filth

you know who you are.

slovenly language. obscene propositions. archaic pervesions. i thought we fought this battle decades ago.

reptilian slander; you dwell with the aftermath of evolution, in the shadows of all that is beautful, vibrant and whole. the offensiveness of your cowardice matches the shallowness of your existance.

slinking around the outskirts of all that i hold dear. waving your indecency like a flacid cock. smiling sweetly does not hide your rancid breath.

and you have the nerve to call me a slut.

you know who you are
and now i do too.

on perspective

in the solitude of neon and white washed walls i attempt to catalouge inspiration. document in pixel and binary form, the first inklings of next years ambitions.

a tryptich of journies, unfolding like kin, winding over and into each other until their unqiue outlines are indistinguishable from the meta-narrative of my life.

my heart sings to a distant lover, drawing closer with each sunset. it howls at passing fantasies and lusts after the promised land of my fate unfolding, serenely into horizons beyond my knowing.

the circumference of my dreaming navicable with the eyeline of my desire.

every last drop

the last of the year winds it's way down the calender. moseying through spikes and troughs in temprature. last night we huddled in climate controlled rooms, feasting on geographically nonsensical dishes, smelling like home.

this morning brings reprieve and we sprawl through the hours. catching coolness on the tip of our tongue. my lists beckon but i am caught in the inertia of the space between the end and beginning.

this is a simple luxury. small bands of comrades, the last of us waiting out the summer. the town drained of all but straggler and nomads. passing days on balconies and in pools.

the morning after

we are temporarily relieved of summer. the pallete receeds into pastels. the second coming of relief floods us in the evenings and is sustained into the morn.

confetti thoughts thrown in the air pattern the ground. i am scyring through the colours. inspiration flashes through solitude.

i mimic the light. filtering softness from bright and distant glare.

of the seasons

i seek logical frameworks for irrational things.

taking bites out of a peach sky. letting my mouth grow moist with all things sweet and sustaining. with all things ripe and of the seasons.

the town drains itself. working it's way like a river into silence. soaking the last of the year into sand. the only testament of time worth noting is transformation.

everything rises and falls like a breath.

illumination

green lights glow on the horizon.
looking over my shoulder i change lanes.

days unfold like origami in reverse.
precipices transform into vistas.
the expansion is breathtaking.


my heart soars with the temperature.
unwinding me like string.

the softest dedication

the heat is the last to leave.

by dawn i am swollen with absent lover dreamings. tangled sheets are the only remnant of pleasures past. nocturnal crescendos receeding into the distance betwen here and there.

i trace fibre optic cables until i find you on the verge of my imaginings. a steady lapping like sand on salt, like skin on skin, sky on stars, like night on day.

this is how my heart rests, with all it's palpatations. if words fail me it is only because i am reaching into that place of unknowing, where mystery births divinity and we transcend mortality and morality.

a small gratitude

we are led back to our history in strange steps.

two years sweeping over scarlet horizons. the pen rests on the page where the book was opened.

two weeks of thickening transformations. everything comes out of the wash sparkling with golden threads.

every leap of faith is rewarded with stronger legs and stunning views across the ravine.
i am grateful for all that i could not see and all that remains to unfold before me.

for the overflow

the rain is so constant i forget which home i have returned to.

i sit with it.
let it pervade the silence and lull me
until solitude envelops me and i remember how to breathe.

and my heart is steady and the music is soft.
what has fled returns with new stories.
all that is empty is refilled.

this is always the way of the rain.

more water

i can no longer be estranged from my reality.
searching for valves, the slow hiss of release.

some transitions are jolting roads. moving into low gears to maintain traction. there have been days, barely moving, doors jammed shut with mud. where the whirr of highways seemed distant and my soul has gone into retreat.

i retrace my steps. fingers outlining old territory. sniffing the tracks to make sure they are mine.

so much transfiguration. as the dust settles i am able to survey the landscape and find that the grass is still green.

no room to wait

we wait in white washed rooms. Rising and falling as we shuffle from street to building to street again. I am beyond boredom. Waiting for the waves to stop rising and falling, wanting only softness and strength. Every action is preceeded by more action. We live as dominos do. I am wanting something more than this stagnent cycle of waiting for my body to reach equilibrium again.

solitude in grey scale

the water mimics the sky.

the day slides into greyscale. soft drips of solitude and hidden treasures.

with curved hands i excavate. part fearful of what i might find. part elated as earth is swept aside. what is uncovered can no longer hurt us. i retrace the tracks to the holy grail.

everything must settle. this is the law of dust.

we share our dreams by long distance.
the patterns come into sharp focus momentarily. and it shocks me with it's suddeness and i can no longer recall all the meanings when it slips back out of view

shimmer

the beautiful thing about redemption is that you can always find it in something.

last night it found me between whiskey and the smooth refractions of light. a soft shimmer over the surface as my soul quietly slips in the back door in the early hours.

i let water run over my skin until i am shining again. until the world is no longer an illusion that swirls around me and the rushing of my heartbeat slows with steady breaths.

i greet myself like an old friend, with smiles and slightly watered eyes.

how your garden grows

one cannot make compost with clean hands.

I get it under my fingernails; the things that have rotted, the shit i've collected, the clippings of outgrown branches.

paitently turned. layer upon layer. a process of careful sorting and applied spacial geometry.

contained in isolation. flooded in light. and heat. and time.

we turn again.

this is the simple alchemy of living.
it is the stuff from which we grow.

an island

the city never ceases beneath me. Tonight i am an island rising out of the air. I am straining through concrete to retrace my journey back to the earth. I am searching for stars to navigate by against a sky awash with light. This too shall pass by the corridor seems narrow. I play roulette with anger, sorrow and fear. I struggle for something specific. Fall into floatation and prayer.

Shortly

Sometimes the past rises to meet us,like a road.

All things must settle and find their place. This is the only commandment of time.Dividends are had to calculate. We must be wise with what we invest.

There is a road but no map worth consulting.
This is why I follow the sky.

a simple meditation

the dawn sweeps the darkness from my skin.

i emerge from my skull. through eyes. through mouth. words long scoured for dissolve into simple routine. yesterdays anxieties healed through these actions. through gentle repeatition we find peace.

there is a salve for all sores. a soloution to every conundrum that confronts us with pursed lips and waving arms.

i find courage in domesticity. a small mediatation on the humanity embedded in the process of living. passed softly from hand to hand

moorings

days pass like salt and pepper, politely across tables. i flick fine grains over my shoulder to ward the devil from my side.

these certain revoloutions. palpably poignent. like boats we dance around our moorings. changing perspective with the wind.

the early morning light shines rainbows through the percipitation. I am every colour reflected in the trick of an eye. I savour each hue licked from fingers. I am a vessel for every emotion passed through bodies long abandoned. I am a switchboard for wisdom so ancient it outlives words.

my soul rests in other realms.
yet i am wholly of this earth.

these paradoxes are comforting.
i navigate by the stars.

a day for softness

things settle softly, like feathers falling to earth. i navigate broken down trees and washed out rivers. head always turned to the sky.

when it rains it pours. heavens open to mimic us. human endeavours oscillate like tides. i lay in this salty soup and watch the moon.

change seems sudden and all this slow shifting reminds us that there are always forks in the road. i deep breathe through day time. practice paitence for as long as i can muster the courage to think of other things.

i am not without joy. my body startled. i sink into clean sheets and dream of other places.

reflection

then that night the sky ripped itself apart in recollections of my childhood home. Sometimes good things come in ugly packages. I overwhelm myself with clarity as the storm swirls against my window. These turning points are the signposts to enlightenment. I bless that which i cannot know.

almost like home

between the cicadas and the cloudlines I could swear i'm almost home.

the sky becomes closer, leans on us, hovers over shoulder to make sure we do right. colliding with trees and masking the planets. i am closer to the earth these days.

i am in the final stages of retracting into myself. the year closes in a whirl of deadlines and solitude. what is almost apparent is palapably transformational.

i sit quietly to avoid startling the truth.

the opposite of diaspora

stone catching the sunset like a glance from an old lover. I'm almost startled the wildflowers are still in bloom. Like a child at a party i want to drink all this colour before the ground is flattened by dryness again. There is a sudden expansion as if remembering for the first time all the reasons why i stay in this town. The tail of the year shooing flies from my face. Almost far away enough to be seen from behind

white wine and whiskey

drinking white wine and listening to songs about whiskey. Moody monsoon dried in desert days. Comfortable longings and grateful solitude. A calm certainty in an unknown future unrolling like red carpet before me.

sojourn

sometimes we sing because we have no other option.

my heart goes into retreat. overwhelmed by waves of familiarity. disconnection from the purring dial tones and reciever hum.

i am a stray satellite. weaving through the sky with a drunkards grace. looping under constellations until my meanings are derived from the tails of fallen angels. swooping like magpies between heaven and earth.

retroperspectives

the morning i wept in the park. knuckles kneading the earth despairing the death of all beauty. for everything timeless that has had it's time.

redemption in a single bed.

finding stillness in the shifting sunrise and the quiet companionship of a cigerette.

running because i didn't know what might come out of mouth.

running because i have no other options when my heart explodes (i'm just worried i might kill someone y'know).

her steady witness to the sorrow pouring out of my body.

late night confessions in a crowded room.

relinquishing all worldly possesions at the gates of heaven.

loving because there is nothing left to let go of.

the soft synchronisation of breath.

upon reflection

the devil needs no details when caught between the deep blue sea.

i turn pages until the slate is clean. scratch my name into the surface so i know i've been here. time expands to eat all that i am and leaves me breathless with it's pace.

i retrace my steps until the journey is completed. i walk concentric circles until the only way is out.

i am searching for my redemption in parking lots.
i find it wedged between empty space.

through

some shifts are so subtle we barely notice them. Some so sudden we forget they occured. I navigate slipstreams till my scales are shined clean.curling to the sea like a lover submerged in a timeless embrace.

