Theres a storm coming in. The stables are ringed with layers of grey clouds and I'm sitting under the awning, smoking the last of the dry tobacco I've scrouged from the sand. This cough is receding and I'm back smoking ciggerettes but still can't bring myself to buy them. I keep telling myself I'm going to quit. That I'm going to get out by thirty five and cheat emphysema and cancer cells. The half breed dingo is prancing around me, searching the ground for scraps of salami. I do a mad dash across the paddocks, avoiding clusters of buffle grass to retrieve my clothes from the line before the deluge sets in.
I'm willing the rain to come down, the past few days have been so sweltering I've retreated to eastside and the comfort of friends with houses and airconditioning and blow up pools. But today I'm back out here on basso island, listening to the low growl of the sky blend with the country rock blaring from the portable jukeboxes of the mob in the creek.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Friday, December 26, 2008
pinks and greys
Drunk on skylines, thristy for country. Windows down, hair blowing along the highway, my fingers surf the horizon. Crusing across rippled red and green. Nails painted pastel pinks and greens. Brushing against the swollen ranges, plunging through the depth of field.
Today we bacame surface tension, strectched delicatley, baiting ripples. Reaching from rock face to rock face and calling the rain. In this time we are still.
I am4wd dreaming. I am river crossing delirium. I am soft hues and arid wetlands. I am back where I began.
Today we bacame surface tension, strectched delicatley, baiting ripples. Reaching from rock face to rock face and calling the rain. In this time we are still.
I am4wd dreaming. I am river crossing delirium. I am soft hues and arid wetlands. I am back where I began.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
grog frenzy
The door to the bottle shop was crowded by 1:30pm. You could feel the tension in the plaza; people sitting at tables, sipping on coke, rocking overloaded trolleys, fidgeting.
I'm one of the door way skulkers. I've got a whole fish in my bag. Two young bogans come to join their mother whose perched near the doorways. 'first time I've seen whitefellas lining up 'ere' she'd remarked as she pulled up. I've seen her round town before-last time she had laryngitis, her voice shrill and rasping about 'that cunt who makes her sick'. I wonder if that cunt is the man who stands in the doorway with her now. He looks like the father of her children, they share the same stumpy neck.
Theres a young couple standing next to her. He looks like a bogan as well, poking her in the belly, asking if she got the pumpkin and the sweet potaoe and peas. She's tierd, eyes rolling as he instructs her to get two bottles of red and a white and a champas will he gets a slab from the back.
It's 2:01. The staff are still methodically unstacking boxes and counting out the till. The young bogan kicks the roller door, eyes flashing as he turns round to smile at the family. His father nods in approval. He kicks it again. The crowd begin to get agitated. The manger opens the roller door. We stream in all grog frenzied. End up bottle necked at the register. I slink away quickely before the riots begin.
I'm one of the door way skulkers. I've got a whole fish in my bag. Two young bogans come to join their mother whose perched near the doorways. 'first time I've seen whitefellas lining up 'ere' she'd remarked as she pulled up. I've seen her round town before-last time she had laryngitis, her voice shrill and rasping about 'that cunt who makes her sick'. I wonder if that cunt is the man who stands in the doorway with her now. He looks like the father of her children, they share the same stumpy neck.
Theres a young couple standing next to her. He looks like a bogan as well, poking her in the belly, asking if she got the pumpkin and the sweet potaoe and peas. She's tierd, eyes rolling as he instructs her to get two bottles of red and a white and a champas will he gets a slab from the back.
It's 2:01. The staff are still methodically unstacking boxes and counting out the till. The young bogan kicks the roller door, eyes flashing as he turns round to smile at the family. His father nods in approval. He kicks it again. The crowd begin to get agitated. The manger opens the roller door. We stream in all grog frenzied. End up bottle necked at the register. I slink away quickely before the riots begin.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
exodus
Today we are basting with rasping throats, the landscape is speckeled with heat waves and phlegm. My throat has become an antique landcruiser rattling it's way along dirt roads.
The heat always makes me so damn carniverous. I am camel sausages and slabs of beer. I am practicing reconcilliation on long distance phone calls, reciting landmarks in my career.
