey⋅or
1.
a person who purveys, provides, or supplies: a purveyor of foods; a purveyor of lies.
2.
Old English Law. an officer who provided or acquired provisions for the sovereign under the prerogative of purveyance.

The Situation

2009-02-13T11:48:00.004+11:00

DON'T SAY NO.
Nope-pa it’s got to be yes.

GET EMPTY.
Attention: To all hoarders, you can not expect to survive in such circumstantial circumstances.

PLEASE KEEP CALM.
Life as a vessel will make everything more tangible, right?

CASE IN POINT.
I went to a party; I didn’t eat dinner to get myself in the mood, because you require that hungry feeling. I could feel missing out hiss out of the cushion as I sat down, away from everyone. My eyelashes scratched the air as I closed my eyes.
Just as young children don’t like bath time; I don’t want to stop watching.
In the dark I am taller, I’m my shadow.
The darkness is useless to me.
I've learnt to never trust the line: "I'm not going anywhere".

SEIZE THE DAY.
I guess…

Sound is Essential When Reading

2009-01-29T19:30:00.001+11:00

I always say you don’t chose who you like. I say to myself, mostly. So the reunion, because it felt like a lot of time had passed, was a slack rubber band.

I love rubber bands, the thick red ones that encourage gusto and bravado. They hurt and the pain reminds you of how well they work.

I would like to take this opportunity to ask something of my existence:

Me: I would like to hear a snap!
Existence: A thud? Or similar to when something breaks?
Me: No! More like fingers, a good dry click. A firm sound, a strong noise.
Existence: Would you like it to hurt?
Me: Yes, it feels good when you know something works.

Curious-version 2

2009-01-18T09:46:00.002+11:00

I can’t handle it any longer.
There is no room left in my head.
I am not the vessel I wish I was.
Q: “Are there any openings here for a voyeur?”
A: NO!

I form into oil, spilling down the smooth hips of a porcelain wash basin. My greasy intent falling forwards towards the plug hole in the hope I may float above your existence.
I place an ear against its rippling surface to hear the thin, distorted conversations in your head. There is just too much fluid around the brain.
“Its times like this one wishes for a dry sense of humour”.

* * *

I couldn’t handle it any longer, so I carved out my curiosity about you.
It wasn’t a surprise it was solid wood and the sawdust was love.
All I could count on for varnish was a clammy disposition. I nicked myself upon the angles I couldn’t see.

“You see”… the manifestation of a mystery is, just as confusing.
I just allowed it to be larger, uglier. Pock marked with embarrassing fantasies, manipulated by a selective memory. My wonder of you is a beast.
It heaves like the collective sigh of a Monday morning train carriage…“Here we go again”.

2009-01-11T10:16:00.003+11:00

Them: So, why is he moving interstate?

Me: Because, where he’s going there is less surface area to be depressed.

Us: Scoff!

Curious

2009-01-10T13:33:00.000+11:00

I can’t handle it any longer.
There is no room left in my head.
I am not the vessel I wish I was.
Are there any openings here for a voyeur? NO!

I am the oil spilling down the smooth hips of a porcelain wash basin. Falling forward towards the plug hole in the hope I may float above your conversations. I place an ear against the rippling surface to hear the thin, distorted conversations in your head. There is too much fluid around the brain. Its times like this one wishes for a dry sense of humour.

I couldn’t handle it any longer, so I carved out my curiosity about you.
It was solid wood and the sawdust was love.
All I could count on for varnish was a clammy disposition. I nicked myself upon angles I couldn’t see.

You see… the manifestation of a mystery is, just as confusing. I just allowed it to be larger, uglier. Pock marked with embarrassing fantasies, manipulated by a selective memory. My wonder of you is a beast.
It heaves like the collective sigh of a Monday morning train carriage. Here we go again.

2008-12-22T19:14:00.000+11:00

If boredom was an essay, the word count would always fall short.

Thank You Genevieve

2008-12-18T18:19:00.002+11:00

So, Emily Dickenson only believed a man,
truly believed him,
when he was in agony.

If you disappoint me, I’ll be upset.

I DON’T CARE if my eagerness lacks ‘tact’.

I could scab over, roll with the punches,
but I’ll just get excited over your mannerisms.
I’ll twist, it’ll crack and…

I’ll bleed everywhere. Aw shit.

So...um

2008-12-15T19:03:00.004+11:00

There is nothing ‘Sex’ can teach me,
That’s Sex with a capital S… because, we make the sandwich baby.
I’m into the wack shit and I let myself down by not saying so and
secrets are boring.