Fertility Roulette

He would claim
that he was shooting
blanks

But she knew
he got her
heart

second to last

a confession is not an excuse. The line is paper thin. The confusion is palpable. All my definitions lie dormant. I am frozen between fight and flight. Taking time with my reply. I feel by osmosis. Stop short at definitive answers. These grey scale days, this endless precipitation. So uncharacteristic of the seasons. I forget where i am. Uncertain and indifferent i choose the middle path.

ambivialence

we shift backwards in time. retrospect and collect small peices of history to make up the now.

i sift small slithers of sand. peel through layers and still cannot make the connections between ought and often. a veil is thin enough to breathe through yet opaque enough to disguise.

i play leapfrog with tadpoles just to prove that i have legs.

i am not sure of this horizon. i am unfamiliar with this road. lines drawn and broken and overtaken.

something else is being revealed.

putting out starboard headlights

concentric aurguments overlap with history. Carousels and dancing horses. We leap through the hoops and burn like fire and singe the corners. We stake our claim on land and people. We turn history into artefacts by dinner table conversation.

return

my heart goes lunar

i learn to question my own rules. review my own policies. proof read my own procedures.

my mind grows tangled. gets snared on has beens and will bes. maybes and then agains.

was there ever a season to sit and stare at the wind till it changed direction? i hold all i am in a small cup and imbibe.

there is a steady place from which all things flow. a greater wisdom that supercedes all facts. these oscillations all swing from the same centre of gravity.

profound and humble
in it's simple weight.

slips

from shaking limbs to slippery fingers; these worlds we walk through in our minds.

untangling silver slithers from grey scales sunken. i know that things are still swirling, still folding back to reveal some truth. i am still in this world of indifference and indecision. shifting endlessly from form to form. uncertain of what is in between the shores of here and now.

then it explodes. a cataclysm of colours and the small now seems insignificant. i am returning home; to that place of shifting foundations. where everything is a constant flux of what it has been.

i believe neither and both sides of the story.

through it

i scuttle through the morning. pull back to see the bigger picture before plunging back into the fabric again.

i rush towards my fears. dance in the shadows. this is the only way i know to break through the viscous membrane that lies between me and my dreams.

honesty whets throats and hearts and sometimes the turbulance just reminds us that the horizon is always shifting. one part memory, one part divination. my day unfolds in a flurry of divinity

a lesson

there are two directions. but they can be walked only one at a time. playing hopscotch feels like leapfrog.childs play. i spin in circles to decide.

there is one part of me that bubbles. furious. mimics my kettle and washing machines. cyclical vibrations and fast steaming. suffice to say it drives me mad.

a different side lies deeper. forms vast tracts beneath the surface.is stunning in it's simplicity. the compassion that encompasses all things. there is freedom in an open heart that can never be betrayed.

i am breaking patterns
irrevocably open
insaitable in my
dreams

clarity

dappled like sunlight. Part brightness. Part shade. A full pallette of flavours blended to make up the day. It is only with distance that we can see the design. Only in solitude can we connect with the world. I am coasting across water. Skipping smooth stones above a clear bottomed pool. Magnified beneath me, yet somehow estranged. Rippling concentric circular thoughts. Each one touching the other. Enveloped in waves.

terrastratus

the simplicty of form belies the complexity of form.

hands smoothed round corners. soft as rainwater. a gentle pattering. awaking and falling asleep.

these dry desert days with wind sweeping like fingers through sand and hair and highways to other places.

all that we let go of returns to us.

slowly slowly gently gently

a slow slide into seven day cycles.

half asleep under neon lights. some part of me still circling the earth with the golden orb on the horizon.

how we fall into these simple routines. attend to basic needs with acute attention. whittling through the early hours. cut back till true forms revealed. ever shifting into new shapes.

murmer

it is a small melee but audible. The rustling of rooftops and the hustling of trees. Cards dealt and held close. My hands flush and face down. Unsure of what i'm throwing away. In the abscence of outlines i float. Ever transient i mimic the clouds. Hammers and nails terrify me. I still can't define what i feel.

could it be the weather?

alone with the rythmic measuring of time.

time is elastic. endless contortions. yet to find an even pounding.one foot in front of the other. we waltz like this. hand to mouth to fist.

i am alone with my lists. with my electronic arms. spindles of connections through wires and machines. my sister sings technocratic lullabies while i try to find my way through the absurd into meaning again.

weary i weave through identities. finding facades in my wardrobe each morn. i am fifteen new ideas and a caseful of memories.

i do not know what i will find on my way home.

of many things

we find elation in isolated corners. in pockets of time sewn into secret compartments.

i return to the world with a small gush. amplify the stillness. let silence beat imperceptibly in the background. a constant hum of distant dreaming.

my nocturnal landscapes loom large in the morning. i catch extra snippets before emerging from shadows. the ground littered with last weeks and yesteryears. yet to processed. and packaged. and shipped.

and my heart?

who knows what it whispers when left to it's own devices. it reinvents itself daily. sometimes taunting. sometimes gently coaxing.

i am still learning my mother tongue

altocumulus

every moment is a point of departure. even some birds can fly at night.

i am content to patrol the vacumn; awaiting the whooshing sound of the Next Big Thing, the small trickle of Something Different, the hammering of What Must Change. i am summoning a Perfect Noun. something to strive towards.

and yet this gentle ambiguity. this language of grey scale. this weightlessness. these paddocks without fences and nights without counting of sheep.

could there ever be a word big enough to encapsulate all of my dreams?

i know less of myself but more deeply. these days i covet small mementos and seeds. ambition seems cumbersome. time plays origami; folding into a migrating bird.

every moment is a point of departure.
we are in transit almost
all all of the time.

briefly

mystery must be different to ignorance. My unknowing is somehow as comforting as it is confronting. One evening at the sink the realisation that everything has shifted in ways yet to be defined is at once unsettling and uplifting.

terra firma

sometimes the only way to make peace with ourselves is to link action to our thoughts.

buried truths and forgotten things, layered pitchfork metamorphes. terra nova incognito. from paitence comes great rewards.

the fruit of our labours begins as a seed. a small explosion willed to grow. all i know about time can be captured in this series of simple events.

and this we share beneath overcast days; our brightness burnt too fast. a reminder of what is meaningful beyond the limits of our own skins. the trickling of what always has been will be. the flood of what has past.

with clay caked hands we build something that is bigger than ourselves. and in disassociation there is healing; at once both intimate and removed.

end point

we have almost reached the end point.

saddles set and girdles tightened. trudging through grey sky desert days. in absence of lightening, static sparks electricity. my nights are long, not lonesome.

if i could draw for you all the mundane revelations that have whittled into my skin over the last week, the sand would be scribbled with the spinning top that morphs into a revolution.

but this is a quiet revolt.

that which has shifted has found a new place. tetris settles back into alignment. not all revelations come cheaply but they make it easier in the end.

dizzy heights?

In speaking our mind do we honour our truth or kamikaze into opinion?

The clouds struggle to touch the earth, pulling blankets o'er the horizon. My ambitions melt. I question my stamina. Write love letters to inspiration.

I am already tierd of things I don't want to do. I am numbering my desires and counting my chickens.

Commitment elludes me.
I am still unsure
of what I want to be.

the only way i know how (an apology)

i don't know why i don't know how to love you as i could. I cast my suspicions in the camp of immediacy. Blame it on my reactivity. Suspect that i may be as selfish as you suggest. Prehaps the block is semantic. In the absence of suitable definitions i find myself with nothing to say. This is not to infer that there is no acheing, no longing for things to be another way. For phonecalls to be simple things, full of joy. Prehaps my guilt is muddied by fear, my frustration underwritten by sorrow. And i am a coward who cannot return your calls.

the air has enough bite in it to feel it scrape against skin. There are a million intersections. Crash victims awaken from slumber with contorted limbs. Awakened by brushing up against certain death.

in articulation

the room transforms into a spinning top and the week is overwhelming even before it begins.

all i want is everything. the deceptive simplicity of elegance elludes me. i can barely inhale that first phonecall and everything knocks at the same door at the same time. it's all bottlenecks and daydreams. this mad dance of inspiration and realisation, and all that happens in between.

between sleep and teatime

and the clouds will do whatever you want them to. as long as you give them enough time.

tempests have no paitence. they cannot stand still and bloated, tracing circles like cyclones meandering from coast to coast. terriers of meteorology, they are ferocity without weight.

nonetheless
this day brings bucketfuls of sunshine, splashed on trees and sweat lines. we weave through shadelines, sprawl on grass and perfection is so close it makes me shiver.

not yet there

the new day threatens downpours that never eventuate. i am procrastinating with the sky.

our divinations are mere consellations. a kaliedoscope of meanings transposed onto events. a way to move us from then to now. later remains elusive, flashing in corners like headlights on a winding road.

i am dousing my mind in every elixer i know to keep myself from falling asleep at the wheel. content to muddle through hours in silent company; i am pressed up against the notations of life as it is.

these lists beckon beyond my sanctuary
i am reaching
not yet there

displacement theory

thoughts are placed into body. Slipped into pockets between bone and skin. Affections catalouged in vertebrae. Longings swell from shoulder blade to clavical and skull. The femur is the site of old wounds, propelling us into the future as we tense in release. Small sockets and springs, moving in unison from what was to what will be

text book moment

there is a quiet place that finds you at the end of the night. Where all your habits cannot conceal the passage of time across your skin. Lines read like text books across palms. Some indentations never leave us. Some stain us, some embalm us, some conscript us into adventures in far distant lands.

