I am surrounded by dirty cups.
Thoughts perculate. Pushed through hot water and small brown granules. Give me something to liven my senses. Something to add texture to the day.
The sun goes through the motions of the day. Shreds of shade scatter across the day and I sink into the afternoon, red wine casting itself across the sky.
My tension is going rancid on the stove top. Racing around the house doing other things. Cutting words with a blunt knife on a dirty chopping board.
Despite the whistle of the kettle there is still so much unsaid.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Eyre
The horizon disappeared the moment we lost sight of land. In a country so remote the whiteness seemed alien. The reds gave way to yellows. Yellows receeding to the glare of a thousand crystals. A thousand diamond propositions to give your life away.
We sink beneath the mud. Wallow in our senses. Scratching for water amoungst the salt and the rolled up swags. We relinquish our boundries. Give in to tarmac obsessions. Green signs and green cans and green ciggerettes. Contemplate superficiality before plunging our hands into the sand out here.
The ruins of our forebearers lie crumpling. The roadside monuments constant reminders of impermance. Everything is blown away or evaporated. Everything becomes elemental. Bare bones of mammels and automobiles are licked dry by the wind. Death becomes beautiful. A polished thing.
Pissing on the side of the road I resist temptation to wander into the sand. To join the gibber hoppers and acacia. Make peace with ambition once and for all. The toyota rosy lips and purring heart seduces me back to where I should be, uncertain if thats where I belong.
We sink beneath the mud. Wallow in our senses. Scratching for water amoungst the salt and the rolled up swags. We relinquish our boundries. Give in to tarmac obsessions. Green signs and green cans and green ciggerettes. Contemplate superficiality before plunging our hands into the sand out here.
The ruins of our forebearers lie crumpling. The roadside monuments constant reminders of impermance. Everything is blown away or evaporated. Everything becomes elemental. Bare bones of mammels and automobiles are licked dry by the wind. Death becomes beautiful. A polished thing.
Pissing on the side of the road I resist temptation to wander into the sand. To join the gibber hoppers and acacia. Make peace with ambition once and for all. The toyota rosy lips and purring heart seduces me back to where I should be, uncertain if thats where I belong.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
ciggerette butts as redemption
And it all comes back.
all that big country red sand vertigo. the exhileration of kilometres passing faster than time. all that too fast breath intake and suspension of comprehension. that spinning out of control in a landscape so ancient, the beating of your heart seems irrellevant in it's speed.
the beauty of an abandoned house. the freedom in isolation. the liberation of being removed from everything familiar and transplanted in country that feels more familiar than your thumbs.
the transcendence of happiness, the removal of illusion. A solo waltz in a fluro lit lounge room to the sound of a distant friend. the romance of drinking by yourself
like a ciggerette flicked from a vechile of a car. the fire returned.
all that big country red sand vertigo. the exhileration of kilometres passing faster than time. all that too fast breath intake and suspension of comprehension. that spinning out of control in a landscape so ancient, the beating of your heart seems irrellevant in it's speed.
the beauty of an abandoned house. the freedom in isolation. the liberation of being removed from everything familiar and transplanted in country that feels more familiar than your thumbs.
the transcendence of happiness, the removal of illusion. A solo waltz in a fluro lit lounge room to the sound of a distant friend. the romance of drinking by yourself
like a ciggerette flicked from a vechile of a car. the fire returned.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
shhh
Intention was a smooth round stone, rolling over and over in my palm. the light hung like mist, slowly floating down around the back yard. the air seemed cooler than it was. the house was soft edges of blue.
i am tone deaf. the world has one vibrancy and it pulsates with all the vivid imagination of a four year old.
i am tone deaf. the world has one vibrancy and it pulsates with all the vivid imagination of a four year old.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
words and music
It starts with the unravelling of thoughts, words, memories and emotions. It starts with a couple of beers.
Every song has a thousand reference points, every album a constellation of flashbacks. I could take every conversation I've had and to a burnt CD and still have enough room left over to drop in some quintessential favourites.
That riff was us driving away from those shallow hot water streams, where I lay in the water till my skin turned into sunsets of blisters, pink is the colour of love fading. That was the first time I read those cards and what they told me terrified me so much that I almost threw them into that cauldron spring.
These lyrics are the longing of distant lovers, of unexpected phonecalls and flooded desert sands. They are the words before you came here, the ones still pungent after you left.
And this sympony, that whole wedge of banded silver. They are the days of eternal baking, $1 stone fruit and clothing racks. The days of kissing at train stations, love so passionate it shook the whole house even as the Upfield line was still. The days of the little house in flemington, too much gunja and the boy who planted flowers as a sign of his love. The boy who forgot to water them, planted seeds in too shallow ground. Their petals grew stunted, cornflower blue. All my walks to the maribynong wouldn't save us. No matter how many punnets of cut price potted colour I purchased, the drought was long and the city was dust storms.
He has since found greener fields.
Me. I moved to the desert with dust older than kin. With mountains that mimic my spinal column. keeping lovers close to saltwater, I plunge my fingers into these empty river beds, and strain my nails searching for liquid. My bed is silent now. Tossing in my sleep, dreaming of sustanence that never reaches my lips.
Every song has a thousand reference points, every album a constellation of flashbacks. I could take every conversation I've had and to a burnt CD and still have enough room left over to drop in some quintessential favourites.
That riff was us driving away from those shallow hot water streams, where I lay in the water till my skin turned into sunsets of blisters, pink is the colour of love fading. That was the first time I read those cards and what they told me terrified me so much that I almost threw them into that cauldron spring.
These lyrics are the longing of distant lovers, of unexpected phonecalls and flooded desert sands. They are the words before you came here, the ones still pungent after you left.
And this sympony, that whole wedge of banded silver. They are the days of eternal baking, $1 stone fruit and clothing racks. The days of kissing at train stations, love so passionate it shook the whole house even as the Upfield line was still. The days of the little house in flemington, too much gunja and the boy who planted flowers as a sign of his love. The boy who forgot to water them, planted seeds in too shallow ground. Their petals grew stunted, cornflower blue. All my walks to the maribynong wouldn't save us. No matter how many punnets of cut price potted colour I purchased, the drought was long and the city was dust storms.
He has since found greener fields.
Me. I moved to the desert with dust older than kin. With mountains that mimic my spinal column. keeping lovers close to saltwater, I plunge my fingers into these empty river beds, and strain my nails searching for liquid. My bed is silent now. Tossing in my sleep, dreaming of sustanence that never reaches my lips.
and beyond that?
the things that I can't talk about
anymore
slack jowls and dirty towels
left on the floor
I scrubbed myself clean
starched and layered like paper reams
turning myself into an auto feed
coloured copies of myself
I am on repeat
skipping to the same
old crack in the cd
holes in my cv
reaching for the polly
filla want a cracker
meant to dust this off
and paint it over
red rover
now your it
anymore
slack jowls and dirty towels
left on the floor
I scrubbed myself clean
starched and layered like paper reams
turning myself into an auto feed
coloured copies of myself
I am on repeat
skipping to the same
old crack in the cd
holes in my cv
reaching for the polly
filla want a cracker
meant to dust this off
and paint it over
red rover
now your it
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