Cleaning somebody elses dishes. A recipe for disaster. I dream up plans of murdering swans, composing songs for the final scene. Slide antagonism between plates and ciggerettes. Amputate the corpse before sleep.
A ball of knots. Plunging my fingers deep into entwined confusions, pulling them apart, creating more space betweent the thin lines that cross under and into eachother.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
fishbowls
Then the frantic shuffling dissapated. Lying in bed, belly pushing against the linen the grasping crawled from head to neck and slithered down my back. That night I dreamt of aquariums and woke up feeling refreshed.
I am not a glass screen. My nose is not pushed into strange postions for the amusement of passers by. Despite my addiction to plasma I am not a flickering light.
My throat felt open. Not entirely unblocked but at least there were spaces for the words to get through. Shoulders rolling and pulse slowing, the amphibians move from water to land.
I am not a glass screen. My nose is not pushed into strange postions for the amusement of passers by. Despite my addiction to plasma I am not a flickering light.
My throat felt open. Not entirely unblocked but at least there were spaces for the words to get through. Shoulders rolling and pulse slowing, the amphibians move from water to land.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
House Work
I am surrounded by dirty cups.
Thoughts perculate. Pushed through hot water and small brown granules. Give me something to liven my senses. Something to add texture to the day.
The sun goes through the motions of the day. Shreds of shade scatter across the day and I sink into the afternoon, red wine casting itself across the sky.
My tension is going rancid on the stove top. Racing around the house doing other things. Cutting words with a blunt knife on a dirty chopping board.
Despite the whistle of the kettle there is still so much unsaid.
Thoughts perculate. Pushed through hot water and small brown granules. Give me something to liven my senses. Something to add texture to the day.
The sun goes through the motions of the day. Shreds of shade scatter across the day and I sink into the afternoon, red wine casting itself across the sky.
My tension is going rancid on the stove top. Racing around the house doing other things. Cutting words with a blunt knife on a dirty chopping board.
Despite the whistle of the kettle there is still so much unsaid.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Eyre
The horizon disappeared the moment we lost sight of land. In a country so remote the whiteness seemed alien. The reds gave way to yellows. Yellows receeding to the glare of a thousand crystals. A thousand diamond propositions to give your life away.
We sink beneath the mud. Wallow in our senses. Scratching for water amoungst the salt and the rolled up swags. We relinquish our boundries. Give in to tarmac obsessions. Green signs and green cans and green ciggerettes. Contemplate superficiality before plunging our hands into the sand out here.
The ruins of our forebearers lie crumpling. The roadside monuments constant reminders of impermance. Everything is blown away or evaporated. Everything becomes elemental. Bare bones of mammels and automobiles are licked dry by the wind. Death becomes beautiful. A polished thing.
Pissing on the side of the road I resist temptation to wander into the sand. To join the gibber hoppers and acacia. Make peace with ambition once and for all. The toyota rosy lips and purring heart seduces me back to where I should be, uncertain if thats where I belong.
We sink beneath the mud. Wallow in our senses. Scratching for water amoungst the salt and the rolled up swags. We relinquish our boundries. Give in to tarmac obsessions. Green signs and green cans and green ciggerettes. Contemplate superficiality before plunging our hands into the sand out here.
The ruins of our forebearers lie crumpling. The roadside monuments constant reminders of impermance. Everything is blown away or evaporated. Everything becomes elemental. Bare bones of mammels and automobiles are licked dry by the wind. Death becomes beautiful. A polished thing.
Pissing on the side of the road I resist temptation to wander into the sand. To join the gibber hoppers and acacia. Make peace with ambition once and for all. The toyota rosy lips and purring heart seduces me back to where I should be, uncertain if thats where I belong.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
ciggerette butts as redemption
And it all comes back.
all that big country red sand vertigo. the exhileration of kilometres passing faster than time. all that too fast breath intake and suspension of comprehension. that spinning out of control in a landscape so ancient, the beating of your heart seems irrellevant in it's speed.
the beauty of an abandoned house. the freedom in isolation. the liberation of being removed from everything familiar and transplanted in country that feels more familiar than your thumbs.
the transcendence of happiness, the removal of illusion. A solo waltz in a fluro lit lounge room to the sound of a distant friend. the romance of drinking by yourself
like a ciggerette flicked from a vechile of a car. the fire returned.
all that big country red sand vertigo. the exhileration of kilometres passing faster than time. all that too fast breath intake and suspension of comprehension. that spinning out of control in a landscape so ancient, the beating of your heart seems irrellevant in it's speed.
the beauty of an abandoned house. the freedom in isolation. the liberation of being removed from everything familiar and transplanted in country that feels more familiar than your thumbs.
the transcendence of happiness, the removal of illusion. A solo waltz in a fluro lit lounge room to the sound of a distant friend. the romance of drinking by yourself
like a ciggerette flicked from a vechile of a car. the fire returned.
Friday, April 3, 2009
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