Hannah Reinvented...

this fragile empire...

2011-10-03T08:08:00.001-07:00

i am the queen
of this fragile empire.
built of rage and a merry desire
for love and other such follies.

deliver me gently
my sweet disciples,
into the hands of somebody willing
somebody clean.

a hand so decisive
it will break down my walls.
built to protect
this fragile little empire.

and now, for him...

he is the king
of his own fragile empire,
fluttering into life
in it's own special din.

i feel his tender ripples
lag and congregate at my toes,
the fragments of wall
that fly at his flourish.

from my blissful barricade
these fragments strike,
scraping my demeanour
of its arrogant grin.

so, we stand unprotected
his courage and my acceptance,
our fragile empires remain
but in a neighbourly kind of arrangement.

I FUCKED A POET...

2011-09-05T15:22:00.000-07:00

i fucked a poet

it happens sometimes
like a slip of the tongue
or a turn of the cheek

i put the album on
that covers my sighs
but i am not ashamed of you, poet

i could have done without the mechanic
who's hands were rough
i could have done without the electrician
to talked too much

but i could not have done without the poet.

you lay breathless
having wrestled with your raison d'étre
Baudelaire's Wine & Ideal lay between us
and I caressed you both

for every 4am
that i have seen in alone
there is a moment like this one
to remind me
that not all 4am's are lonely

i could have done without the musician
who stole my car
i could have done without the husband
who propped up the bar

but i could not have done without you, poet.

wilful little touches...

2011-08-07T14:37:00.001-07:00

i swell at your proximity
brushing legs
and fixing collars
then apologising.

my spatial awareness
is questionable
or so i say.
i do not admit
to how good i am at parallel parking.

please excuse me
while i squeeze past you
and hover
ever so briefly
in a momentary spoon.

occasionally you falter
and we curl up on couches
and just for a time
i don't have to apologise
for these wilful little touches...

trussed.

2011-07-21T05:35:00.001-07:00

trussed
my dignity crusted up
and heaving
sounds like trust
beats particles
outta me
and i am stunned
by your imperial epithets.

tell me a story
i'll glow
grow weary in your irony
pocket your diction
your lazy syllables
pick me! pick me!
'fore my fingers grow numb
and i lose my lunch.

have mercy
fore i am ranting
at your philharmonic guise
picking sycamore holes
in your raison d'être
trussed up and heaving
in these ever-fucking-decreasing
circles around you.

this static and tangle...

2011-03-22T10:07:00.000-07:00

you are inexplicably in my bones today, rat. perhaps it is because you are, in fact, so far away from my bones, they are missing you. and i am drawn to others that spark and sparkle like you do. or at least poorer imitations of that flux. my spine explodes with the anticipation of nothing in particular. and my lungs are left dazed and confused in the aftermath. and you are still not here. as if my explosions will pique your interests. i should know better by now. i should also know better than to throw myself head-first into this self-indulgent maelstrom. when will i put filters on this fire? so, as this rip-tide drags me sideways into the path of strangers and people i think nothing of, my desire to hide grows until i realise that it is not my hatred for them that i'm feeling, but my love for you that shakes me. it's not irrational. i know my place. but it is there, distant and resilient. it is not of your concern. never was. but i feel it seep out and encase me in that 'it's-not-fair' tantrum. it's a fickle and sweaty grip. there is no easy resolve? except for a conversation with you. a conversation with break. balm for my bones, rat. so i turn to my own little world and wander. sit restless at my keys and hope. search the night from the safety of my tome. and this fucking sleep, this rotten graze. choked, a-wash with the headlights, the moonlight, the twilight victims of your wake. we wait together. all the flotsom and waste. knowing our place and loving it willingly. knowing that there is nothing else we can do. we are static and tangle, peace and a violent arrest, hope and grudging acceptance. you are my anchor. lost and barnacled. i watch you with love and then whisper farewell.

an open letter to those i cannot reach...

