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.