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?