2010-12-22T06:22:00.000-08:00

when i think about my future, i think about a time beyond our pain, beyond my breath and beyond these years. and i look back on my life with a contentment very few will ever know. a contentment that comes from having loved the way i loved him. from having been graced with his savagery, his acceptance, and the beautiful melée of his footfalls. even my dust and bones will adore him - of this, i am sure.

from the old rocking chair in my mind, i see a skid row kid, sore, slouching, and with sleep in his eyes. he looks at me from my aging memories and smirks. twenty-foot tall and skinny as a rat. he drinks whisky and weeps. he stirs the shit he can't find the wherewithal to change. maybe he doesn't want to. maybe he doesn't have it in him. maybe his dysfunctional chemicals robbed him of this. he was a ghost then, and from this ancient memory he is a ghost still. when the dust settles, i find him a-top the golden gate bridge. trying to roll a j in the gale. maybe he'll succeed, or maybe he'll just throw a tantrum. from beneath the ragged tendrils, from through his eloquent teeth comes the pretence of a 'thank you', and a nod. and then he's gone.

as in life, i will caress his periphery, knowing that i have made concrete out of our dying flesh. those too dumb to register his flagrant disregard will be dutifully ignored. i will furnish the brave with his words. there will be but a few. scruffy students will find copies of his collected works hiding in library corners. you will be immortal, honey baby. yes.

to him now - thank you, sir. i know i cannot save you, but i can still sing your gospel - in every song that i write, in every grin that i wear, and in every toast that i raise. these are for you, my beautiful bleue. my best friend.

O.

meat-hook lady...

2010-12-20T08:40:00.000-08:00

meat-hook lady
my melancholy baby
won't you flow
until this choke hold
crows
and dowses flame
into your membranes.
cross the borders
crooked
humping this carcass
divinely
with purpose
my little joy folds
at your hands.
mount the pavement
with sickle calm
damage hearts
with this fever arm
i am pitchfork mad
rueful
tearing kneecaps
in a ruddy wake.
meat-hook lady
your melancholy debris
halts the flow
until this masterpiece
grows
and dowses flame
into your membranes...

a poem for Yumi...

2010-12-20T08:20:00.000-08:00

i remember her repose
a desultory calm
as i grieved for her
openly.

she gave me tic tacs
and i confused
her derisory motives
for hope.

she was an apparition
a peripheral ghost
always what
i should've been.

she stopped talking
more than a year ago
her conciliatory gaze,
a chasm.

now she only stutters
audible pain
craving biscuits
and love.

my juqnk...

2010-12-12T12:59:00.000-08:00

this temporal and rigorous hollow
switchblade maladies and frogs legs
love and bile and all my bones
carve out the shiver in my home.

honey, honey, my beaten brow
save this graze and tearful crow.

we are in a slingshot, o.

the bismarck grin...

2010-11-03T09:25:00.000-07:00

the void
the void
this hunger pang
a-bliss with his silences
treading restlessly underfoot
i am cowardly
i don't ask why
i just skirt this space
this periphery
learning new artforms
patience
forgiveness
apathy
the hunt
boxed in and heaving
liquid tantrums
i hold my breath
dizzy and unheard
waiting for the hum
to run
and croon
swoon a little
and be marked
hardy and revolted
endlessly faulted
a bismarck grin
bench-pressing the din
a lofty parallel
you smirk
teeth and annunciation
amber
this tepid placation
pull me
lose me
lead me
to this void
this delicious void...

re-kindled...

2010-10-26T08:58:00.000-07:00

so.
she fumbles.
her inner banshee
squeals and hums
adequate
she sighs
you don't light that fire, baby
she sucks it up.
chews lip.
she ponders
mutual pyre burning.
sups madness.
she searches in the 3am haze
for bleue
and pills
to wipe the slate clean.
her keys lay thick
with oil and dust
she's not touched them much
(abandon-mint)
she is learning to keep her eyes shut.

remember the dawn
she holds it like a cigarette.
inhales the words
the truthes
and the perfect heat.
a toast : to the fire
she balks
heaves
chokes
on the empty spaces
her sometime failures.
damp
in the silence
she feels breath
that isn't there.
covets the ghost
plays hookie
learns to spit
then mourns her decorum.
shhh, honey baby
but she's already gone.

she hopes
for arson
and chemicals.
and life.
for bleue
and for her too.
she is learning to accept the crutch.
the crux
weeps for her
from its desultory perch.
you've been so good to me
she nods.
accepting
yet raging
becoming brittle on occasion.
so.
she lights her own fire.
kindle from thin air
wood from his pastures
and rests her head
in the smoke.

my mark, my mark...