to start with

the week starts with sinew stretching. bones clicked back into place.

skies drizzled with cream puffs and soft springtime breezes. small lists swarming in piles of paper. the low purr of the photocopier alluding to feline pursuits and tangled sheet dreaming.

navigating emptied offices. tripping on phone books and renovations. the sure settling of carpe diems into ce'st la vies.

what to wear when the sky is dressed in clouds

from where we stand the world stretches in so many directions that even the horizon seems dizzy.

on a day built for sleeping i am soft eyes and caffine. stringing sentances together with mismatched words. i await the descent into uncertaintity but by late afternoon it has failed to arrive.

i meditate on elasticity. on interventions that fall with such grace that they are almost divine. i study the stiches in the webs that we weave and am convinced that the whole universe must be made of time.

and on this skyline nothing fails to escape me. there are only expanses made up of physics and human desire. what we cannot see stretches our imagination. i am reaching beyond the reach of my hands.

till clouds sweep me off my feet onto higher planes.

the last drops of the day squeezed from the sky. I supine and languid, sprawled upon soft linen. Touching the clouds with my eyes. I wonder at the slow gesture of the heart and the dizzy heights of the mind. At the spaces between. The flux of beginnings and endings. The sudden revelation of buried desire. Seeking a pattern in chaos. Unopened doors in well windowed rooms. I find no resolution yet resolve to stay centered. Geographically. Metaphorically. Inside.

the stunning perfection of the refridgerator hum

and finally. Enough silence to hear myself say home. My skin settles into well worn places. Curved and soft and warm. My jaw relaxes into comfortable words. My hands refill teapots, endlessly. Enveloped in hope. I am home.

absorbtion method

between forefinger and thumb there is a small space of possibility. held up to the light it reveals the infinite more clearly than the oceans or stars.

the origami of fate is unfathomable. lines folding into eachother like ancient lovers; an intimate familiarty born of paitence and compassion. i can't articulate what is at the point where skin ends and dreaming begins.

i awake and find a small vessel at the nape of my neck. something to sip from and voyage upon. we are led in directions that lack familiar sights but somehow smell like home.

confined to osmosis
we are able to become
everything

absentia

and the city is big and bright and bustling and hungry and dirty and poor. i switch masks every minute. fold small stories into lattes and store morsels of wisdom for quiet moments of reflective retreat.

and the cafes they sparkle and the strangers are captivating and i wonder if i've been absent too long. that dank windy city is on everyones lips like a slut at a key swapping party.

there is something of me in all of these things. i wonder at what i've become. when the penny drops it is neither heads nor tails. i pirouette with it, circling myself until my outline grows blurred and i merge with my past and my future.

departures and arrivals

wandering through no mans land. Ambushed by fluroscent lights and memories of other lives. In these transient places i am every version of myself that has passed through these gates. The sentimentality leeches through the sterility.....and for a moment i miss those other lives. Faces scrubbed fresh with ambition. Matches lit to burn fast and bright. In cold beer gardens we remind ourselves with maps masked as recollections. And suddenly i remember where i have always been.

shot

I spin up into the grey scale horizons. Lurch from coffee shot to coffee shot. Hold on till the world stops turning so fast. Until it slows to the pace of my heart.

I am learning the names of the thousand wishes I carry in a small wooden box. Carved into concrete.Like long lost love affairs. Remembered only when passed.

Fine filaments of dreaming flicker off my clothes. Flecks of possibility float with dust and old skin. Microscopic chandeliers of those parts we no longer need light up in the last rays of the day.

I am mouthing something poignant and unmistakable but even I can't hear what it is.

in preperation

flights of fancy taxi down runways. Turbulance on take off and landings. Rattled like childs play; infantile toys. I regress to thumb sucking and spit bubbles. I get dizzy around calenders. So many days circled. I dream of distant friends and learning to drive. Retracing old ground; resurrecting apparitions. Less recycled, more refined.

stop and....

i remembered everything i needed to have a happy childhood. Part esoteric, part mundane. These small morsels of honesty that carry me from page to page. So much has been about redemption; the moon shaking the earth. All these whimsical confessions, i wonder at what they mean.

double or nothing

my words get tangled because I'm not sure what to say.

these things are only preoccupations. i don't imbue them with any seriousness. my sensations are not nuanced enough to distinguish sharp pains from dull aches.

there's so much i want to express. keep my cards close to my chest. hand over heart. counting suits. full houses and littles straight.

truth is i'm not a player.
i throw out aces and wild cards.

cut

I am sharpening scissors and cutting cords. I am severing all the way down to the bone. My first impulse is to push and shove my way through emotion.

I seek softer hues.

We are not vacumns. We exist only though our interactions. This sensation of skin reminds us we are real.

There are too many answers and not enough questions. I will lay them all down for now.

catching clouds with castnets

i once met a girl who drew the wind. I was trying to make sense of melbourne skies. The grey was distracting and the horizon seemed out of proportion. Now i distill sunshine and collect balmy nights in small jars.

between papers and sheets she smokes and dreams

sometimes i chain smoke just to check if i'm still. Breathing half moon half street light. I am. Captivated by the equinoxes and purgatory. No mans land surrounded by barb wire and telescopic sights. That which we must pass through in the quest for definition. I am obsessed with the ongoing irrevocability of time and thought and space and all things which collide to give meaning. Some questions are meant to remain open ended. I file you down under them.

and it ends as quickly as it begins

settling with small motions.
surely we have made it through the longest nights.

i brighten with each day. layers discarded. strewn across lawns and along hallways. waved like flags to the receeding cold.

and with this a softness. maintaining the contrast with the ever brightening light. all accounts must be balanced. and so my palpitations slow to a swagger. a stroll from heart to mouth.

my mania saited. my confusion receeded.
there is peace now.
at last i can sleep.

lead(ing)

we find truth in tangled leads. Test connections. Searching for signals. Waiting for lights to come on. We grapple with power until something sparks. A reason to dance into the dawn.

charting a new course

truth is muddied by intention. The heart tells no lies. A straight line, on a clear night on a sea smoothed for sailing. Squinting, i can almost see the outline of my childhood. Glistening as only memories can. Singing lullabies on distant shores. I spin in circles, blind folded. Escaping the illusion of the obvious until i sight new land.

on the edge of dawn

i keep watch over the last fragments of night. Share my shift with the streetlights and birds. Laughing and crying punctuate breathing. Intermissions between solace and peace. This is how we learn; with quiet reflection, in humble settings. With sleep crusted eyes and delerious clarity. The light floods into my bedroom like a resolution. I merge with it and the mirror. Once more shining, once more renewed.

baste

thoughts are popcorn; quickly heated, too gaseous to nurture or nourish. Wrapped in sugar, salt and butter. Fast foods for quick footed times. I simmer slowly. Taste each new ingredient before slicing and sauteeing. I am taking notes from my ancestors on cauldrons and chopping boards.

doens't make much sense, but then most things don't

if every whispher were audible I would run in every direction. my body shredded and floating. over the ranges, into the sea.

i fire small warning shots. test my ammunition. fireworks are our closest approximation of what lies beyond the atmosphere.

we turn over new leaves and old car engines.
both grumble before they awake

transit

moving beyond the grey scale into CYMK. my abbreviations grow like shortened breaths. a rapid fire of exhalation.

i am charting small transitions until the present eclipses the past. i wade into waters where clear coated bottoms are magnified in the light.

all i have learnt is illuminated against the clear blue of desert skies.

dazzle

time is decidious. i grow addicted to the hues of red, gold and brown.

the day dazzles into being. i find metaphors in frost melting. mistaken for rain.

she reminds me of everything i'd forgotten i remembered. i scrawl concentric circles in the dirt as we speak.

you save me with these small gestures. each one a landslide contained within a heartbeat.

a little more like it

Sunlight pours into the town. My crescendo catches a beat before the refrain. I am yet to spark, but flicking matches. Holding them close between finger and thumb.

There are trails that lead off into scrubland. Unchartered. Some rainbows desire more than gold. Some talk show hosts don't know how to listen.

We rely on paradox to speak the truth.

I have not been as articulate as I could be. But I have been swimming in the foglands for week. And I have just dragged my carcasses through five kinds of revelation before breakfast.

