for the other side of the bed.

catharisis is a quick fuck and a song about alcoholism. the house stinks of chastity and I am slowly getting naked with the dirty stove and the overflowing compost. strip teasing the leaking taps till each wasted drop resembles tears.

when you finally cried it was a silent sob. the kind made by children in corners or housewives at sinks. I wanted you to cry for mercy, to call out with the same passion that escaped you beneath closley cut fingernails and baby teeth.

a love that knows no boundries
cannot be written in these lines
clearly this is not that kind of emotion.

you tiptoed through the closest chasms of intoxication.
you held control within your breath as you looked clinicly at the edge
never once contemplated jumping.

I never forgave you for being
the kind of person who couldn't move me.

detailing the devil

Yellow is the softest shade of melancholy. The hue of both dawn and dusk. I slide down the edge of the afternoon. Roll off the roundest edge of the moon.

Requiem for a summer

The wind imitates Warumpi band songs and the concerns of anti nukes protesters. Blows hot and hard like the breaking of celibacy. Threatens to dump renegade wood in the yard.

The days turn like chained dogs. Snarling heat licks my heels. Pushes me back on my bike. I am uphill and panting, reminded of last seasons dry river bed crossings and nights alone with the stars.

I wear time like a costume change. So quickly rooted in these stone mountains. I am. Technology relays his memories and aspirations of salt licked landscapes. I am the salt on his skin as I speak of water and red dust. My souls are cracking and I reach for the salve.

scratching up the dirt

my heart runs marathons. hitchikes through the nighttime. catches lifts in clapped out cars.

I am sparring with jesus. burning my fingers on the steam blowing across the ranges. holding my breath till my lips change from red to purple in imitation of my surrounds.

the soil is damp. leeches under my fingers. scratched into hay. i am thigh deep and recycling decay. i erase the memories of fortune tellers. my perspective flicking like cards. i wax pictorial and wane lyrical. eclipse my expectations as the telephone rings.

with oscillations
with hesitations
manifestations. gestations.

hazards lights a cigerette.
suspicion stubbs it out.

rationalisation

The juxtaposition is surreal. unreal. too real. right here.

Storm clouds lick the macs again and I am sipping beer, almost cold as the sun reflects off the ghost gums and we talk shop as big as supermarkets. I am beyond those old times when each success was a sour grin. Basked and baked till crisp and sweet. I am no longer running up hallways.

Invisable hands like market theory. I move between this thought and that. The fire is well burning so I throw away the kindling. Search out something bigger than myself.

chopped vegies

Tiptoeing through the borderlands. Pushing sustenance around my plate. I am sorting through the rubbish deciding what can recycled or thrown away.

Wet feet and overflowing cups. I guzzle too much wine. Oscillate between boredom and overexcitement. Address commitment phobias between changing gears.

Practicing my leaps. Taking up ballet. Climbing the diving board. From this height it is impossible to tell if it's a wading pool or a ravine.

river beds.

The sand melds with the glass. Shattered offspring cut my feet. We do not think of it as silocine as we push it against our breast.

The ribbon of lights uncurls above me. Those ancient explosions reaching down to remind us that our lives are fragile fleeting messages of hope.

What have we learnt in the lifetimes they take to reach us? Is their memory a refraction of ours. As satellites we only revolve around gravity. Attraction is the physics of life.

The coals drain the last of the evening. By dawn the world is flooded again. I am reminded that dreaming is darkness. That we only go inside when we close our eyes.

under the watchful eye

I am as still and silent as that river that sits and waits for the rain.

My fingers are stretched but not forceful. My feet are webbing in anticipation of that sweet warm moisture that wraps around me. That smells like all that I know.

Now is not later. In the candlelight I confessed that the country might steal my heart again. We're only just scratching the surface. Our fingernails are yet to bleed.

My heart returns to that same sweet song of solitude. I am fortunate to know that good tune. Hammocked and hampered my bundle is wrapped solidly. Not yet tight.

settling with thedust

the ethics of epic. my interrogation ends here.

the week is a conundrum. somewhere in here my silence is still sleeping. gently rocking in it's dreams. outside the band plays on.

my epistomology needs vivisection. i occupy myself with the mundane. with the trivial. with the bittersweet.

this is joy in two tone. despite the differences and the difficulties i wouldn't rearrange a thing.

burn after reading

The relief is bittersweet. Hide my heart behind bravado. Listen to your stories instead.