2010-10-23T13:06:00.000-07:00

you are my mark
my tangible gaze
keep secret
this flesh and bone anthem
this fetid blaze
my love
my love
my arteries heave
and my space and hollows are windows
to the bullet graze.

tempt my freckles
and taunt my skin
i am over your wounded
and calculating chagrin
bounce
bounce
off these intangible walls
let the strings draw blood
and seep with stealth
and abandonment issues
to that brittle floor.

will we slip and curl
akin with the sludge
take this corporeal offering
my love
my love...

i ain't furnished with you yet...

2010-10-05T13:05:00.001-07:00

and i starve
curled in a fluke called Luca
a recurring little foible
sweet relief from this torture

and my sweat breathes like i do
wet and hurting and dire
i watch you
face to face
you sit unawares or ignoring
i admire the nonchalance

the utterance of the liquid you
traitorous and maligned

i wreck silences with my eyes
you rub your brow
and crease the atmosphere
fetid carcinomas drawl from their vaults

'love me in bent and derisory overtones'

and watch as i fall like a conker
into his wrath and embrace
cross your legs and pray
that the lions don't find you first
après the cull...

the beat of your flu-bones...

2010-10-05T12:52:00.000-07:00

I spoke with Baudelaire
I dig his spleen
he told me I was crazy like you
made of invisible scrawl
blisters
crows barking orders n' all.

let the meat drip
to our station
let the slab lay
avec our destitution
I make friends easily
and lose them even easier
cull the mules in their opiation.

terra firma introspecto!

open your lashes
to this bread and cheese punishment
let the crows call 'slut!'
and herald your entanglement.

we grate this loathesome diaphragm
on the spleen of your attire
the fissures taking form and kin
at the foot of the flu-ish fire.

Baudelaire's theories, trickling though my hands...

2010-09-18T12:07:00.002-07:00

in what feels like dawn, i am reckless
pulled tight around the membranes
now that i know of this frequency
this taciturn production
i am weak and unwilling
if i grant myself freedom
it would be at a cost too high for my conscience

so i sit here knowing
that what i've had is both
the wine and the hangover
i loved because i had to
now i wait because i must
knowing i have been lucky
yet ruefully pondering the concept
of never having known it at all

in the end though
i cling on to it
that dawn light that slips through your fingertips
that breath in before a storm or a rage
the quiet

i am quiet now, fleeting & reckless...

midnight rag & bone anthem...

2010-09-08T13:57:00.000-07:00

chagrin
a little nod
and the darkness settles on my palate
you glance at me
sultry
but i am communing with the night
such sweet decadence
my mind subsides
but my heartbeat thickens
like the warm whiskey on your gullet
you are magic tonight
vital
and finally our silences are peaceful
we talk of histories
of therapies
we tread gently round the love
like divorcees
finding solace in this shared solitude
i feel my fingernails growing
a fitful slumber
a marked man
pulling habitudes from platitudes
there's that nod again
in the corners, i grin
raging perfection
conciliatory gazes fix me
and we cling on for dear life
nothing heals us like this bond
this blackness
this wonderful nothing
this face-to-face rag and bone anthem
with a little chagrin
and a nod
i salute you, confidante.

a cursive hand...

2010-09-08T12:24:00.000-07:00

a faithless rustle
a cursive hand
how is your sway
my melancholy baby?
she closes her doors
and makes biscuits
she wears green and waits
standing at her window
eyes closed
teeth brushed
she wonders how you are
her melancholy baby
the wind thrashes her clean
no one can read her writing
for the force
and the love
make her undeniable
so she disappears
into a darkened rooms
a faithless wind
a cursive hand...

tangled aplomb...