Everyone is packing up and driving east, somewhere away from the heat and the flies and the moths and the stones that trap sunshine to emit onto houses at night. Four wheel drives seek out highways to places, mouths frothing like cuppacinnos, chasing those city lights reflected in broken white lines.
And me? For now I am left on the island with my alcoholism and bleeding throat. Talking to the half breed dingo about heat waves and swapping hustling techniques. I am left to negotiate nocturnal bike rides past camp dogs, left to pace the sand and climb the hills. To wait on the outcomes of credit card applications and plan my next move.
The heat always makes me so damn carniverous. I am camel sausages and slabs of beer. I am practicing reconcilliation on long distance phone calls, reciting landmarks in my career.
Everyone is packing up and driving east, somewhere away from the heat and the flies and the moths and the stones that trap sunshine to emit onto houses at night. Four wheel drives seek out highways to places, mouths frothing like cuppacinnos, chasing those city lights reflected in broken white lines.
And me? For now I am left on the island with my alcoholism and bleeding throat. Talking to the half breed dingo about heat waves and swapping hustling techniques. I am left to negotiate nocturnal bike rides past camp dogs, left to pace the sand and climb the hills. To wait on the outcomes of credit card applications and plan my next move.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
grave
Killing myself amidst corpses of cicadas, chainsmoking ciggerettes. Tying up loose ends, splaying the bows across reporting templates, bullseye targets.
The freshness of neon and airconditioner hum, the phlegm in my throat and the rotations of days. The endless challenge to be honest amidst cross eyeds and rising river beds and bitumen oasises.
The stampede of christmas, the hum of the season stretched out across keyboards and grass plains. The illusion of speed, of growth and adulthood. The secrets I choose not to keep.
The freshness of neon and airconditioner hum, the phlegm in my throat and the rotations of days. The endless challenge to be honest amidst cross eyeds and rising river beds and bitumen oasises.
The stampede of christmas, the hum of the season stretched out across keyboards and grass plains. The illusion of speed, of growth and adulthood. The secrets I choose not to keep.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
or something else entirely
the only thing I'm scared of more than thinking too little is feeling too much. all my genuflections are in front of the mirror when I'm drunk. I've abandoned god but I still pray when I'm scared. i eat salami and drink beer and call myself wholesome. I spend late nights tapping on artificial keys and kid myself that I'm connected to the earth because I live in the desert. That I'm here now despite my dreams of chasin the big city on roller skates.
I spend my days climbing hills and my nights locked in moth proof rooms, but fuck it. I wouldn't swap this madenss for any other....
I spend my days climbing hills and my nights locked in moth proof rooms, but fuck it. I wouldn't swap this madenss for any other....
Thursday, December 11, 2008
below the clouds, above the dust
Dropping below the clouds we flew parallel to the rain, lowly and slowly like plane was seeking carrion amidst the red and green undulations. Country is swelling to meet us, and I am too, reaching through the windows, below the wings, gliding across the sand and spinifex, cliched.
I am every pop song about love and loss in this country. It fills my chest until I can't speak. Stripped back like ancient sea beds, rising to meet the incoming storm front.
escaping the rooftops and the endless bitumen parades of manscapes finding myself back in this place. drinking cider and dancing in the dirt, dodging the centipedes, weaving through blades of grass.
I'm home, thank fuck, I'm home.
I am every pop song about love and loss in this country. It fills my chest until I can't speak. Stripped back like ancient sea beds, rising to meet the incoming storm front.
escaping the rooftops and the endless bitumen parades of manscapes finding myself back in this place. drinking cider and dancing in the dirt, dodging the centipedes, weaving through blades of grass.
I'm home, thank fuck, I'm home.
boarding call
I do this all the time; chainsmoking at airports, scoffing coffee and eating shit food. Skulking around departure lounges, trying to guess the postcodes of people by the way that they talk.
I've lost count of numbers; mobiles of lovers, flight codes, booking references, times I've been in the sky this year. Drunk, sober, still coming down; I've passed through so many security screens it's a wonder I still have my fears.
This morning the ozone has opened on melbourne and is pouring the day onto the streets. Yesterday I spun theories about the relationship between the sky and the sun shining out of peoples arses. This muggy city is so easy to hate and so hard to leave. I'm trying to distance myself from the past by limiting myself to carry on baggage.