I'll be back in a sec....

breakers

we hold so much for so long. Then it breaks over us. And we descend below the turbulance. Flirt with drowning. Try to merge with the foam and the sharks and the wind. We emerge with lungs bursting and sand scraped knees catching the new light of day. Amphibian, we dwell here, part water, part sea, part sky.

a dawn

we awake from dreaming with salt crusted eyes. Adjusting to sunshine, we flicker until the spectrum soldifies. Tendons snap in new directions. Muscles stretch until new shapes form constellations of sinew and skin. With each breath i am elated by the journey from was to is.

on measurement

we unravel our way through life. like the proverbial ball of string we reach to the moon and find ourselves in deep space. cast adrift in the absence of gravity. we free fall until we hit something. sometimes soft. sometimes warm. sometimes woven.

grey scale

the skylines of my childhood once again sweep through the town.

we swing low with them, with heads held back just brushing the earth. with pendulous gaits and heavy breaths. with absolution for sins just being revealed by the ever present process of decay.

i save up all my rainy days for a penny. flicked into the air. a panacea for confusion. call the future dualistic. either. or. but. and. then again....

diaspora

i lust for something which cannot be named. A thousand faces of longing roll across the sky like storm clouds. Threatening precipitation without breaking. These delicate tensions fill that strange space between heart and gut. Mayhaps i grieve the passing of that which both comforts and controls

on the other side of sunshine

bliss shares the hues of the light reflecting through my kitchen. On these soft days where shade is a virtue my giggles are the sporadic rythems of all the rains of my childhood. Some slight, some strong, some pounding. Some riding the wind to doorsteps and street signs and cafes. It swirls like a slowly stirred cake batter. Ripe for rising in the heat.

exfoliant

we roll through the days stripping back layers. bare flesh exposed to the sun.

we effevesence and bubble as what was dissolves. tasting sweeter than a childhood memory. more refreshing than saltwater on dirt. these swirling constellations hold still. momentarily. my shutter speed adjusts to the changes in light.

the spectrum shifts but the colour stays vibrant.
i am warm skin and soft thoughts and hope.

the shades of the morning

there are shades of perfection; this morning is the soft yellow light of a lamp in your grandmothers loungeroom. Elegance is the seduction of simplicity by beauty. I am lustful for these small things.

alignment

a day built for basking. i am clean skin shining. skipping through streets despite the illusion of an evenly paced midday stroll.

everything in it's right place as i neatly count my blessings. tie each one with a ribbon. kiss it soft and slow and sweet.

my thoughts flow like honey; languid, amber, rich. i lick the edges, sup it slowly, drizzle it between finger and tongue.

action flows from intention. the stream is bright and clear.

bliss bomb

we pass perfect days like this; with humble abundance and small revelations. Catching sunlight in our conversation; we are overtones of resonance and the whole world hums with a simplicity that is at once both sparkling and warm.

inertia

we count the minutes between sun and shade. Sometimes locomotion isn't obvious. Sometimes it takes a long time to stop. The law of inertia. Other days i can barely begin.

rise

i am melting my supersitions with a lighter and an ice pick. i am purging worn out plans with a feather duster and a toy pistol. i am tearing up lists from childhood and mixing them with cow shit to create the perfect mix for my best friends vegie patch.

despite the fog of influenza, i feel clearer than I have in years.

transit

my throat in ribbons. Everything lifts off my chest and floats behind me on the highway. I am marking time with landmarks and deep inhalations and the roar of the wind. Cyclical spring cleans lift me from yesterday to tommorrow. Wrapped in a horizon of gold and purple my true colours are revealed. Every passing comment holds stationary for just long enough to capture the moment before moving on.

invisible threads

because you plastered the house with excerpts from my favourite book and everytime i walk past them i'm inspired to be more of myself. Because i could listen to your accent all day and it would still sound like candy and the childhood i never had. Because you look beautiful stoned, uncoherent in trackie daks. Because no one looks better in a diamonte g banger. Because you always inspire me to sing. Because you make the big picture a master peice. Because you always call the corners for me. Because we share the same nickname. Because i know you'll never lie to me and trust me to do the same. Because you want to meet my dad and go fishin. Because you let me hold you while you cry. Because you leave my favourite biscuits on my doorstep when i'm not home.

quantum leaps

everything is a metaphor if you look at it in the right light.

last night is washed over paper and cluttered kitchens. the new day brings small feather dusters and ajax and sponges and sinks.


i'm gonna clean this whole damn place if it kills me.


nothing disappears or dissipates. it only changes states. between time and place and matter something collides and shatters. it is elementary physics.

the things i left too early
to learn...

before truth

the light brings clarity. that radiance burns. small welts bubble and my heart is a small, outward sigh.

oh well.

i am feathers floating back to earth. i am seashell that finds it's way back to shore. to that still place, strong and stable, where I am alone with my thoughts.

break

The storms break with bird song. Light floods the office and I am stretching towards it, fingers outspread.

The horizon is catatonic. Secrets folded into places I have lost sight of, transcribed in languages I've forgotten the sound of. There are entire wetlands in the puddles I ride through on my way to work. There are oceans rising up in my backyard.

Everything is melodramatic
Everything is bigger
than me.

I place my bets with the ants. Mimic their scurrying. Carrying small things to a larger place.

outline

the evening sky is the same shade as home. Diaspora slow waltzes nostalgia. I am all places. Every colour imaginable to the sky. An afternoon of being unable to leave in a town built for coming back to. It was paradise i tasted, slightly tinting the tea. Steep me in every memory we are making from river water and sky.

in the soft orange light of the morning i swelter. My body abandoning my mind, i am deep breathes and restlessness. I am flushed and softly sighing, a small furnance, embers glowing. Dreaming licks my skin and i am quivering with recollection. I am a small child waiting for cake, running fingers around cream tipped edges. My desire howls relentless. I muzzle it with reason and begin my day.

radiant

then there emerges from the cold a day so perfect in breaks your heart each time you walk inside. Awakening from suspension, my skin smells like hope again. Time resumes it normal function. We grow joyful at small things. Abstinence seems so distant. The earth can almost dream of spring.

everything valuable and transient

hours stretch like highways. i draw dotted white lines down the centre. seperate comings from goings.

politics interlaced with ambitions. memory threaded with truth. the day has many corners to roll itself onto. slothful and resplendent as arthritic diamonds, each too lazy to hold the light.

for too long.

i race myself to honesty and back. lose my breath as we round the post. i stayed up all night drinking in the moon and catalouging everything transient and valuable.

i've been trying to wipe your taste from my lips for hours now, but it lingers like clouds across desert skies.

for the low lit sky it sparkles

the day drives me back to bed. I will let this cloud wash over me. Huddled in blankets, watching rain from windows, bearing witness to the slow alchemy of precipitation. When i dream there are only wildflowers, carpets of purple and gold. In this low light everything glistens; the sand mimicing the stars.

interlude

small sighs betray heady memories. The day aches with fantasies of tangled sheets. I search for chasteness under neon lights.

requiem for the sky

the day defies all logic.

grey clouds sweep over the ranges and for a moment i forget my location. my bearings scattered, sattelites swept over with washes of swirling moisture. must the weather always be a metaphor for some other time and place?

i shut myself in with my piles of paper. statistics swing from the cobwebs and play poker with task lists whilst my back is turned. i'm not sure if they're breeding or eloping or fighting or fucking.

i'm not sure of anything when I can't see the sky

i pull myself back to the warm glow of composure
drift back to sensibility again.

celestial bodies

i tie a rope round my waist before free falling. Meditate on summits and escarpments and adrenalin. Chart the movements of shooting stars on the pages of my journal. Burn every tale to light up the sky. Half celestial, half loam, i stretch to make ends meet.

surge

if i could suspend these surges for even a second, i'm not sure if i would. My monsoonal urges slide up against me; melt and electrify me, wake me in the early hours with better things to do than sleep. On heady nights you'll find me hunting them, clad in blankets, brandishing butter knives. Tasting the air for a mix of innocence, desire and fear. My lucidity dances with whiskey. Delerium licks at my heels and caresses my thighs?

low pressure systems

tangled in sheets in the low light, my breath grows heavy as the sky. I blame the weather for that steady descent. The air pressure to close to my skin, the morning nipping bare flesh with invisible teeth. Biting my bottom lip i writhe through these early hours. Housebound with lust and shaking fist at the barometric yearnings oscilatting from scalp to sex and back again. On days like this i cannot be trusted. Falling like rain onto every inch of open space.

settle

it begins to recede. A slow outward motion. Like a breath. Like a moon. Like a tide. I settle with the sun. Make treaties with my anxieties in wet cement on the way home. Over my shoulder is debris and sandcastles, mementos and grand gestures. In my heart is a small bird singing a song about the virtues of coals.

orange light

sometimes we spin so fast we forget we are whirlwinds. Until the dust gets in our eyes. My circles grew concentric until i was turned on my head. Staring inwards instead of across. Confronted with the obscenity of my desires. My lists hang flacid, redundant. I am scratching through the dot points into finer detail. All that is superfluous drifts into the ether. I am left with enough to call my own'.

fucking ouch

the day was a dull ache. Curled into blankets, cocooned in feathers i am drifting between this world and the next. A steady throb and a distant pounding, i am paralysed in this week of lists. The rest is welcome till the boredom sets in. I long for something to sink my teeth into.

something to tide me over

i bear my canines. Revert to mammallian tendencies for something to sink my teeth into. Follow gut instincts till theres nothing but bile and contraction. Eventually, everything must pass through. In the last hours of sunday i am sallivating with technocentric dreaming. I am steaming tender things until they are done. Fledgling ambitions grow wings on nights like these. Falcons do burnouts across the horizon in search of new places to rest. i hold onto kite strings and practice all that i saw.

fissures

on this day, despite the sunlight i am sunk into the fissures. Small pockets of shade sheild me from petty gestures of small talk. Today i sling my introspection between the morning and the afternoon. Wait paitently for the sun to shift, and i with it, towards dusk.

dust storm

i get caught in the cross fire. My mouth already foaming, i roam the streets sniffing leftovers, searching for a place to bury old bones. Theres nothing left to pick. Select cuts already sliced and diced and thrown it to the stew. I try to simmer. Maintain a slow bubble. Avoid the burn outs and black pots and steel wool scrubbings that leave fingers raw. The steady hiss of the pressure cooker is comforting. It reminds me of everything forgotten and warm.

mobile

the last of us slunk into the evening. Rolled back shoulders as we went. when the light catches us we become our own people. Before we disappear into blankness again. i've become obsessed with small things. Trinkets made for pockets. Thoughts that comfort when rolled over in the palm of your hand. my heart quivers. Barely audible. I blame it on the cold.

a smallpoint

hush now.

theres no point thrashing your way through the opening credits. rolling eyes and strolling syntax have no place in the back row of cheap thrills.

the villan is yet to reaveal himself
the hero is barely a child

take this.

i wove it for my mother before i remembered who she was. her shoulders seem so small these days. i can't tell if she's really shrinking or if the light does strange things to my eyes.

you look just like her memory
in fact you look
just like me

for the longest night

We made it;

some of us on our knees with cracked palms and grazed knuckles. Some of us with suitcases strewn across the land. Some of us nursing tender hearts and throbbing heads and screaming infants (real and imagined).