2010-07-21T06:31:00.000-07:00

taking names
pulling sinews
sitting atop metaphors
and raging at your repose

take me down
shut me up
leave me grazed
and full of stanzas

just a reminder
of what not to want
a flash-in-the-pan girl
a purveyor of truths

this faithful moment
of rapacious howls
will leave me empty
and the albatross hung

my concept is fleeting
this suicide door
offering respite
in a tangled aplomb

cracking substance
with a heartbeat
my mists are deployed
and what is left of me

will disappear from view once more...

three a.m. poetics...

2010-07-08T07:03:00.000-07:00

made of healthy delectations,
she grins -
'you'll regret that southerly glance, sir'
he starts.
she always calls them 'sir',
but they ain't gentlemen.
a smirk supplants the grin
oh, the blessed irony.
she yells in her head, and it makes her twitch...
she hushes herself -
'shh, baby, shh'.
it makes her look crazy.
there are heads cocked
and syllables uttered,
she sees them whispering,
but doesn't need to hear them.
idiots.
grating nuances leak
from her elastic morals
and the cacophony fills her spaces.

crushing distances with her lunacy,
it brings her closer to him.
she converses with his songs.
'i will burn down your bridge by the square, bleue'
he laughs at her,
when he can be bothered.
so she covets the ghost
and mistakes it for a lover...
with cracking propensity
she worships the silences.
her heart rages
so she blames the empathy.
'give me a break, bleue'.
he hands her the bottle,
but that's not what she meant...
curling up against the bone
and balking at the heartbeat,
every ounce of her swells at the proximity.
bone versus flesh, he crows 'come here!
and tell me, babygirl, just how much you miss me'.

three a.m. poetics
render her atrophied,
and she would barter her soul for a biscuit.
her swirl is wrapped up in his whiskey
and inseparable from his skin,
oh, she sighs, 'that clavicle'.
how dare she be so attached to his reality.
'come now, Sookie, you know better than that'.
she shakes off her prophetics
and lashes her heart to his whim.
'take me for a ride, bleue,
you know you want to'.
with a rasping huff
he placates his denial
for this timeless time.
in the shadow of this invisible loss
her lunacy seeks company,
and caresses the baleful irony.
she looks for a grin and defies him -
'i will make concrete and hope out of you, bleue'

a little nothing...

2010-07-01T06:52:00.000-07:00

'tis my only selfless thing
this faithful rocking dirge
a-bliss with stolen silences
a rattle of the scourge

what is left is blissful irony
a remnant of your tongue
tugging threads in earnest
in a battle not yet won

in this late and heavy air
my heat will pour on you
cracking faith underfoot
a sycamore kind of truth

beautiful little adaptations
suckle at this teat
we do our best to disappear
into our gulf so incomplete...

posterchild...

2010-06-28T13:06:00.000-07:00

I gorge
and then he beats me
until he gets himself outta me
come hell or high whisky

I am shaken
and my recesses tampered with
his gait so naturally takes him away
as if I never existed

I am fucking metaphor
a well-armed posterchild
for how not to live unscathed
one word from him and I'm gone

face me, rage
I am so much braver than you
I will burn willingly for the right pair of hands
a faith compress for my tattered army...

the suicide door...

2010-06-18T06:23:00.001-07:00

(thank you to A. Staniforth for prompting this)

the suicide door
both vague and arresting
drinking my core
to the depths, to the depths

illicit my burden
through crêpe affectations
capture my actions
from the pure to the whore

this vestigial porte
awash with semantics
cleft from the hurt
of those savage mad men

who wanders there, too close to my fixtures?
just a smatter of a bint, with no teeth and matte hair...

the suicide door
lies in wait for her faculties
a welcoming floor
for her rags and her bones

carve out the mourners
there is no space in her left
just a dust-filled corner
where her bleue used to sit

i come at you here, through your plague and your fog
just lie with me gently, 'til the hornets have cleared...

the suicide door
loves the hurt and unrested
it will sup on your war
from the depths, from the depths...

my tranquil frost...