If they can build landscapes out of concrete and ambition surely I can create a time lapse out of conveyer builts and desire. Project myself onto moving luggage to find peices of myself in other peoples clothes.
I've lost count of numbers; mobiles of lovers, flight codes, booking references, times I've been in the sky this year. Drunk, sober, still coming down; I've passed through so many security screens it's a wonder I still have my fears.
This morning the ozone has opened on melbourne and is pouring the day onto the streets. Yesterday I spun theories about the relationship between the sky and the sun shining out of peoples arses. This muggy city is so easy to hate and so hard to leave. I'm trying to distance myself from the past by limiting myself to carry on baggage.
If they can build landscapes out of concrete and ambition surely I can create a time lapse out of conveyer builts and desire. Project myself onto moving luggage to find peices of myself in other peoples clothes.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Flemington bridge
Glancing at a past where I got fat
on roast chicken
rolls covered with $1 rack
offcuts it doesn't seem
like only two
years ago
but it was.
on roast chicken
rolls covered with $1 rack
offcuts it doesn't seem
like only two
years ago
but it was.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
bite
The city is so cold I cannot bear to sleep alone.
Walking past shops, belly hungry, trying to decide what the hell to eat. I am rumbling my way through my phonecalls. I am addicted to the sweet smell of toast. I am starving with empty pockets. I am remembering last weeks meals.
Walking past shops, belly hungry, trying to decide what the hell to eat. I am rumbling my way through my phonecalls. I am addicted to the sweet smell of toast. I am starving with empty pockets. I am remembering last weeks meals.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
smoke and mirrors
The city is shakshooka; all round abouts and oven baked over expensive breakfasts mashed up with things that burn in my mouth. A belly full of hot air. I am impaling myself on barstools. Picking up the remains as I leave.
I am a charicature of myself. Running down main roads shoeless, trying to my push my feet into the bitumen, to force myself to stay in one place for a while. I am wearing this dust like armour, distancing myself from friends with profound statements about benign t shirt slogans. I'd drawn a line between us but we've run out of sand.
I am a charicature of myself. Running down main roads shoeless, trying to my push my feet into the bitumen, to force myself to stay in one place for a while. I am wearing this dust like armour, distancing myself from friends with profound statements about benign t shirt slogans. I'd drawn a line between us but we've run out of sand.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
six pack and angst
Fuck it y'know cos it's hot enough to be alcoholic. Cos I've got enough excuses to call you with drunken propositions before the sunset. because out here I'm basting in the middle of everywhere and kilometres from anyone else.
because I've depleted all my booty calls and the sweat is dripping like tears and starfish don't belong in the desert thats why I don't lay down these days.
Between complaints that I am too earnest I spin lies out of dust and rocks. write my name into the ceiling each night so I remember who I wake up with at dawn.
and all of the excuses in the world are peppered with insecurity and truth.
all the things I hate are the what I would most like to be.
and all this angst and bullshit might disappear in my saturn returns and maybe if they don't that will mean that I am immortal.
because I've depleted all my booty calls and the sweat is dripping like tears and starfish don't belong in the desert thats why I don't lay down these days.
Between complaints that I am too earnest I spin lies out of dust and rocks. write my name into the ceiling each night so I remember who I wake up with at dawn.
and all of the excuses in the world are peppered with insecurity and truth.
all the things I hate are the what I would most like to be.
and all this angst and bullshit might disappear in my saturn returns and maybe if they don't that will mean that I am immortal.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
procrastination
Trying to get motivated in this kind of heat is like trying to get laid at a spoken word gig; it's not going to happen but you continue to sink beers in the hope that it's going to help some and end up alone masturbating on your bed.
It's a work day. I'm inventing centipede bites to avoid the bike ride into town. I'm checking facebook, gmail and my work webmail on rotation to try and convince myself that I am getting things done. My libran tendancies are undulating - i've got mercury poisoning.
My computers caught whooping cough. Little snippets of gravel sound intersperse my attempts at productivity. I feel like a kmart catalouge thats been left to long in the rain. I am stuck in the karmic cycle of my CD collection. Nirvana seems innappropriate in my line of work.
Serotonin depletion threatens to bring on the kind of life event that I am paid to prevent.
