I walked twice around the block and still didn't want to be in the same room as you.

My wound is a crescent moon on my finger. A blood blister in my shoe. A case for isolation. A contagious heaving heart.

My energy hangs low and foggy. I externalise my guilt. My sorrow will not be eased by another pot of tea.

Your pedantic deflections. My refusal to compromise. Truth telling leaves us exposed when we're up to our wrists in lies.

My assault on innuendo. Your passive agressive turn of phrase. Chalk lines on the refridgerator remain after being erased.

Honesty finds me wanting. Cuts around us like a stanley knife. Reminisenct of a childhood spooning out the blame.

Notice this billboard flashing. Read the stop sign walking past. I am a reflection of your refraction. The martyr behind the mask.

Adrift

It took me months to realise I'm wandering. I've lost sight of land and I can't return.
longing for red sand as I wrestled saltwater
shot like the first flare through the haze

It's been happening for a while though.
The obsession.

In that grey city with fabulous breakfasts we sat in her lounge room.Looking at the picture of Wartakka on my phone, and the photo of Charles Creek on my desktop she told me I was a desert junkie.

This morning I awoke and realised that i never had to leave. For the first time permanance seemed liberating. I am no longer fearful.

Is this the love they speak of in pop songs and on toilet walls?

I lost sight of the coast a long time ago.

experimenting with gone

dissolved like bath salts
swept like the floor
flushed like a girl on her first date
or a septic system just been cleaned.

the end notes of the day in yellow.

still in my pyjamas and typing.
i find myself back in bed.

rubbed back like table and polished.
cushioned in feathers and imitation wool.

i am complete bird, part animal. woven and stretched over wire.
i am linen. so fresh out of the packet i was born with wrinkels.
i have travelled the world and never been washed

my family dances tango and takes phonecalls
in the last days of the garden of birds.

we are greatful in our longing.

itchy fingers

cutting my memories again. small filaments of tissue fall to the floor and into my bag. i carry these small peices of my past with me. watch them get mushed into peices of chocolate left over from days ago.

i am practicing abstinence. folding fingers into palms to avert disaster. technology seems all to convienent and to be frank, you don't feel like a store.

this is my cyber declaration. as close as it comes to out of my mouth. a spill at this stage would be worse than red wine. my hands are stained enough as it is.

show me show me show me. something other than this long distance communique. give me something redemptive like a slow dance on the spencer hill at dusk. i watch planes taking off but your clothes would be better. all smooth and tarnished skins.

this is not something. this is something other than that. other than restorative justice. i am writing in the capital O.

three sentences and no intention

amphibian in my demeanor. the shallows fold back the deep. seated in the front with the wind blow. apart from this the ocean is calm.

swallow what you can't chew. spit the rest into the cup for a stranger. facts are just fiction playing earnest. conversation is what you make instead of love.

found my heart in a crystal. ball games are fairer than the ones that I make. up and onwards into the bright. blue is just another shade of desire.

motion pictures

the day turns soft. the sky a charcoal smudging. i am folded in blankets. melting. wanting to rub pigment across bodies. turn our skin into canvas and pastels. make pollock impressions with sweat from your brow dripping across my chest.

our mouths contain parallel universes. disembodiement of sensation as limbs like satellites encircle eachother. tangled torsos unknot shoulders. serpentine like that ancient archetype that swallows tales to create infinity. breath becomes stasis. pleasure paralyses in still life finger paintings.