I am not melancholic. I just meant what I said before you wove my words into yours. Rope burns on fingers. My chest leaps into a panic. I don't mean it. My panacea aches.

My ipod haunts me with recollections. I am breaking the cycle right here. This is not repeat. This is not on demand. Not down loaded. Not deleted.

Slow dance in my bedroom because it's the only thing I know how to do when my soul is stained with red wine and lipstick kisses. Beyond the rationality is a romance that bursts through the shower curtains and self control.

I don't regret my honesty but lets forget everything I said.

the last days of winter

Evaporating into the past fast. Fixed like a dress soaked in salt. Like a date in last months calender. Like an equation. Like an election.

For a sum.

Iron me out and make me straight again. My lips are thirsty. My throat is blocked.
Rake me up and burn me in piles with the last of the firewood and other things you won't be needing. The days are getting hotter. It's true.

It's not just me thats burning up.

Reaching up to the water. I am planting phases of the moon. I am sewing myself into stiches. I am scratching myself into itches. I am stripping myself down to britches. These pictures are not for you.

Wake me up when I'm dreaming. It's the least you could do.

fever

Not that I feel it. Not that I'd say it. My palpatations are too stacatto for that.
Not that it matters but pressed into my linen are pictures of myself in first flight.

Arms stretched, body arched. I am preparing for lift off. I am cascading off the edge of the sun. These words are illusions. You can see your reflection but you can't make out the detail of your brow.

You are not another. Something other. An Other with an isolated capital like Ours. In big white buildings I plan my defenses and table another paper about change.

These threats are not catagorised. My immune system materialises that which my tongue cannot.

congestion

Everything that has been locked inside is pouring out my nose and mouth. The honesty in the equation is conveluted. We are recycling old fears. I pass my dreams up into that big ribbon of stars under ntaria skies.

This is not waving but wavering. My fevered dreams reveal old truths. The kitchen sink is overloaded. My washing machine screams. My body collapses into those self same swathes.

I am aching for the sea.

re arrange

I am somersaults and jelly rolls. half baked and deep fried. I am inserting my dreams between flanellete sheets and staying up well past my bed time.

Electro clash fantasies smash up against the morning sun. I am burn outs streaked along this one way street. I am an alternator that keeps starting even after we've lost the keys.

Theres too much excitement in my sock drawer. My book shelf sings and sings and sings. I am smashing through glass cieling to see the view from the roof. I am making mosaics out of the remains.

eek

my heart is a pop song. I was singing out of tune in an empty room when you walked in and caught me. my soul became borscht. in the old style. stone cold.

every snapshot pinned to my forehead. theres no room in here for thought. you rubbed my feet until I could stand. until I could run. then i ran from you.

when our eyes met we avoid the formalities. made small talk about the show. I wanted to smash your face it looked so pretty under those fluroescent lights. i said this shouldn't be flattering but i want to fuck you. you facebooked my reply.

now my heart is a google search engine that only returns your name. I hit the enter key and drop down a paragraph. set the scroll button to skip pages. zip file my intentions. press send and shut down.

whoosh

my heart is an escalator. hold onto the hand rails. between street talk I try to explain to my mother the difference between literary and literal.

micro terrors and disability dreaming. the punches my dreams pack need bigger bags. i am wave after wave after waving good bye. i am catching up on daydreams of innuendo between coffee and buisness.

i am lust in rubics cube. i am five colours of desire with no co-ordination. i trip over my estimations. my emotion is dress sizes larger than my hips. i shake at the thought of your honesty. bury it with the coals in the morning. my boxes don't have rooms for matches. chase your tail round a redhead instead.

curvaceous lady

The curvaceous lady is an infant as she wraps herself around the hills. We go 2x2. Immersed in this moment of girlish splendor. Scoffing snakes and drinking beer.

She passes through wired prohibitions. Commands the traffic. Turns heads. Christened in champagne and roast chicken. Our fingers are hungry. Plunging through cheese.

Toasts are buttered nostalgia. History melts like the sun into sand and stone. My heart is eclipsed by happiness. My soul a suspended strawberry dancing in champagne.

rivers of sun

My throat as scratched as my cd collection. I'm skipping through the day. The sun floods the river beds, runs down off the ranges and into the town.

Beauty is the aftermath of domesticity. I am curled and crumpled. Dressed in red and dreaming of cupcakes, the day is everything I want it to be.