I’ll finger myself with memories. Expired moments.
I’ve re-written things you’ve said on a post it note?

I’ve never fucked my idea of you…maybe I will tonight.

My arbitrary fantasy, does that make you wet or what?

Unwind.

2008-12-14T10:52:00.001+11:00

I lie down, make a different form. Spreading breasts, thighs, fingers. They disperse amongst the linen.

I may rest.

I make a rule. When I roll over and I reform,
I will break it.

2008-12-12T09:33:00.002+11:00

I mused about how they spend their time at home and I got it totally wrong.
I tried to climb a mast with a dead arm.
I enjoyed hearing the word lovely aloud.
Love-ly…love-err-leey.
I found the mirror more interesting than the face.
I tried to get away with exploring what I haven't experienced.

I should be interested in the face, because it is what i know.

Transparency

2008-12-11T18:34:00.001+11:00

Transparency is out of season. Why bother lusting after a piece of burnt toast? That’s potentially carcinogenic…

But, it’s freshly toasted and googy and everything is melting, perfectly.

It's just going to burn.

INSTRUCTIONS

2008-12-07T11:04:00.000+11:00

The fickle furnace of the heart burns through attraction like match sticks.
Point the flame in the right direction, to keep it alight.
A bad mood makes everything predictable.
Be discerning.
What tastes good?
What “gets” you?

This isn't finished

2008-11-23T11:02:00.002+11:00

Slow, it was all very slow and measured and the tones of all their voices were similar.

They’d spent a lot of time together?

The intonation was very pleasing to them, as when people like the same colour. They had chosen a pitch and stuck with it.

It bothered me slightly, in the showers amongst the steam. Were they meant to be uniform?

Bothered you, like the birds that shriek and never chew, just swallow.

Scrunching up her nose They sneaked, as if performing exercises that would better define their shadows. I did not watch, rather I ogled as they rubbed one another’s backs, soap and foam creating marbled ripples on naked bodies. Stands and becomes physically involved in her descriptions
They were proud; proud of themselves and of each other.
It is funny the way they grabbed at their flesh, as if to make sure the brilliance of their composition is real. Not a mirage.

Who is the leader?

Shaking her head They were so slow, so slow I could barely make out their faces.

Are you having a dream?

Batting away the questions with her hands Why can’t I move the bar of soap over my body as they do? I am too fast, too repetitive.
I cannot form ripples.
I cannot form.
I am not part of them.

With this toothbrush I wish I could glide across my crooked dental structure and make the shapes they do, in the showers, amongst the steam….

You already said that!

What?

You already said that, at the beginning. About the shower and the bodies and the steam. We already know.

Who is ‘we’?

Us?

But, who are you?

I am here next to you, listening to you. I have been responding? All this interrogation, this whole conversation is a bit tiresome, don’t you think?

I just want to be like the people in the showers, I want to be able to move and form a whole as they do.
I cannot form.

A whole? If everyone felt whole there would be no yearning, no…effort? Can you think?
I mean, really place a fine tooth comb back over your life to a time when you were really persistent?
You just didn’t give up.
I find that I persisted with people, with friends, lovers. Never say…die.
But they can be so complicated, but somewhat more tangible, attractive a pursuit then, say, the future.
That loams over ones head, heavy and different and angry.
Angry because it thinks you will splinter its smooth surface with mistakes and tangents.

But, for me to persist is just to watch?

Oh, you bore me.
So these people, these figures are they sexy?

They’re beautiful.

Sexy?

Perfect.

What were they doing? What were you doing? Did they notice you watching? Do you like the feeling of being watched?

So... watching them; is that like having a shower and watching television at the same time? Or reading porn on a tightrope?

What?

I am just raising the stakes.

Childish

2008-10-26T11:26:00.005+11:00

Neglectful to Decision,
a person; Decision.
Is a male? Late forties? She doesn't know, she ignores.

Instead she paces and retraces her steps.

She expects, to hold your, their attention and to feel it,
grip it,
like a cold metal surface, the monkey bars.
Smooth and firm. Hers.

She expects, everything to be same, you must be able to repeat an experience.
To revisit with the same pleasant pulse as when you left and sink back into the same teeth marks, YOU left.
She thinks…she knows that would be comforting.
If You make a mark, an impression. How can it just brush off or blow away?
She isn’t a flower, an ephemeral figment that you soon come to shrug at. No. She isn’t.

But,
the teeth marks, the footprints are different, the coffee is bitter and everyone is tired.

Her hands are sweating, she can’t grab.
There is nothing to say this time.

