Again

The day retracts. The house darkens as I turn my thoughts to the lovers I've left behind. Ripping hair from my legs I tell her that torrid is the only relationship type I have, make jokes about recognising arseholes by their sex appeal. He tells me not to block love, that it can come at any time.

I run a stick around the edge of my defences. You mistake it for the beating of my heart.

That morning, as you sauntered off down the street to catch the tram, did you know it would be our last time? I crushed roses from the doctors surgery and watched you, silently saying goodbye to the cafe where you'd fetch me morning lattes. We pretend it doesn't mean a thing, insist on getting off our faces before we go home and slip insults between the sheets when the sex begins to resemble intimacy. I wake at 3am to find your tongue hanging out as you rack up lines to serve up to pretty south side girls and huddle on the couch with bed hair, cursing my waistline, telling myself I'm too old for this shit.

And I am.

You sucked the potential until the opportunities dried up and washed up in my bed like two week old dishes, still stinking of meals once enjoyed. When you rejected my calls I bought Leonard Cohens new book and sent you the relevant page numbers.

I return to the city again this weekend. I presume you did not understand.

serenity in smoke.

The city turned yellow before I landed. The softness suits this time. Fingertips tar stained, huddled in aircon, everyone is considering quitting ciggerettes. The drought breathes heavy here, panting like salivating lovers, blowing wind into our crotches and salt onto our lips.

My phone rings at 5am, private numbers invading my sleep. Last night my dreams were located in the rubbish dumps of my childhood, lecturers I've never met insisting I sit for my honours degree. I've become so addicted to salaried nipple that weans me off my youth. Sitting in park swapping love on the dole stories with gentle eyed boys in mid twenties crisis. Staring at clouds in slow motion, making my peace with the city again.

Acting is pretending to be something that you are not.

It was flowing out of me, all the toxins of the last six months, manifested in liquid format. Stained underwear and cheeks,Now I am literally blood sweat and tears. We play pass the bucket as the spit slicks back into my face.

This is my justification: i'm just another fucking poet. direct this up your arse. don't tell me where to stand now.

This is my five minute installation, my reflection on problems entered. Body contorted I am seconds from breaking I am seconds from emotional impotence. I am inventing lovers on mattresses in scout halls because god knows nothing if not peaceful sleep.

Snap shot of me holed up in river. Holding this pose because the collective demands it. We are the worst kind of hive mind. Directing is being told what to do. I am searching out the peices of anarchy that still remain in manic laughter that exists after silence falls.

Pass you a peice of my heart printed on paper. It's the only way I can show you who I am when I leave.

Blunt brain in bris vegas

The cafe is erratic, all fast lattes and waitresses with henna hair and tight t shirts. The humidity has dropped into the air, and the ocean is closer than it's been in months. Mangroves are licking the edge of the city. The streets of the CBD are dead.

I am recaffinating after a whirlwind melbourne stopover, imbibing the surroundings, waiting for my soul to catch up. I've left my luggage in a locker at central, prehaps all the different parts of me can be consolidated in that long steel crevice. I'm feeling somewhat anebrieted. Throwing down beer and herbal remedies in unison. Plunging headfirst into the new year. Praying my body can keep up with the next three wereks.

reset

The year began as a slow moving target. My head, a community radio station scrambled with best hits fm. We're squashed into bathtubs, sitting in sludge and water the temperture of vomit. The new year is baked eggs and whiskey, left over beer and noses dragged across CD cases. Surrrounded by dogs and other peoples underwear, retracting into rocking chairs, passing out on concrete and sand.

My new years resolutions are currency conversions slurred in the pool on a Friday afternoon. My new years resolution are drowning in cheap indian food, passed around the circle like a roach, coughed up into the toilet bowl, retrieved on the bike ride home.

more rain

Theres a storm coming in. The stables are ringed with layers of grey clouds and I'm sitting under the awning, smoking the last of the dry tobacco I've scrouged from the sand. This cough is receding and I'm back smoking ciggerettes but still can't bring myself to buy them. I keep telling myself I'm going to quit. That I'm going to get out by thirty five and cheat emphysema and cancer cells. The half breed dingo is prancing around me, searching the ground for scraps of salami. I do a mad dash across the paddocks, avoiding clusters of buffle grass to retrieve my clothes from the line before the deluge sets in.

I'm willing the rain to come down, the past few days have been so sweltering I've retreated to eastside and the comfort of friends with houses and airconditioning and blow up pools. But today I'm back out here on basso island, listening to the low growl of the sky blend with the country rock blaring from the portable jukeboxes of the mob in the creek.

pinks and greys

Drunk on skylines, thristy for country. Windows down, hair blowing along the highway, my fingers surf the horizon. Crusing across rippled red and green. Nails painted pastel pinks and greens. Brushing against the swollen ranges, plunging through the depth of field.

Today we bacame surface tension, strectched delicatley, baiting ripples. Reaching from rock face to rock face and calling the rain. In this time we are still.

I am4wd dreaming. I am river crossing delirium. I am soft hues and arid wetlands. I am back where I began.