2010-06-14T13:07:00.000-07:00

my tranquil frost
plays with heart-shaped ruin
and i eat misogynies for breakfast...

my dinner date flees
under laboured misapprehensions
so i take solace on the cooling board...

as i yearn for the standstill
the ink-tinted deafness
where my rage can hunt my sadness freely...

and at the blessed slaughter
my parochial quiet
is drowned by my adoptive demeanour...

my faith reinstated
despite my dirge and protestations
and i carve peace out of me...

my indigo resignation
taunts me from the safety of his pockets
and i seek sycamore calculations...

my tranquil frost
holds those placated secrets
so that we can foster our abatements

so delicious is our inertia, bleue.

mon petite coeur...

2010-05-28T08:17:00.000-07:00

my truths are transient
ripples of placation

gnawing at my raggedy edges like Biafran babies

hold my terrible theories
aloft and out of the light

amongst the brutal wound of your blackness

plait the rags and bones
in a filthy love carvery

moisten my turf with the sharp cusp of your subtlety

breach my ineptitude
and throw down your buoyancy

seethe in the lung that haunts your austere cheek

mon petite coeur
strike harsh realities into my eyes

cut disfigured animal shapes out of your clemency

rasping claw to fetid hand
our modus vivendi

painting our talons in a cabernet hue

beware, rat!
we are besieged by this place, this carnivorous bleue...

at the whim of the parking lot...

2010-05-27T03:58:00.000-07:00

i search the ground
remembering the dull thuds
the aching crunch

it didn't mean much then
strange, how it means so much now

it's aeroplane season again
green and fresh they fall
each a little piece of me
collecting at his feet

i race to remember
the bleue semantics
blatantly sidestepping
those idle realities
careless
and fearless
my downtrodden whim

coat me in the wild mechanics of his well-armed branches...

trace my fervour in his fevered misanthropics...

digest each well, each desire
and replace it
with a fresh
green
fallen
aeroplane

they will turn
just give them time
and a place to land
move them around with your toes
and revel in the heavy heart
only you will feel
as you break their wings

wrap me in the moisture of his whisky-tinged love...

douse me in the distance of his ragged fingertips...

i will burn, crunch, and thud
a restless aeroplane
underfoot.

a grazing solemnity...

2010-05-15T13:56:00.000-07:00

i carve you
gaps in your shape
created out of my tangles

we chew resolutions
like gum
hope congregates
in our juices

i am the unfortunate witness
to your salubrious tongue
taunt me
shake me

devour my suppositions

i am held together with pins

i roll
pull earthquakes out of my soul
and rot
because i can

there is nothing more potent
than my will to decay

i dream of having gravity
of sucking air out of someone

until then
my soporific lung fails me

i mumble
and my pins click and clatter
philharmonic wreckage

indulge me

boy.

adore me
and i'll hate you for it

don't you see?
you will never be enough

i look down on you

down on my pins
my clattering shame

i can't afford glue.

her vertigo ceiling...

2010-05-03T08:20:00.000-07:00

'she ain't that scary'...
but she crows, so she must be

she clings to that vestigial claim
a useless bi-product
so quiet
you will not hear her screams
she is ponderous
losing ground
and brain cells

killing little white pills
by the tub-full
she says their name in her sleep
'fix me?'...

her strands held together with tape
band-aids on invisible fissures
a predilection for porcelain
making her quieter
servile in her own skin
she knows enough to want to remember
'kill me just a little, but leave the rest'...