Leaning into the precipice,

On this longest of nights I keep watch with small lanterns. I patrol the perimetre for ghosts. I eat only what I can swallow. Sing lullabies for hours to the passing clouds and challenge my nightmares to another game of truth or dare.

I burn everything
except for the ashes.
I am scarlet and orange
and white.

between cycles

The week ends with a languid stroll and an O shaped mouth.

The dust always settles. We know this. No matter how hard the wind blows. Even tornadoes have quiet days. Even cyclones find time to sleep.

We all start as a soft breeze. As a collision of highs and lows. All things spin in the same direction as the water that sucks down my sink.

Relativity is a rational perspective.

I know that as the sun sends it salutations I will spin again. Agitated as a washing machine. Strung tight as a clothes line.

Proof

Between the dead and the line I am. Weaving creation stories.

There is a god outside the capital. I am in bold and double spaces. I am proof. Reading all my testimonies and finding the things I need to change.

The hard copy is always final. We offset print and destroy the digital.

I am barely managing. The cycle complete

a monday

I function at the extreme ends of times. Frantic
and barely moving.

Executing tasks at point blank range. A crime of passion. I leave my fingerprints everywhere.
I'm cordening off whole areas and collecting small specimens in jars.

Some memento moris
Just to remind me where I am.

weaving invisible threads

we were marshmellows toasted. trials of fire melt innards. sweet and sticky. forced into mouths.

on a road to nowhere. or papunya or elsewhere. these destinations elude me but i enjoy the ride.

personalities ferment in the early hours. i am ageless and ancient and toothless.

and it makes sense in these small moments. when the invisable threads catch the light of the moon. we are dancing between them; playing limbo and jump rope.

never tangling. only strenthening
the weave.

An excercise in vunerability

The toughest thing about me is my accent.
I feel as much as I talk.
Always too much.
I worry I'm too much. That I take up too much space.
More than my curves. More than my arse.
(although I worry about that too)
I can't help these oscillations
but I'm learning to curb the peaks and troughs.
I've never been happier. More content.
It's my friends who save me from my history
because there was a time when I had neither.
I want to free fall into emotion
but get scared of other peoples eyes.
Everything I write is true.
At the time.
I've only been in love once.
Forgiveness is the best thing I've learnt so far.
Love songs make me cry as do romantic movies.
I'm scared of the dark.
Sometimes I'm scared of myself
like I'm going to go back there
to that place I've almost
forgotten about.
I wish I wrote more than I do.
I'm jealous of my famous friends.
I wish I was braver.
I don't have favourites.
When I'm alone I love
to sing.

Whistle

My life masquerades as a melee. Search for the I of the storm.
Batton down the hatchs and take the taser to task. I am electricity in the guise of calm.

I step outside it.
Blow whistles.
Practice every gesture
for time out.

Stop. For a moment.
For a night.

Those revelations of defensiveness. The discomfort of another eye. Caught too long.
I always thought it was a physiological reaction.
Now I suspect my dyslexia plays tricks with concepts as well.

On monday

There is a list with everything I know on it.
I just can't work out what order it's in.
Priorities play dosey-do. We all change partners again.

The week explodes over my diary. It goes here and here and

here.

I cherish small graces; a sip of tea, a ciggerette.
Try to forget
you are leaving again.

If I stared into that vortex my heart would start shrieking.
We choose politeness
instead.

time out

I argued with my oracles until they told me the future was grand.

The clouds lift and the days shift from greyscale to vivid reds. The house exhales. I skirt the edges, savouring each solitary space. With open doors and see through walls I am rolling from room to room.

Exhuming dreams.

I've been studying the art of compost; turning shit into heady loams. My passion makes softer tones. I mellow into teapots and turn golden brown in time with bread.

Softer now, she tells me.
I nestle into coals.

gutless?

The days get stacked in the corner. I don't mean to be utilitarian. I'm just using what I've got.

I scoff seconds without thinking first. Gallop towards sunset and throw myself at bedsheets when the small hand reaches the large.

My methodologies are madness but the method seems to bring results. I argue with god about manifestation and push what I want into my mouth.

I thought I'd kiss you. I wanted to fuck you.
I stayed home and drank beer in the bath instead.

I guess I'm too busy to keep a lover or a full time job. Guess I'm too humble to admit the strength of my armour. Too proud to show my vunerability except when I take my clothes off. And as the days get colder I'm inclined to wear layers over everything.

I want someone to meet me in THAT place with a reverance unclouded by fear.

follow your nose

I can smell the change in temperature.

Bundled in blankets, nose gorgin on the high notes of clear mornings with crisp edges. Delicious contrasts.

I am decidious in autumn. Stripped branches reveal true form, trace the outline of where flowers will grow.

The edges of the desert are clearer, the ranges are brighter, our daydreams crystalise in this cool change slipping through.

Redemption

sink your feet into this sand. drop your heart in to the rising tide. spend a whole morning, just smelling and tell me you do not belong.

I'm experimenting with redemption. I hear echoes of other times and know it is not where I am.
I teeter between youth and that other thing that stretches into decades before me.

My heart is a small thing.
Humble in it's significance.
Constant in it's demands.

As we sucked the salt from the air in silence I watched myself slip between the mangroves and into the ocean. I have no explanations for these turns of phrases, I have no labels for this luggage. I am leaving. Behind.

all these things choked in my throat
have come up for air

I cannot name
what I have found

home

redemption is a clear blue sky and a moment alone.

blow sand out of old grooves. sand back peeling paint and sharp corners. trace the grain with my finger. run my cheek along the curves soft and smooth.

I found a small thing amidst old photographs. something precious and previously lost. cradled in palm, against ankle and back. I am re-threading old dreams and hopes.

Shed

like a reptile seeking shining skins, like a mudcrab at full moon.
Illuminated in that small moment. An opening for the truth to seep in.

Anger fades with illusion.
It is I who have cast the facade.

a little heavy

mostly it's an undercurrent. in the shallower spots it bubbles.
I am a mantra of ebb and flow.

Nocturnal restlessness, circling suburbs for places to land. My micro melodramas catapulting me from place to place. I am practicing compassion. I am straining for forgiveness.

Not that this matters terribly. Not that I am falling from a great height.
My ego bruised and my heart stubbed.

I am coming up for air

the journey home

The roadside exploded. Canopies and carpets all red and yellow and gold.
We light up the highway. Chase broken white lines. Hunting down small towns one sign at a time.

I catch adrift.
My moorings blasted.
I am practicing space
and time.

As the landscape flattened and we sank into the clear depths my cartographic confusions melted away. Amidst the crossroads and detours I recall the only direction that leads me home. Swept up in vistas and submerged in soft water I weave prayers into the night sky.

Heartache feels just a little bit
like falling in love.

I am reborn into soft hands and warm blankets. I am milky sky dreaming and saltwater breezing,
winding through streets carved on the backs of my hands.

lousy and cheap

If I could be bothered this page would be spittle and spite. But that does neither of us any good.

But I will say this: Your timing is fucked and it made me feel lousy and cheap.

between updates

Relinquishing the last of the red dust. Tracing it's swirling descent. Cocooned against the coolness, I am waiting.

We negotiate in sketches. When we harmonise it chimes like a round of drinks with old friends. Held high glasses foam and overflow.

My skins puckers and subsides. I catch prickles in my shoes. I hold my breath until it passes. Until it's safe to come up for air.

The distance smells like damp and salt and thick pastes and heady sauces.
Tongue straining towards the sealine. The tar glistens like dew.

a gentle place

In these hours between dusk and midnight I find myself mimicking the matriarch. I mend small things. Put love into inanimate objects. Breathe immortality into all that I own.

I wonder at the passage of time. My growing attention to detail. A patience that comes from glances cast over a shoulder, and seeing a whole world unfold.

Not that I am perturbed by these things. Not that my hair falls like autumn into winter. Though my habits and addresses are deciduous, I know myself to be more perennial than the small scraps of memories one calls a life.

And so I impregnate pages. Nourish small openings of hope. Sing lullabies to my garden. Tell bedtime stories to my fears.

These insignificant gestures and humble moments are enough
for me
for now

domestic muse

Do you know what lust means?

I hear it click click through night and day dreams. Eyes closed, red shoes...theres no place like home.

Something about pussy with no courage, girlish innocence, heartless men and vindictive hags. This is not my fairy tale.

My bed times tell different stories.

Where the garden has become over run I resort to herbicide. Sky blue bottle, it seems so idyllic; like volcanoes and mushroom clouds.

I carve out intention in small wooden pallets. Lay plans between planks and stone.

gustation

If I close my eyes I can hear it rush past me.

I am surging through the days, with lists and diary entries. In the early afternoon I drink tea with the ranges. I am reminded that time crafts all worthwhile things. While my quick fix gratifications scull coffee and chain smoke ciggerettes there is a silent part that counts small things like the stars.

I tiptoe between them.

That part of me which feeds on it, scoffs it down drooling. There is a part of me that waits patiently with open palms and deep breath. My dreamscapes change focus. I am not sure of the direction yet am still scared of sitting still for too long.