It's a work day. I'm inventing centipede bites to avoid the bike ride into town. I'm checking facebook, gmail and my work webmail on rotation to try and convince myself that I am getting things done. My libran tendancies are undulating - i've got mercury poisoning.
My computers caught whooping cough. Little snippets of gravel sound intersperse my attempts at productivity. I feel like a kmart catalouge thats been left to long in the rain. I am stuck in the karmic cycle of my CD collection. Nirvana seems innappropriate in my line of work.
Serotonin depletion threatens to bring on the kind of life event that I am paid to prevent.
Monday, December 1, 2008
out here, in there
the cattle in my backyard
and the quartz on the hill
fail to inspire you
the rabbit warrens
are wind tunnels
for the anxiety
that keeps me
taking in too much
air
between eroticism
and earnest conversations
is the face that I keep holding
so close to the surface of my skin
that you mistook it for my own
and sometimes I do too
out here
the stars are less pretencious
and futher out of reach
reality is
a reminder
that this country
could kill you
if you forgot the words
or sang the wrong songs
meanwhile
the cities heartbeat
eclipses the distant burning
huddling in pubs
forgetting
why we don't want
to go home
and the quartz on the hill
fail to inspire you
the rabbit warrens
are wind tunnels
for the anxiety
that keeps me
taking in too much
air
between eroticism
and earnest conversations
is the face that I keep holding
so close to the surface of my skin
that you mistook it for my own
and sometimes I do too
out here
the stars are less pretencious
and futher out of reach
reality is
a reminder
that this country
could kill you
if you forgot the words
or sang the wrong songs
meanwhile
the cities heartbeat
eclipses the distant burning
huddling in pubs
forgetting
why we don't want
to go home
click and close
even with the deadlines
we were flat lining in our seats
the cartography of fluroescents
and caffine keeps us anxious
we are rubbing ourselves
on the edges of desk
up against refridgerators
when no one is looking
the eroticism of our boredom
leaves us with guilty faces
in the tea room
we were flat lining in our seats
the cartography of fluroescents
and caffine keeps us anxious
we are rubbing ourselves
on the edges of desk
up against refridgerators
when no one is looking
the eroticism of our boredom
leaves us with guilty faces
in the tea room
Sunday, November 30, 2008
the law of relativity
Sweat clings like a long distant lover
sending text messages
in the heat of the day
the pallette of pinks
grows starker
as we deteriorate
We are rising steam
on the bitumen
momentary illusions
conquered by speed
night swept and wasted
cut cooked and tasted
and spat out onto dry river beds
Beneath the kitchen sink
between detergent and dried out
sponges there is a box of redemption
going stale in a lunchbox empty
and outdated filled with apples peels
and too dry tobacco
The truths that we float on become
soapsuddded and eyes bloodshot
iritated at what we have seen
spiteful remembrances serve as
unspoken condolences for opportunities
burnt into favorite pans
sending text messages
in the heat of the day
the pallette of pinks
grows starker
as we deteriorate
We are rising steam
on the bitumen
momentary illusions
conquered by speed
night swept and wasted
cut cooked and tasted
and spat out onto dry river beds
Beneath the kitchen sink
between detergent and dried out
sponges there is a box of redemption
going stale in a lunchbox empty
and outdated filled with apples peels
and too dry tobacco
The truths that we float on become
soapsuddded and eyes bloodshot
iritated at what we have seen
spiteful remembrances serve as
unspoken condolences for opportunities
burnt into favorite pans
Saturday, November 29, 2008
awaken
the half breed dingo wakes us
from our dreams of owning land
my lovers over interest
is nothing compared to the banks
t
from our dreams of owning land
my lovers over interest
is nothing compared to the banks
t
Friday, November 28, 2008
backlog
Basting
the desert is steamed greens
wholesome like a childhood
that disappears
with red and purple horizons
against the asphelt
of the highway
and the bustle
of other places
we are squeezing
through the thin light
last night
standing at the gates
of my whitefella
palace
listening to the chaos
