searching for something meaningful.
finding a cuppa tea.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
reinventing the wheels
throttle forward. panic eliminates the brake. I'm up to my neck in hard yakka. fighting back tears from the policeman. swerving witches hats and my fears.
If zen is the art of motorcycle maintence I'm a long way from being a monk. despite my lust for the prophetics and my arrogant tendencies I struggle to keep my head up and on the horizon.
She wears denim and is a mid life crisis. He is still a terrified teenager at fifty, scratches on his arm.
We catch early morning coffee at McDonalds. I can't stop oggling the signs. As they discuss the details of dinner I am thankful every love affair I've ever had has ended.
The week holds more resolutions than a UN subcomittee. A list of practical things to do lies unattended. I lose myself in magazines about Arizona highways and dreams of postie bikes.
If zen is the art of motorcycle maintence I'm a long way from being a monk. despite my lust for the prophetics and my arrogant tendencies I struggle to keep my head up and on the horizon.
She wears denim and is a mid life crisis. He is still a terrified teenager at fifty, scratches on his arm.
We catch early morning coffee at McDonalds. I can't stop oggling the signs. As they discuss the details of dinner I am thankful every love affair I've ever had has ended.
The week holds more resolutions than a UN subcomittee. A list of practical things to do lies unattended. I lose myself in magazines about Arizona highways and dreams of postie bikes.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
on hard work
she was stuck in the red tape.
her hair flowed like every romance she'd ever had.
long with tints and aubern tinted, when the growth was new. as it aged it fell kinked around her face. growing scraggy at the ends.
as a young girl she'd sucked on it repeatedly. couldn't stop putting things in her mouth. on excessively hot or cold days she'd still find wisps of it at her lips. would find private times interrupted by hair balls and the need to cough.
not that it mattered.
she had scissors by the bucket loads. where once clumsy fingers struggled she was adept at cutting out lines. sharp and laboured metal chinking together set the rythem to her day. carboard shreds strewn across the loungeroom for her flatmates to pick up when they got home.
do you remember how we used to kiss?
cold noses rubbing up against each other as we invented new depths of warmness in synchronicity to the connex announcements. in the passing of time i realise that what we made was love as the four walls of the flemington house shook with each passing train.
i live in the desert now. that city and all my identities are summarised in books in my friends cafes. those same motifs that used to define me remained patched to a wardrobe of that never sees the light of day. receeding like tram tracks at 1am. the last moments of opportunity are not lost. they linger and distort like light on the ranges.
i wonder if your life, also, has changed.
her hair flowed like every romance she'd ever had.
long with tints and aubern tinted, when the growth was new. as it aged it fell kinked around her face. growing scraggy at the ends.
as a young girl she'd sucked on it repeatedly. couldn't stop putting things in her mouth. on excessively hot or cold days she'd still find wisps of it at her lips. would find private times interrupted by hair balls and the need to cough.
not that it mattered.
she had scissors by the bucket loads. where once clumsy fingers struggled she was adept at cutting out lines. sharp and laboured metal chinking together set the rythem to her day. carboard shreds strewn across the loungeroom for her flatmates to pick up when they got home.
do you remember how we used to kiss?
cold noses rubbing up against each other as we invented new depths of warmness in synchronicity to the connex announcements. in the passing of time i realise that what we made was love as the four walls of the flemington house shook with each passing train.
i live in the desert now. that city and all my identities are summarised in books in my friends cafes. those same motifs that used to define me remained patched to a wardrobe of that never sees the light of day. receeding like tram tracks at 1am. the last moments of opportunity are not lost. they linger and distort like light on the ranges.
i wonder if your life, also, has changed.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
an apple a day
The journey was a ritual and the ritual was the journey.
Catching god in my fish net stockings. Scaled the ceiling. Baked the bread. God is a sober dj and a white beard left over from christmas. Grind our asses until we the surface is broken and the light shows through the cracks.
We vision together. See in 3D glasses, illuminations of green and red. Stop-go complexes melt like chocolate and get smeared on my face. Amidst the illusion of reality tv show carnivals I brushed the dirt off my ego. It came up a shining thing in the dawn. Tierd feet scrubbed in the bath.
This is redemption in a floral two peice. There is clarity amoungst hallucination. Communion made us mortals and we placed our faith in the hands of the Gods. When the sediment settled we were perfect creations because of our sins.
Catching god in my fish net stockings. Scaled the ceiling. Baked the bread. God is a sober dj and a white beard left over from christmas. Grind our asses until we the surface is broken and the light shows through the cracks.
We vision together. See in 3D glasses, illuminations of green and red. Stop-go complexes melt like chocolate and get smeared on my face. Amidst the illusion of reality tv show carnivals I brushed the dirt off my ego. It came up a shining thing in the dawn. Tierd feet scrubbed in the bath.
This is redemption in a floral two peice. There is clarity amoungst hallucination. Communion made us mortals and we placed our faith in the hands of the Gods. When the sediment settled we were perfect creations because of our sins.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
but nonetheless...
up the gutter and sideways. catch the sunshine. split the road.
fresh faced on an arid morning. these ranges never leave me bored. i could trip over parked cars for the next five years watching the coloured transition. layer lasagnes to the rythem of shadows reflecting on ancient red stone.
a tango of hormones tread on my toes. i'm more volatile than radium. juggling atoms and losing my neurons. pass the proton pill?
but in this moment? clarity. that and pink icing and all of the reasons I have to smile. despite the petty oscillations of ego. my soul sings opera. my heart is a trapeeze.
fresh faced on an arid morning. these ranges never leave me bored. i could trip over parked cars for the next five years watching the coloured transition. layer lasagnes to the rythem of shadows reflecting on ancient red stone.
a tango of hormones tread on my toes. i'm more volatile than radium. juggling atoms and losing my neurons. pass the proton pill?
but in this moment? clarity. that and pink icing and all of the reasons I have to smile. despite the petty oscillations of ego. my soul sings opera. my heart is a trapeeze.
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