Prehaps if I wouldn't have to eat so quickly if I didn't pile my plate so high.

sky swept clean

the mornings are clearer. less weight in the sky. with clouds i am lifted. swept clean by the cool autumn air.

the river is fading. marking the point between seasons. i am on the other side. tracing the last of the cool water as it winds down through the town.

in these small readjustments are cataclysmic changes. richoter scales the walls and then comes down again.

on these cool nights we grow closer. clarify like that great dome of diamonds that stretchs upward.

a canvas of satellites. we reflect what is meaningful, what is frivolous, what is futile. all the while keeping pace with the roations of home.

as it should be

With precision I mark up the boundries. Fluid yet defined.

The morning emerged like a dawn should. Refreshed. Bouncing through the house. I am revising lists and angles. I am asking for nothing but honesty.

There is an urge to carve quickly now. To push with full force into what I think might be. I am muzzeling the dogs and tethering the horses.

This new thing is fragile. Startles easily.

I am vaugley europhic, depsite my anxieties.

song for the sky

The sky stays steady the day through. .I am humming myself into calmness this afternoon. The light like a lullaby soft and low.

When all the swirling subsides there is a moment of friction, where I rub up against my own silence. My mouth moving in muteness. My mind seeking deafness amidst the distant pounding of my hearts desire.

Could we ever leave this place of knowing and voyage into the wilderness? Could we be confronted with our own nudity? I am slightly curled fingers, inhaling wet earth, singing sailor songs to the sky.

drenched

A flood gate opens. We are at the mercy of the torrents. Huddled under thin scraps of iron, peering into the grey and white streaked skies.

That which traps us brings us new life.

Shivering in my underwear, seeking refuge with the insects and rodents. My mammalian instincts run deep this morning. The warmth of my blood contrasts the air.

I am seeking islands and building arks. I am ignoring that part of me that screams evacuate. I am postponing all decisions until the waters subsides.

drenched

The river rolled into town this morning, frothing at the mouth. I caught it as it slid down the sand, leaving branches in it's wake. Everything is redeemed in the soft light beneath gray skies. Beer cartons afloat become life boats for insects and abandoned hopes.

The desert has become electric. Lightening carving the sky in the early morning. The sound of the heavens spreading, the gutteral choruses of angels, wake me from my sleep. When the light slips into my room it finds me restless, burning through my dreams of torquise lakes and mountains that never end.

My soul whistles in it's locomotion.
The inspiration surges once more

bask

My heart falls over itself. There is a profound silence preceeding a dull roar. In this white room, accompanied by the jerking movements of the clock I am reflecting and regathering strength.

I wonder at these insights that flutter like moths wings in the night. Swooping low like insects across the grass, collecting dew. I am softer than raindrops, more brittle than resin. In that quiet place holding a latern to the corners of the room.

between midnight and dawn

That which binds us is our greatest key to liberation.

I keep watch with the early hours. Practice accounting of every description. In this early morning luminesence I cannot decipher red from black. The spectrum disintergrates into the slow ticking as time leaks from my clock.

A slow drizzle envelops the desert. Grey nomads and thunder clouds. A wet blanket cast across Autumn. We need more purification it seems.

from the left

A sudden whirlwind overtakes me. The desire to blow everything down and rebuild. Prehaps it's been the electrical storms, rattling at my windows each night.

My impulses are dynamite. I'm up for running. Stretching legs to the horizon and galloping until these fidgets are diffused in wide open space.

Let me be propelled from one moment to the next. Suspend the hammer before it smashes. Shattering everyhing in site. I stare at the ceiling until the walls come down. I am clipped wings mimicing flight.

deep breath

despite all my apprehensions, I am grateful for this process.

the shedding of skins overseen by caterpillers, stretching in both directions into the horizon. for all my doubts i am trusting the many reasons why i am here. it is our fears that show us where our greatest strengths lie. there are no weaknesses, merely sore spots. acheing calling for relief.

each day the sun is reborn. there is no need to fear change

on truth

I dissolved into the sand beneath that magnficent midnight skyline.

Something lifted between those trees. A weight soaring upwards on plumes of smoke, transiting to that place where Things Can Finally Rest.

Sleeping dogs lie about alot of things. I'd prefer to tell the truth. Unexpected revelations and the chance to name what had been lurking amoungst the folds of my heart like a campdog around a campfire.

For the record your honesty anchored me as I cast myself into that great expanse. Grounded me in this place without tethering me to what has passed. The chance to look back over your shoulder and describe the landscape is a gift.

And with this knowledge I can walk forward. With this knowledge I can begin anew.

re(turn)

That which has been traversed cannot be recrossed. There is no use in trying to plough a field with a fork.

It's a clouded convolution but I am holding out for rain. I'm not sure where the the moment stops and where I begin. But I am learning, slowly burning small bags that appear in my dreams. I am tracing outlines round the edges. Dotted lines that let the light in.

perimetre

A shock marks a boundary. Carves out the space between what is yours and someone elses.

The sudden disconnection threw me. Backwards. Hurtling away from so many small strings. Revealing the unclouded moment in which I lay. In constant suspension, traversing time, like a small cocoon hoisted above a ravine.

And when my fever rose, I did not feed it. I put my stick away. I watched it dance along that perimetre, lines emerging from the sand.

If I were braver I would be less cryptic.
These wings are still waiting to dry.

Chasing the sky

Swimming in the stars. Enchanted by the constellation. Dancing with the pendulum from death to life and back again.

I am serenading the illusions that envelop the truth. Staring down the realities, lining them up like ducks in a row. A potent brew, I drink deep of the moon, howl my wishes into the void. Thrust myself like an echo, from the base to the summit once more.

Emerging from the underworld, I am draped in all of my dreams. Opaque in the dawning, these things that ellude me are just within reach. By the time the sun sets, the strip tease arouses my senses until I am basted. In the twilight the nectar dribbles down my chin.

Another slumber starts the cycle again....

seasons greetings

Something must surface. We can only hold our breath for so long.

Skimming the bottom and looking upwards. The light is split into each corrugation. Each movement refracted and rippled. I am transfixed by the changes in form.

I come back to that place of gentle chaos. Sit straight backed in the eye of the storm. And the howling, it is a lullaby. I cradle the rocking breeze.

As surely as the wind will blow dust from my eyes. As surely as the fire germinates the seed. As surely as the flood clears the debris, as the earth turns death to life again.

This too shall pass.

a calm fear of embrace

I am anxious in my vunerability. I oscillate between the ebb and the flow. Cool comfort seems elluding. My pattern burned deep in my cortex. I am repetitions of repetitions of repetitions.

I am longing to open my heart and pour out milk and honey. To smother yr lips with sweet wine. I am fearful in my longing. I am hesitant in my embrace.

Am I learning too quickly? Am I deluding myself?

My cards fall where they will. I tell myself stories littered with riddles and fears. Smatterings of truth filter through.

if it is my own transformation I am witnessing,
then why do I so desperatley want to share?

half waking

Despite the turbulence I am tranquil. Remain seated as the lights go on. My nocturnal imagry contorts. I dream of train tracks and streetscapes and deafness.

I am still fossicking amidst my adolescence. Searching for clues as to how I got here. I am falling in and out of alignment. Interspersing the melee with a cool breeze.

All four points are shifting. In every direction the horizon mutates. Not that I find this disturbing. It just takes my eyes a while to adjust.

garbled

Pivotting but not pivotal. Suspended between nodes. Circling like a sattelite. Reflecting the coldness of deep space onto the humid air below.

I capture and keep each sound from the outer realms. Tack them to my wall until they lose significance. Something fell away today but I am yet to find the empty space that remains

We giggled into the void. Held hands at the precipice. She and I jumping. Red shoes clicked. Wands snapped. The witch absconded with a small dog. Last seen heading West, dust billowing behind her.

I am yet to translate the transmissions. Preliminary findings suggest something momentous. We are unsure of it's dimensions

gently now,

Sometimes it is best to leave things where they lay.

Leave them sleeping. Eyes fluttering with dreams. I won't wake you to tell you all the stories I've just discovered, written in the skin of the moon.

There's milk and honey in my bowl. Fresh fruit on the trees. The seasons turn slower than the days. I will be paitent like the ground that aches for spring, although winter is yet to arrive.

the last of it

I linger in the midnight blue. Taste the last of sunshine before the cool. My revelations are pastels, soft and smudged in the early eve.

Too many hard corners have bruised my thighs. From this small summit the landscape undulates, mimics my oscillations, my sensual exhalations. My backyard reveals hidden treasures; broken sculptures and small childrens toys.

I am panning for gold. Through the dirt rises glimmers. I can't make out the weight but I know there are treasures for the taking. Time will tell if I am a fool or if the dull glow confirms the true value of that which I desire.

of the gentlest kind

In the murky haze of alcohol I strain to reach you. Fingers fully flexed. Mouth open. Famished. Seems I haven't eaten in days.

These brow beating afternoons in my bedroom serve as no subsitute for sustanence. I always scoff my food. Try to let it linger a little longer on my tongue. But my gullet is calling for more of what my hands are thrust deep into.

In the desert there is no horizon. There are only mirages we mistake for waterholes.

Last night I dreamt I was swept out to sea. I tried to swim sideways whilst you watched from the shallows. I play this game with myself you know. Roll the dice and call it fate. I confuse my own devices for tools.

Until it takes me I will keep my head above water
They say drowing is the gentlest death.

diss conection

I swing through rage and back again.

The constant beep beep of disconnection pounds me to sleep. Grinds against my jaw. There are only empty spaces now. Only empty cartons and piling dishes and a list of things we no longer share.

I resist shut down.
Try to keep open.
Try to carve a line between what is mine
and yours.