of poverty
in the creek
we are sizzling
like the water
against hot sand
when it rains
fearful of cities
the narrow spaces
funneling traffic
and spitting out dreams
of silver screen ambitions
that end up as plasma tvs
I want landscapes
bigger than my ego
so that I can be swallowed
with one hissing
of breath
I cannot
return
to a history
that is only written
on toilet walls
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
The aftermath
I wanted to be moved
like a renovaters wet
dream
wanted you in my bed
and out of my mind
I wanted
Fuck
I wanted
This is me
digging ditches
in dry river beds
with sticks
and bones
drawing circles
in the sand
pretending
I am more realistic
than you
In that bed
where we inhaled
the darkness
I repeated
the same old lies
with a new twist
sour in my mouth
This is me
slicing up walls
pretending I'm not
contagious
with swollen throat
and breath
more baited
than any of your lines
shadow boxing with rain drops
and numbing myself
in landscapes sublime
Saturday, November 08, 2008
morning phone call
I don't want what I can touch
phone lines tangled in washed out
roads
and swollen rivers
I am a long distance
lover refusing
prepaid
tickets
on myself
You wake me with
propostions unexpected
to tell me you've come
into some money
and my anxiety
weeps
its been sixteen days
since my last kiss
and several lovers in between
i'm changing
my profile
to reflect the projection
i am more than you suggest
Googling my expectations
finding
your writing
posted critique
this is every celebrity
crush moment
between fingers
like desert sand
the future always happens
on windy days
when we should be doing
our laundry
when dirty sheets
are calling for sex
and only filled
with last nights
my indecision
is contagious
and sattelites
mediate where
my mind cannot
in multimedia images
and bland generic
fonts
Sunday, October 26, 2008
untitled
the afternoon was a lesson
in physics and meterology.
we stripped down to our shoestrings
tried on mascara and eyeliner
end up half cut and salted
in wet afternoons
Saturday, October 18, 2008
mush
The country is much too vivid, we are assaulted by our paradigm. the shoe fits a little tightly please don't remind me that the world is a playground for my kind. we shineon balconeys sweat lipped hair lipped we spin yarns into fibourous balls. this is my cat call rolling out across foriegn language tounge across every song you memorised before sung and now the night seems to vicarious to brush aside. my body is bruised and lethargic. swallowing down moutfulls of tumeric and honey to revive my sense i just want to lay on your table and be dressed for dinner all day. marinate slowly in my own self worth and he asked me why I am such an extremist and all I can say is 'I don't know but when I was a kid I was obsessed with swings and strings prehaps now thats why I am a yoyo.'There is only one thing I hate worse than the people I can't be and that is those that I could. it doesn't seem like an effort, bending my tongue into these shapes but it's my memory that seems less malaeble.
Sunday, October 05, 2008
day one
the country is intimidating
in it's silence
i feeble creature of dehydration
with fourty year half lifes
riding the sand
like a wave
beneath us the saltpans
are sleeping
we are a brotherhoood
of saline
as the moisture is extracted
from my skin
in rays
here we worship moonbeams
when the sun rides high
like machetes in war time
carcasses do not deteriorate
but tan into oblivions
of dust
Saturday, October 04, 2008
too many bloody marys at the airport
This is every memory that was worth having.
locked down in airports, lost in transit like baggage
that you needed to leave behind.
I am immersed in my own self interest
we worship this silver screens tapping in unison
watching the reflections
of my own imeninet departure
in airport screens
in bloody marys
it's the end of an era she said. we swallowed harder, imbibing more
of everything
before the clouds descend upon us. rob us of the memories we were meant to keep. leave your baggage in your sleep.
This is my digital wave. Streched across every delayed plane. across every profile stalker, swapping between coffee and vodka and laying off the water. this is me, existing in all the places I shouldn't. immersed in a country smile, sweating my skin slides off me and muscles grow fresh across my brow.