Genuinely disappointed, she will laminate her tears. Self indulgent or not. She’ll rip them from the sockets and save them forever. That way at least something stays the same.

What she wants is not the same and if it was, maybe she’d hate it.

The draw backs

2008-10-18T11:53:00.000+11:00

I can't sit still.
I can't untangle the day.
I can't sit still.

An old one.

2008-10-12T10:10:00.002+11:00

Through the window,
there is not a slender heart.
It is loud, it throbs and strains red.

I would, I could drive you mad with the sounds that play within me.

Or.

Maybe.

They will only torment me.

I only know
that when you look at me
I will ask my heart to hush,
to hush and let you be...

2008-10-11T09:50:00.003+11:00

I have sulked into a shape, bulky and cumbersome. There is no where to put me. What a waste of space. I have this reoccurring vision; it generally comes over me when I am cringing about something I've said. It is me smashing something. It is so loud and violent. You can scream much louder in your head then out loud. You can hit much harder too.

I am walking home, 1.30 am. All grey and blue, the sulks coat.
A man across the road yelled out: "You are a very fine young lady. Have a good morning, when you finally wake up, the sun shall shine on you"

A sign.

In addition to Day One

2008-10-05T12:00:00.003+11:00

Perhaps people aren't really as curious as I would like to believe?

Elise, you are my inspiration of the morning.

Day One

2008-10-05T11:54:00.000+11:00

He holds a stare like a gun. You can tell its heavy, loaded. I bet he likes his own company and forgets people watch him. I like his sense of recognition. Well, what I sense of his sense.
I refuse to believe people have poor memories.
If you don’t remember or worse pretend you don’t remember, you’re dead to me. He remembers, or at least he doesn’t pretend he has never laid eyes on me before. I’d like to know him.

I would like your help

2008-10-04T10:12:00.002+10:00

Tell me what you think of "Self Sacrifice"

In all its guises.

I am opening a discussion, please join in.

Thanks,

Harriet

Torch Light

2008-10-04T10:10:00.000+10:00

Illuminating within ourselves,
a simultaneous premonition.

We were both wrong,
now our bulbs burn brighter.

A Quote

2008-08-26T22:18:00.005+10:00

"Love means to commit oneself without guarantee, to give oneself completely in the hope that our love will produce love in the loved person. Love is an act of faith, and whoever is of little faith is of little love"

-Erich Fromm (1900-1980)

Informed

2008-08-24T12:18:00.001+10:00

I would like to be informed, have a strong opinion.

I smashed a bottle of red wine over the tiles of the kitchen at 8am.
The smell was out of place, a spattering of discontent.

I shall leave the article until later, so that it doesn’t leave a bad taste in my mouth or confuse the flavours of home made muesli.
A lady should leave the table a little bit hungry.
Her eyes (should) and (do) become prodigal, staring at piles of stodge.

I would like to be informed, have a strong opinion. But as I reached paragraph three, I had to get up and leave the table.

A little bit hungry.

FREEZE

2008-08-17T10:13:00.001+10:00

Pierce it!

Go on, pierce it. Break the skin.
With your beating splintered star, formed in a block of ice.

A shard, a whisker, a prickle, has nicked me.

Break the skin.

Don’t brush past.

Stop. Stab.

NOW

2008-08-10T11:22:00.003+10:00

I want a response,

a reACTtion.

I will make a fool of myself to get one.

Don’t interrupt me

2008-08-03T10:51:00.000+10:00

#1: We.

#2: If we.

#1: If. We.

#2: If we don’t know want we want.

#2: There!

#1: There?

#2: There we said it. But.

#1: It. Is. It is. It is a lie.

#2: A lie.

#1: A. lie. Full stop?

#2: No.

#1:No!?

#2: Comma, continue, dot, dot, dot.

#1: No.

#2: No?

#1: No!

#2: Yes and no. Continue, dot, dot, dot.

draft

2008-08-03T10:35:00.002+10:00

There are some patterns forming and I wish I could be strong and strange like the roots of a tree, bumping into the concrete. I wonder whether it is like giving the footpath a massage.

Sometimes you can become too aware of everything that is wrong or out of alignment, all of a sudden you are ridden with discomfort, grisly muscles or sore nipples. It leads to a furrow of the brow.

I am not as nervous as I used to be, an exhibitionist these days.
Attention monger. I may as well carry around a stethoscope, to monitor how fast all your hearts beat around me, whether you perspire?

Have I told you that my spelling has got a lot better recently? Maybe it is because I am reading more, or maybe Microsoft word is flattering; like the lighting in my bathroom or a pair of baggy track suit pants.