Righteous is not the same as right. There are vowels between us.
I keep these things private. We are two whirlwinds.
I implode upon myself.

unscheduled interruption

It slips into the spaces between rational thought. A lingering lustful fantasy, that hums in the background. Like an insect. Like a radio.

I am handfulls of paperwork, espousing theory. Trying to link action to reaction to reflection. I am right way, wrong way, the middle path.

Then it slips up my skirt, transports me beyond.

If I could focus it would be blurred. Soft lines and rich colours. A tapestry of desire in the eye of a needle. Like a rich man. Like a camel. Like a slice of proverbial heaven.

Sliding down my throat
Then I revert back to normality once more

and so it rolls

Constant fluctuations. We talk of wave patterns, roll through the details, imbibing tea and lessons learned.

These breezy mornings move us beyond stasis. It is not just the insects gnawing their way through the days. We are stripping the old growth, searching for new shoots.

Something that sustains.

tiny tantrum

A small inferno.

When everything changes, something must burn. There must be ashes and smoke and coal. The sunday seared. The thermal winds sweeping me upwards towards boiling point.

I wanted to howl like a banshee. To scream for a four year old child. To sever these bonds so I wouldn't have to feel the force of emotion when you two finally depart.

I am not used to being left behind. I am always the one that runs.

Gutter(al)

You could hear it from down the street. Roaring like an ocean, slapping against the banks of the footpath. Gutteral screams and raised voices. Bins falling like dominos as they approached.

It couldn't be the moon. It was but a slither. Maybe it was the day getting even with night. I know this: he was angry, prehaps as terrified as me. I could smell it rising off of his scalp.

Screaming at me to stop staring. How the tables have turned. Me in my nightdress closing my door on the terror outside. Once I walked the streets in those shoes. Fury leaking from every pore. Scrambled through hedges naked with gravel cuts on my knees.

Prehaps I doubletake to check that I am still inside, and the past remains out.

on grace

I realised I'd slipped out of her shadow, though I couldn't mark the moment that I left. A gentle fading, like the tide being pulled back towards the moon.

I filed my fangs, retracted my claws. I am no longer whirlwinds and howling rain. I am no longer romancing my demons, courting them with hisses, building walls to keep us cosy in our aching.

Although the fear may still rise, I know that it will no longer knock me off my feet.
After so many years it is finished.

on locusts and lettuces

In these days of locusts I am grateful I am not a lettuce. My tender tenticles carefully disguised beneath waxed coating and thorns.

I am yet to wash the memories from my sheets, but my underwear remain unstained. My heart only races when the caffine rushes. Pounding down tracks on high rotation remains the domain of my ipod and computer screen.

Still, in the mornings, when my eye is torn between the grace of leaves and grass, I find myself stuttering. My fidget is a minor tick that betrays the lurking surges of insanity. It is only on small occasions that I trace the scars and touch the memories beneath.

sigh before slsumber

I drain my body with a long languid swig. Cast it onto the bed. The day diffuses as I cut wires from neck to shoulder. Disconnect mind from heart.

It swings low.

The pendulum a lullaby incarnate. Rock me gently sweet chariot. I dream of three cities, and so many houses in between. Personalities cast into the dust like thistles. Some perish, some struggle, some thrive.

Now I make my nest out of spinifex. Equidistance from all that I love. Menage a trois with the devil and the deep blue sea. The starlight, my mistress, I forsake all but the sky.

something to learn

It fell back into my lap. The evidence pointed in one direction. The push and the pull shoved into my face. In that sudden slap of awareness I realised that the answers will not arrive addressed to you c/o something recognisable. Evidently the universe is not a short order cook.

And then the waters receeded. I walked along the banks where the river had flowed. Realised that it is our choice whether to tread water or swim.

illumination

The dark of the moon illuminated what had skulked in the shadows so long.

On that short winding road home, my sister shined for me. The truth slid into place, clicked like cogs freshly oiled. The binaries multiplied into the infinite, like so many satellites above us.

Sustanance supped over breakfast. I am cradeled by the webs we weave. Though the fog may dip into the valleys on cold mornings, and the dips in the road may rattle the chassey, home remains a constallation, drifting in the night skies, lighting my way.

it hurt nonetheless

Not that you would care enough to read this. The distance does not affect you the way it does I. Is it that long acheing highway that sings me into delerium, the generations of expansiveness that makes me stretch and long and ache?

My core is soft. Tender like kisses. Falls like raindrops on corrugated iron roofs. It beats loudly and weeps softly. Has a penchant for whiskey and flights of fancy.

I pity the object of my desire.

redemption

I sang all the way home.

the currents racing through my arms reconsituted. i became moist flesh again.

red and greens blurred on the horizon. a slow waltz with country at dusk. the one two three one two three reverberating through the creek bed. despite the onlookers I know we're alone.

Ocasionally I stumble yet you catch me. it's been so long since my knees have been grazed. I walk upright these days. Though my arms may itch and my nails may ache, these things do not bother me so much.

You save me each and every one of you. With small gestures that move mountains. One grain at a time.

Last chance saloon.

Should you find yourself alone with a quiet moment, resist the urge to fill it with electricity.

Although the hum of technology may comfortingly whisper from the next room, refrain. All the pixels in the world won't capture what can slowly unfold from the shadows, still wet and licking at it's skin like a new born bird.

Peck through the shell.

The yolk of your infancy has long been consumed. You have filled up all the white spaces. Your beak will break if you curl into yourself any further.

The only option is to fly.

where the heart is

The red washes back over the horizon. My new home is ochres and whites. I unpack the last of the rations from the city. Wipe dirt from every surface. Pretend that I'm new.

I have revisted every skerick of desire and found myself captured by the expanses again. Rolling over the horizon in steel tubes seems appealing for so long, now I am singing for rest.

Somewhere between the green grass and the sound system I lost you. Found myself where you had been.

All of the old things have new places. Finally, a start to the year.

THTHTHTHE THE PIGS ARE CALLING FOR SOMETHING TO SNORT. MY THOUGHTS ARE BROADCAST EVERYWERE BUT HERE

finding it

We shout our wishes to the breezes. Try on masks in small town op shops. Wolf down pies before howling midnight tunes in sunny backyards on trampolines.

I am letting the light into that small chamber where romance is playful and dreams still come true. Every bad accent is a reaffirmation that the only location that matters is here.

In the moments when the connections electric, when sparks are fire flies under fluroescent lights. My heart surges and fuses get broken. Buzzing like power lines.

on slow processes

The wind teases out the details, leaves my hair in knots.

Shaken like boughs and blown and blown, until the dust lifts and glides into the sky. i am at the point where the water and land clasp at eachother, I am saline and sand.

They are slow processes, abrasion and exposure.

defense mechanisms

I am already gone.

My things may still be strewn around your room but my heart has absconded. In my pocket there is a roll of tape labeled CAUTION. DO NOT CROSS.

I stitch together everything I have left. I am returning to Earth. Slamming the ground like a meteor, ensuring I leave my mark.

and all else...

between sweat and sex i catch moments of sensibility.

i alternate between realities; that of the body, that of the mind. i am floating in the midlands, commuting between the conceptual and the immediate.

on mascara and stars

my heart dips. slinks back into it's room. closes the door behind it. emerges with streaked mascara and smudged lipstick. pours whiskey after whiskey. no ice.

a star is an elusive thing to chase. it's glistening gives no sense of life. scattered amongst the millions it's hard to pinpoint the imprint of your name.

for an absent lover

I went through my entire back catalouge of dirty clothes to find the ones that still smell like you. Mixed them with moonlight and the last drops of saltwater until I could imagine the imprint of your body next to mine.

My sweat is as light as the dawn. As light as my declarations and my fears. I avoid sudden movements. I am as the breeze that stalks the leaves. I am holding my breath. I am holding. I am holding everything.

Back into the laundry. I am scrubbing until these thoughts run clean. Until my sleep is settled like sheep that have no need for counting. Until my heart is not doing arthimetic.

Until it is silent as the leaves that stalk the breeze. As silent as moonlight passing through saltwater. As silent as the imprint of yr body next to mine.

brain fucked

my eyes roll forward. my brain swarms in the late afternoon.
the last drops of the day fall onto my skin. i am hobbling through the edges of the light.

wrap me up in domesticity. let me linger a little longer in bed. let me feast on the carpet and the kitchen. let the dishes serenade me to sleep.

my ideas gallop through hallways. i am mustering them into rooms. i am seperating the lambs from the slaughter.

in the background my heart laughs long and low.

the splash

I found myself somewhere between god and a filing cabinet. There were lists that had been cast aside. My pen dissected the fat from the flesh. Carved small peices where large chunks had congealed.

My feathers were hungry, they feasted on air. The mountain emerged from fog so I could take in the view.

Every swan dive requires perfect precision. I am learning to seperate impact from splash.

the perfect fit...

i will not be estranged from my skin.

where folds of flesh fall upon each other, i trace with fingers. there are no sharp lines in this form. the rises and falls tell the tales of ten thousand, one hundred and twenty five day.

contained within is every memory worth repeating, every thought I'd rather forget.

my soul is too expansive for narrow hips.
although my mind races and my heart pounds
I will never be a greyhound.

droplets

in the grey the desert softens. rivers rise like tides under crescent moons. ankle deep in river water, i revise my childhood.

i want to be slow. snaking through the desert like renegade droplets seeking ancient oceans. i want to stowaway with the storm clouds and let myself fall onto empty places. i want to my movements captured on radars as i form and dissipate and form again.

an empty line

i am a slow steady waltz. moving across the floor at an even speed. my floor pattern consistent

all that separates me from the stars is a difference in chemistry and distance. this is the eternal equation. these are the numbers i cannot compute. the nearest decimal point seems endless. i am reductionism to the extreme.

and you elude me only in silent moments. when my breath is held and my tension is pulled. you are fences and i am wide open spaces. i am holding the empty line.