Self interest is the only thing
that keeps us
Sunday, September 21, 2008
translations
it takes me fifteen minutes on a search engine
to decode the messages
from the bright lights
bene
the hog from new guinea
the floodplains don't speak
french
the northern frontiers
are filled
with frontiers
and savages
we learnt
indonesian
and kriol
at school
now the country
moves beneath me
too quickly
captured
between
salt
and sand
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Report from the edge of the arafura
the mangoes grow lewd and pungent
to the washing machines psychotic crumping
and the excess of beer
They're giving up saltwater
rolling through swathes of gourds
the manicured garden,
slovenly spreading
like our legs
like our troppo sores
we are hitmen who became moving targets
rubbing eachother too closley
because the dampness demands it
because between the concave sky
and the mood swings of the ocean
there is only pink and yellow
light
and we
are not beings
but sacs of condensation
bulging by early afternoon
singing songs about summertime
and big cities with good coffee.
the clouds suck out
what our words can't replace
we are losing more ground everyday
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
motel room psychosis
It was a motel room psychosis
caterpillar dreaming
serpentine neurosis
always ends of flicking coins
Startled awake from lucid dreams
I stagger to my email
I am rohypnol on yr window
and the torn toenails inside yr boots
Every jabbering do-gooder
ends up in the arms of a rifle
Every down right dirty negligae
ends up a housewife with two kids
I am lustful like a salesglut
thighs full of bruises
coming down of last weeks binge
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
two seven
he writes
to tell me I am older
lines grow deeper
embedded memories
scrawled across my face.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Chayni
you are full belly taught
no abortion room singsongs
this time
morgage and marriage
art career and maternity
a garden and sensible affairs
glistening on museum walls
paintings of your life
excluding me
you wrote strangers into your artwork
printed tshirts for your new friends
i become a byline in a minor work you never sold
Smooth white paste
pigmented and spotted
this is me filling your outline in
scuffing my hands on too-short rope
trying to bridge the ravine
of our youth
slipping on insecurities
i watch you receed
with my memories
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
beasts
The dawn makes goats of us
searching for grass
with tethered necks
and feathered feet
Good cowgirls keep their calves together
I'm out hunting road kill
smelling the bitumen
looking for something thats still warm
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
show me a traffic light
I'm so sick of roundabouts
round about tonight
you let me into the slipway
but now which way
I can't double cross
these broken lines
buckle up
stay tight
don't drink and drive
are the only signs
so won't you be my traffic light
i'm so sick of roundabouts
round about tonight
won't you show me a
traffic light
I'm so sick of roundabouts
round abouts tonight
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Her face
was a wicket,
too stumps with wood protrunding
strapped together with gaffa tape
her fingers were muddy
from the back forth
of point scoring
she had slid her way to victory
one too many times
her whites were stained
she longed for the colours
of one day match making
beyond the commitment
of test victories
and tarnished cups
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
mid season
we dangle carrotsdreaming of lamb chops our faces stuffed with grasswe circumvent circleswe prefer straight linesso long as we can still get bentour faces light up like neon shop floorslike fluroscent exit signswe imbibe our youth drool through sensibilitycoughing up enough to pay the bills
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
snip
She cut small strands of hair
a slow release of memories
prevented the pain of letting go
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Sensible
Her ankles ached
it was a sign of stability
the hotel room
the wallet laden with cabcharges
the sensible bedtimes
and low risk drinking
the desert is steamed greens
wholesome like a childhood
that disappears
with red and purple horizons
against the asphelt
of the highway
and the bustle
of other places
we are squeezing
through the thin light
last night
standing at the gates
of my whitefella
palace
listening to the chaos
of poverty
in the creek
we are sizzling
like the water
against hot sand
when it rains
fearful of cities
the narrow spaces
funneling traffic
and spitting out dreams
of silver screen ambitions
that end up as plasma tvs
I want landscapes
bigger than my ego
so that I can be swallowed
with one hissing
of breath
I cannot
return
to a history
that is only written
on toilet walls
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
The aftermath
I wanted to be moved
like a renovaters wet
dream
wanted you in my bed
and out of my mind
I wanted
Fuck
I wanted
This is me
digging ditches
in dry river beds
with sticks
and bones
drawing circles
in the sand
pretending
I am more realistic
than you
In that bed
where we inhaled
the darkness
I repeated
the same old lies
with a new twist
sour in my mouth
This is me
slicing up walls
pretending I'm not
contagious
with swollen throat
and breath
more baited
than any of your lines
shadow boxing with rain drops
and numbing myself
in landscapes sublime
Saturday, November 08, 2008
morning phone call
I don't want what I can touch
phone lines tangled in washed out
roads
and swollen rivers
I am a long distance
lover refusing
prepaid
tickets
on myself
You wake me with
propostions unexpected
to tell me you've come
into some money
and my anxiety
weeps
its been sixteen days
since my last kiss
and several lovers in between
i'm changing
my profile
to reflect the projection
i am more than you suggest
Googling my expectations
finding
your writing
posted critique
this is every celebrity
crush moment
between fingers
like desert sand
the future always happens
on windy days
when we should be doing
our laundry
when dirty sheets
are calling for sex
and only filled
with last nights
my indecision
is contagious
and sattelites
mediate where
my mind cannot
in multimedia images
and bland generic
fonts
Sunday, October 26, 2008
untitled
the afternoon was a lesson
in physics and meterology.
