bite

The city is so cold I cannot bear to sleep alone.
Walking past shops, belly hungry, trying to decide what the hell to eat. I am rumbling my way through my phonecalls. I am addicted to the sweet smell of toast. I am starving with empty pockets. I am remembering last weeks meals.

smoke and mirrors

The city is shakshooka; all round abouts and oven baked over expensive breakfasts mashed up with things that burn in my mouth. A belly full of hot air. I am impaling myself on barstools. Picking up the remains as I leave.
I am a charicature of myself. Running down main roads shoeless, trying to my push my feet into the bitumen, to force myself to stay in one place for a while. I am wearing this dust like armour, distancing myself from friends with profound statements about benign t shirt slogans. I'd drawn a line between us but we've run out of sand.

six pack and angst

Fuck it y'know cos it's hot enough to be alcoholic. Cos I've got enough excuses to call you with drunken propositions before the sunset. because out here I'm basting in the middle of everywhere and kilometres from anyone else.

because I've depleted all my booty calls and the sweat is dripping like tears and starfish don't belong in the desert thats why I don't lay down these days.

Between complaints that I am too earnest I spin lies out of dust and rocks. write my name into the ceiling each night so I remember who I wake up with at dawn.

and all of the excuses in the world are peppered with insecurity and truth.
all the things I hate are the what I would most like to be.

and all this angst and bullshit might disappear in my saturn returns and maybe if they don't that will mean that I am immortal.

procrastination

Trying to get motivated in this kind of heat is like trying to get laid at a spoken word gig; it's not going to happen but you continue to sink beers in the hope that it's going to help some and end up alone masturbating on your bed.

It's a work day. I'm inventing centipede bites to avoid the bike ride into town. I'm checking facebook, gmail and my work webmail on rotation to try and convince myself that I am getting things done. My libran tendancies are undulating - i've got mercury poisoning.

My computers caught whooping cough. Little snippets of gravel sound intersperse my attempts at productivity. I feel like a kmart catalouge thats been left to long in the rain. I am stuck in the karmic cycle of my CD collection. Nirvana seems innappropriate in my line of work.

Serotonin depletion threatens to bring on the kind of life event that I am paid to prevent.

out here, in there

the cattle in my backyard
and the quartz on the hill
fail to inspire you

the rabbit warrens
are wind tunnels
for the anxiety
that keeps me
taking in too much
air

between eroticism
and earnest conversations
is the face that I keep holding
so close to the surface of my skin
that you mistook it for my own

and sometimes I do too

out here
the stars are less pretencious
and futher out of reach
reality is
a reminder
that this country
could kill you
if you forgot the words
or sang the wrong songs

meanwhile
the cities heartbeat
eclipses the distant burning
huddling in pubs
forgetting
why we don't want
to go home

click and close

even with the deadlines
we were flat lining in our seats
the cartography of fluroescents
and caffine keeps us anxious

we are rubbing ourselves
on the edges of desk
up against refridgerators
when no one is looking
the eroticism of our boredom
leaves us with guilty faces
in the tea room

Technorati Profile