Scattered

I am walking through the house picking up small peices of myself.
Fragmented thoughts scattered. Particles of cohesive wholes.
Limping through the afternoon, sleeping through to evening.
Stretching my skin in all directions, trying to slide back into myself.

for the earliest hours

as the day grows into itself i am settling into my skin. the mayhem of last night leaves the house silent. it is only me and these keys keeping watch over the morning

in the thickness of the evening the wind picked up. we shifted from sweltering to cool. the atmosphere exhaled in long deep rythems. the timing impeccable. we were blowing away. i abandon all my dreams of ropes. i remember the lessons of sap, and slender branches and leaves.

my brother and i, sitting knee to knee, sink into the ground after so long in the air. these low pressure systems, so heavy in our spine, give way to changes promised by radars for so long.

displacement

the mornings cease to be sharp. the sun does not catch upon skin. in these cool, green hours, you could be forgiven that life here is gentle. that this is an easy place.

yet, sure as the slow buzzing of the alarm must lure me back into living, there is a threshold which must be observed.

if you go walking in this place, if yr own body does not fail you, the mechanics of the desert will displace your remains.

requiem for an unclouded night

I kamikaze in time with cicadas.
Blame it on the moon.

I write requiems for stars. Force everything to be finite. Embellish small actions into grief. Mourning the passing of a ciggerette, the emptying of a cup of tea.

I am spinning tragedies from the wide mass of the universe, as it spreads above me, and i below this. Savouring the moments between contact and separation, between together and blown apart.

Mimicing all the significant aspects of creation.
Dispersed between the poles of time and space.

head in the sand

Up until now I have avoided distraction.

In the late afternoon I grow tetchy. My thoughts tick and my shoulders itch. I am less like water. I am dry and receeding. I am mimicing my landscape once again.

I am thinking my way through the days. I am falling only into my bed at night. My dreams of ocean liners. I am floating only on special occasions.

The romance of distance and isolation and nothingness becomes me. I fall over and over and over again.

on beginnings

my heart hums a slow steady song. my bicycle chases the ranges into the setting sun. my soul goes west(ern) chasing guns.

so the year begins.

i walk perimeters, real and imagined. sit in the corner and observe all i see. i am making notes and lists. learning habits that one day will be mine.

when the days formalities are done with, we imbibe the tonic, fight flame with fire. our sins of the flesh are shared with light hearts.

our shells are cracking
it's been so long since i've seen her this way.

a slow vibration

my lust is like the moon. its waxing and waning reflects the light thrown on it. i stand torch in hand. my heart speaks in morse codes. sober dots and mad dashes.

as the afternoon cools, heat rises. i mimic physics, float helium ballons. is all that we are chemicals colliding, a construction of universal laws?

these things elude me.

i am low dulcet tones. i am reverberating at a speed slower than sound. in these idle moments i can see my palpatations glistening in the afternoon sun.

scatter guns

my heart is a shotgun fired into the clear night air. a scatter gunned reach for the stars. i am blowing into infinite peices. i am spinning the ball of string that will tie up the moon.

i make passes at rationality. all my mantras are sensible. there is no longing in the short spaces between baited breaths and traps snapping shut.

i greet the storm as i do all things.
with clenched fists and open mouth.

un-stacked

piece by piece i dismantle the pyramid.

i've had my back turned for a month. now the monkey is grinding his organ. this time i refuse to dance.

the looming shadow grows smaller. i am stripping back in slow motion. there are boxes on either side of me. one is for keeping and one will be left behind.

the anxiety is no longer electrifying. i am wrapping my crown in satins to pass on. fingers carefully tie knots in loose ends.

i can see the way ahead is clearer.

seared

I'm in retreat.

The day brightens, soaring with the temperature, I am catching glances of the ranges every which way I turn. I mimic rodents, scurrying,scurrying from shade to shade to shade.

Time becomes a languid beast. Lolling the hours away in coffee shops, swapping stories from other cities. Some of us have become isolationist, some of us are still sinking in.

The sun surges to the centre of the sky. My heart rises to greet it. Sparkling with reds and greens.

Run

the clouds emerged from the greyscale. the morning light could pass through the eye of the needle. I am dreaming of caterpillars and red rock.

Involuntarily my hand writes run. I am astounded at what my subconcious projects. I am changing plans and shifting the status quo.

It is time I got off this merry-go-round.

rest less

i get no sleep on these humid evenings.

sweat finds what sleep passes over. body contorted, woven between sheets. stacatto breathing and arched fingers. pared back i am all but foresaken by absence. my movements grow heavy. my eyes flutter constantly.

i wear my longing like a second skin. slide it over my hips, stretch it out along my spine, wrap it round ribs.

my desire is elastic. as the light is impaled on the blinds i test it's tension. snap myself back into reality.

nocturnal interruption

during daylight i dance with distraction. these nocturnal interceptions leave me confused. sandwiched between mattresses, eyes fluttering, mind racing. i am suspended in the hours before dawn.

peace is a ciggerette under an empty streetlight. a slow steady conversation with the stars. all aspects merge into an urgent indifference. anticipation is a hungry beast. i keep it on a tight leash. feed it with scraps.

the nightscape is drained of colour.
until illuminated i will be
greyscales masking yellow
and blue.

arafura

the temperature has risen and is caught in my shoulders. clouds catch my head in fog and phlegm.
the depth of the air is finite. beyond that is the sea.

last night perched on painted rocks, i watched the arafura lick my heels. all my manifestations have stalked this beach, sought clarity in these silted seas.

i am every inhalation of the tide.
i am draining each month with the moon

from languid beginnings

the day is bloated.

we are swollen on lounges. the humidity presses upon us. our speech grows slothful and slurred. we trickle through the day like rays through the cloud cover. turn to yellows on the tips of palm fronds.

stories are carved into feet. fading with time, rinsed in the rains. in this place, we defy physics, a reprise from reality. the precipice looms on the horizon.

i trace the outline with clenched finger and thumb.

not quite right

my depth of field is shattered.

my perception is shot. 

layer this on my temporal vertigo. 

there is no more i can say. 

on contrast

i am settling into the cycles of rain and shine. 

all is devoured by the garden. i am content to bear witness to the annhilation of the inorganic. 

my appetite has returned, the heavens emulate my stomach. days roll by like thunder storms. 

prone to excess, i mimic the contrast between wet and dry, vibrancy and grey scale. my heart has no anchor. i have no depth sounder. i am content to drift until running ashore. 

in these sweet monsoonal moments i catch myself sighing. wondering at the spontenaity of cyclical change 

gardia of eden

at the mercy of the elements, my chest grows heavy. there is so much i cannot swallow. my stomach contracts, my eyes expand.

in a sterile room she takes my pulse. explains her concerns for my health. i argue the case for consumption, that I'm recovering from a fall from grace. of those who partook in those heady days, is there been one who has not been struck down?

abandoning ingestion, my appetite is perverted. i sweat through blackouts with rising fevers, thirsting for briney bodies and tropical fruits.

in the whitewashed room we agree
that i am exhausted.

i do not detail why.

victims of the spectrum

the whole day was ravenous. the horizon wears clouds like a gunslinger, slinking low around it's hips. the storm slides into the ocean. water slides into water like skin slides into skin.

by the time it reaches our bodies we are clad in concrete and corrugated iron.

everything is preoccupied with growing. punget greens electrify gardens. we are victims of the spectrum, captured between torquises, pastels and greys.

the atmosphere envelops and claims me.
i become helpless in my restlessness.

the stillenss of green

touch down in thunder and torrential rain. awakening to a world washed green.
early morning chain smoking chain story regurgitation. my mother fresh dressed in jewells greets me with the dawn.

when sleep comes it is swollen with memory and anxiety. i am shuffling myself into place now.

now the grey is stillness and i am aching for salt and my sisters.
stop a moment. breath is catching.
chasing home again.

all this i would exchange

despite the sordid adventures under mosquito nets and bamboo ceilings, despite the sensuality of steam that pushes into every crack in my clothes, despite the glistening terraraced gardens, the torquises waters lapping, the endless olfactory overload, the gastronomic overstimulation

i am aching for the dryness, for invalid mountains, for red and more red, for houdini rivers and big sky country.

it is time to come home.

batur

hoardes of cats and derelict buildings, pork disguised as chicken. cramped betweeen back packs we descend into the volcano, held ransom by the pouring rain

fighting our way through the trinkets. we escape well after dawn, scalps tender from seismic steam baths.

we are winding our way through navigational half truths.
we are bloated on the taste of home.

rise as does the morning

the light of the north is muffled. curtained by clouds, filtered by water.
beneath the shower I am scraping the scent of you from my skin.

between mouthfulls of tea she asks for the details and i say i can't speak of these things. my hands return to emptiness. i am not holding. i am not grasping. these things flow through.

in the last night of the derelict palace i lay awake and contemplated how all things crumble. even stone must submit to the elements. my heart is organic and quickly washes away.

i seek higher ground and rising altitudes.
not yet ready to come back to earth.

Origin of the species

I am twice removed. Disconnected from the electrical. Toes buried in the sand.

This web we weave becomes elastic. Stretched to cover each and everyone. With stained cheeked embrace I remind her that I was never lost. I just couldn't be found.

We solder connections until the circuit is complete. I am full breathfulls of all that was colliding into that which is. I am both the then and the now, and therefore immortal in this place of shifting sands.

These things are for always. Dynamism rules the day.