we stripped down to our shoestrings
tried on mascara and eyeliner
end up half cut and salted
in wet afternoons
Saturday, October 18, 2008
mush
The country is much too vivid, we are assaulted by our paradigm. the shoe fits a little tightly please don't remind me that the world is a playground for my kind. we shineon balconeys sweat lipped hair lipped we spin yarns into fibourous balls. this is my cat call rolling out across foriegn language tounge across every song you memorised before sung and now the night seems to vicarious to brush aside. my body is bruised and lethargic. swallowing down moutfulls of tumeric and honey to revive my sense i just want to lay on your table and be dressed for dinner all day. marinate slowly in my own self worth and he asked me why I am such an extremist and all I can say is 'I don't know but when I was a kid I was obsessed with swings and strings prehaps now thats why I am a yoyo.'There is only one thing I hate worse than the people I can't be and that is those that I could. it doesn't seem like an effort, bending my tongue into these shapes but it's my memory that seems less malaeble.
Sunday, October 05, 2008
day one
the country is intimidating
in it's silence
i feeble creature of dehydration
with fourty year half lifes
riding the sand
like a wave
beneath us the saltpans
are sleeping
we are a brotherhoood
of saline
as the moisture is extracted
from my skin
in rays
here we worship moonbeams
when the sun rides high
like machetes in war time
carcasses do not deteriorate
but tan into oblivions
of dust
Saturday, October 04, 2008
too many bloody marys at the airport
This is every memory that was worth having.
locked down in airports, lost in transit like baggage
that you needed to leave behind.
I am immersed in my own self interest
we worship this silver screens tapping in unison
watching the reflections
of my own imeninet departure
in airport screens
in bloody marys
it's the end of an era she said. we swallowed harder, imbibing more
of everything
before the clouds descend upon us. rob us of the memories we were meant to keep. leave your baggage in your sleep.
This is my digital wave. Streched across every delayed plane. across every profile stalker, swapping between coffee and vodka and laying off the water. this is me, existing in all the places I shouldn't. immersed in a country smile, sweating my skin slides off me and muscles grow fresh across my brow.
Self interest is the only thing
that keeps us
Sunday, September 21, 2008
translations
it takes me fifteen minutes on a search engine
to decode the messages
from the bright lights
bene
the hog from new guinea
the floodplains don't speak
french
the northern frontiers
are filled
with frontiers
and savages
we learnt
indonesian
and kriol
at school
now the country
moves beneath me
too quickly
captured
between
salt
and sand
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Report from the edge of the arafura
the mangoes grow lewd and pungent
to the washing machines psychotic crumping
and the excess of beer
They're giving up saltwater
rolling through swathes of gourds
the manicured garden,
slovenly spreading
like our legs
like our troppo sores
we are hitmen who became moving targets
rubbing eachother too closley
because the dampness demands it
because between the concave sky
and the mood swings of the ocean
there is only pink and yellow
light
and we
are not beings
but sacs of condensation
bulging by early afternoon
singing songs about summertime
and big cities with good coffee.