This is a draft. This will never get sent. This is self indulgent.

"To Us"

2008-08-03T10:14:00.000+10:00

Blood and beer bottles.
It is much thicker than you would think, but then there are those who take too much aspirin and their blood could pass for herbal tea.

But in this case it was thick and plentiful, rich in colour. Swirling in a mouth of malt and hops. Burping brings forth the taste again and again.
Grainy; against the teeth.

I feel I should shroud you in leather at a time like this, or fur…like a holy veil.
Extreme.
Encompassing.
You do look cold, perhaps it will help?

I’ll smash another one or should I pour you a glass first and then cut you with it? Have I poured for you before?
It is always the perfect glass, with just the right amount of head.

Radio

2008-07-27T11:15:00.003+10:00

We are live,

I dropped the A to be more danger-ous,

the microphone is on and so is the tension…
Quick!
Say something, gods forbid we have dead air…

With enough confidence to supersede my nerves,
I will show you the flowers growing on the palms of my hands.

I promise you, they smell beautiful and your grin,
is finally be big enough to match mine.

S.C.S

2008-06-21T12:32:00.001+10:00

You! Lie. Yes, you do.

Is it to make it all more, appealing?
Like smoothing out the covers, you know the creases don’t go away, right?

They float and then fall.

In your room of crumples, tell me the truth.

Don’t repeat yourself.

You can’t show me any beauty, if I don’t know what you really look like.

You can’t tell me I am beautiful, or at least if you do, I want a receipt.

How did you cut yourself? Why don’t you have an address? How can you possibly stay awake for so long?

The answers are easy, you are not.

Untitled

2008-06-17T11:19:00.002+10:00

Close your eyes and let your face tell me everything.

Recite me something important, you’ve been thinking about.

I say recite, because you have been thinking very hard about what you might say.

You even spoke it aloud…just the once, in case your voice was to crack or you stumbled and you wouldn’t want any of the meaning to be lost, I’m sure of that.

You did it in front of the mirror; you felt slight embarrassment, so to get you in the mood, the zone as they say….you dipped your finger into a hot cup of tea, just boiled, so as to shock your system. Just like a paper cut it sprung your mind forward to the present and away from all the emotions you are so tired of wearing.

Your red finger pulsed with pain and the pain let you forget and so, you spoke, aloud, in the bathroom.

Tug

2008-06-17T11:18:00.000+10:00

Syrup is binding our fingers together,
we seep in sentiment,
perfect for our ‘sweet tooth’.

Our laughter creates a beautiful ambience,
we’ll be written up in the paper, with a rave review.

I tug at a loose thread on the sleeve of your jacket,
hoping this is the beginning.

Three Poems about HER

2008-06-17T11:17:00.001+10:00

Done

She ended it,
cut off her arm, without a wince.

Tragedy is inevitable.

Her misfortune just happened.

#2

Her bruises are beautiful,
I stare vacantly.
I once said bus trips were romantic,
I would like to wipe that remark from my lips, with the back of my hand.

#3

In transit,
holding tears onto your face,
harder than your the grip on an expired newspaper.

With my eyes shut, it is always light.

I think about where we stand, if you are behind, then you will notice, my amble, my hesitation.

If you are in front, you are too far ahead of me.

In a nutshell

2008-06-15T12:22:00.000+10:00

Always stupid instead of impressive,
the cadence is too fast, I don’t like playing catch up.

My thoughts are crisp enough to bite.

You are gonna miss out.

From midnight into the morning: How it happened...

2008-06-15T11:04:00.006+10:00

3.17am

Time is elongated, I am fickle.

But everything is razor sharp. I feel as though I could shave the surface of a blown up balloon, without anything having to…

Blow.

Up.

5.19am

I don’t have anything left to say, balance reads zero.

At a banquet I eat everything in front of me, too fast, too soon.

So, everything is over?

You scrape your shoe; a soggy cigarette butt is all that remains.

You walk away….there is much to be said for tact and timing

Easy

2008-06-14T14:31:00.000+10:00

Covered in dusty icing sugar, nothing can go wrong.

Our sweat will turn to icing; we will be glazed and gorgeous.

Insert a hole in my arm, for a slow leak, to let the nerves dissipate.

If I cary around a ball of string, surely a story will take place, I want a beginning and a middle with no end in sight.

Put sunglasses on; so we look handsome and pretentious.
I'll be looking at the road and you'll be looking at my breasts. But neither of us will know.

I'll forget what colour eyes you have, that'll be exciting. We'll rediscover.

It's all about making things easier, like red lighting.