the clouds suck out
what our words can't replace
we are losing more ground everyday
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
motel room psychosis
It was a motel room psychosis
caterpillar dreaming
serpentine neurosis
always ends of flicking coins
Startled awake from lucid dreams
I stagger to my email
I am rohypnol on yr window
and the torn toenails inside yr boots
Every jabbering do-gooder
ends up in the arms of a rifle
Every down right dirty negligae
ends up a housewife with two kids
I am lustful like a salesglut
thighs full of bruises
coming down of last weeks binge
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
two seven
he writes
to tell me I am older
lines grow deeper
embedded memories
scrawled across my face.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Chayni
you are full belly taught
no abortion room singsongs
this time
morgage and marriage
art career and maternity
a garden and sensible affairs
glistening on museum walls
paintings of your life
excluding me
you wrote strangers into your artwork
printed tshirts for your new friends
i become a byline in a minor work you never sold
Smooth white paste
pigmented and spotted
this is me filling your outline in
scuffing my hands on too-short rope
trying to bridge the ravine
of our youth
slipping on insecurities
i watch you receed
with my memories
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
beasts
The dawn makes goats of us
searching for grass
with tethered necks
and feathered feet
Good cowgirls keep their calves together
I'm out hunting road kill
smelling the bitumen
looking for something thats still warm
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
show me a traffic light
I'm so sick of roundabouts
round about tonight
you let me into the slipway
but now which way
I can't double cross
these broken lines
buckle up
stay tight
don't drink and drive
are the only signs
so won't you be my traffic light
i'm so sick of roundabouts
round about tonight
won't you show me a
traffic light
I'm so sick of roundabouts
round abouts tonight
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
scoring
Her face
was a wicket,
too stumps with wood protrunding
strapped together with gaffa tape
her fingers were muddy
from the back forth
of point scoring
she had slid her way to victory
one too many times
her whites were stained
she longed for the colours
of one day match making
beyond the commitment
of test victories
and tarnished cups
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
mid season
we dangle carrotsdreaming of lamb chops our faces stuffed with grasswe circumvent circleswe prefer straight linesso long as we can still get bentour faces light up like neon shop floorslike fluroscent exit signswe imbibe our youth drool through sensibilitycoughing up enough to pay the bills
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
snip
She cut small strands of hair
a slow release of memories
prevented the pain of letting go
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Sensible
Her ankles ached
it was a sign of stability
the hotel room
the wallet laden with cabcharges
the sensible bedtimes
and low risk drinking
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
His lips became mushrooms in the darkness, smooth on one side and fringed against the other. This is how we sleep; coiled like ropes woven over weeknights and day trips. We are snug and sweltering, we are grasping and murmuring. Still on these dry season eves.
My real job bores me. I find internet distractions. Find ways to overload myself. Swore I would never curate again yet here I am, eating myself out of time.
I want to do everything-I want to find balance. I'm pretty ambitious for a sloth. I want greatness and to hide under the kitchen table. I am terrified of achieving my dreams.
My real job bores me. I find internet distractions. Find ways to overload myself. Swore I would never curate again yet here I am, eating myself out of time.
I want to do everything-I want to find balance. I'm pretty ambitious for a sloth. I want greatness and to hide under the kitchen table. I am terrified of achieving my dreams.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
The first
Tierd of being holed up in my bedroom, lost between pages, reading about genocide and regretting the success of my friends. Tierd of the rejection letters, the mass mail outs, the fear that I will never be a writer, the article for SMH I just can't seem to get out of my skull and onto the page, the fear that I am just and will always be a community worker and wondering what the hell I gave up for this salary anyway. Tierd of fighting with my boyfriend, my fight or flight tendancies to pack up and move pack up and move pack up and move pack up and move because that is easier than sorting through the boxes anyway. Tierd of this office, with it's shiny computer screen, the cupboard with never ending stationary GOD DAMMIT I'M DROWNING IN POST IT NOTES!
Anyway....
It all makes sense in those moments on the bus, when I catch a glimpse of the ocean, looking past the roundabout on Aralia St, when the bus sweeps around the corner of fannie bay and I eat moutfulls of the harbour. When the sun shines throuogh the sky in so many directions I revert to my catholic upbringing and start to believe in heaven again. When the clouds turn so many shades of grey, I question the need for colours, with giant clouds bellowing across tainted skies.
All the reasons why I came home
Anyway....
It all makes sense in those moments on the bus, when I catch a glimpse of the ocean, looking past the roundabout on Aralia St, when the bus sweeps around the corner of fannie bay and I eat moutfulls of the harbour. When the sun shines throuogh the sky in so many directions I revert to my catholic upbringing and start to believe in heaven again. When the clouds turn so many shades of grey, I question the need for colours, with giant clouds bellowing across tainted skies.
All the reasons why I came home
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