she stamps her foot
'but, i have grapefruit vodka...'
as if that will fix the world

she sighs
realising a little too late
that her grasp is slipping
'i don't trust you, love'
love doesn't trust her either
too many liberties taken
blessed forays into the unrequited
she fears she might use up her quota
love fears that too

she is suddenly a little boy
'please sir, can i have some more?'
a gasp
a gag
she is filling holes again
she looks down her nose at herself
selfish whore
a-sway with stratagem
cracking the créme brulée
and weeping

she eyes up the white coats
(she'd kinda like a white coat too,
maybe she'll thieve one)
they watch her sleep
'give me a valium, bleue'...
but bleue's not listening
'i can't sleep with them watching,
i need you, bleue'...
but bleue is gone
a smokey reverie
she waits for the sword to drop
and presses her lungs into action
one breath
two breaths
'breathe, damn you, breathe'...
she gives up
her lungs never did follow her instructions

she dares a glance
at her vertigo ceiling
'i missed you'...
but there is no reply

she plays a moonlit piano
(elucidated hope)
she finds the keys by way of her pallor
(it's of no other use)
she sings of the tradewinds
of leaving her mark
hysteria
compulsion
the honey stuff.
and amongst the surreality
she raises her glass to you
and burns her throat
with an amber placation...

'to your maladies, love,
and to your madness.
to my hope,
and to my sadness.
i will wander, love,
in these tired shoes.
speaking of nothing,
until i speak of you...'

fin.

i sea...

2010-05-02T05:03:00.000-07:00

you come in off the sea
a grey-green envy
white-tipped and calculating
and hit my phobic periphery

i stumble on your path
a yellow self-destruction
do you suffer on my verge
melancholic obligations

rough me up
smash me on the shore
cut the tender heartstrings
and wreak havoc on my love...

so vivid a swell...

2010-04-29T10:31:00.000-07:00

so vivid a swell
my useless back aches
and i hum
trembling words
stuck
maniacally
in my bake...

we push like planets
a love from afar
cursing
the distance that holds us
together
closer than time
yet so far apart...

you wind me
with your simple repose
so i burn
in a guileless rhythm
to the songs
and the fate
that you chose...

caress my soul
for it falters at first sight
of your gait
deliberate and free
intangible
like my heart
and my plight...

in. your. ink...

2010-04-13T07:52:00.001-07:00

i am ill at ease
ill when i see
your stare, your glare
pointedly
not. at. me.

i am hollowed out
a shallow pout
at your whim, your fancy
educational
not. much. else.

i am loose at the hip
lip at your fingertip
your beck, your call
any-time-girl
breaks. my. heart.

i am a trembling thud
stuck in your mud
your nothing, your all
imperceptible
in. your. world.

i am at your mercy
as you hurt me
your wash, your heat
indelible
in. my. ink.

the silent break...

2010-04-13T07:21:00.000-07:00

this time it is a silent break
my convalescing fissure, split
it sighs open a ragged wound
and breathes your reluctance

i reel with a truth compress
holding innocence under water
the angry muffled murmur calls
to sift through your indignance

and this endless well in me
playing hookie with my conscience
lying in wait amongst your debris
and choking my resilience

will this aeroplane bow ever break
leaving my gaps splintered
and my dry and consumptive breath
free from your cyanide scent...?

so.

2010-04-13T06:50:00.000-07:00

so.

you are a little mad
but so am i

my madness consumes my words
invades my head
but i fake it

your madness holds you hostage
stops you dead
and you take it

i am here too
waiting patiently for you

i overcame mountains
wrote folk out of my script
turned corners
and hung from ragged borders
for this

now that it's you that i choose
i have so much more to lose

but i risk it
cos i'm sick and tired
of faking it

i am here
relegated to your periphery
arms length
distanced for your safety

accept my offerings
for they are innocent
i will not judge your madness

respect me
honestly
openly
and desire me if you can

if you leave me, leave me well
if you love me, love my all

so.

just let us be a little bit mad.

my fire, my death...

2010-04-04T12:44:00.000-07:00

everything is so far removed
i can barely remember you

a faint iron flame on my remnant tongue
and a bullet lodged deep in my ear

i scroll through the gelatin
hoping for something less fleeting

i rediscover your scent
held dormant in my skin

but when i breathe it in
the rags are lost, like you

i find myself praying for your worth
as if the universe is listening

i am humbled by your reticence
adrift as a consequence

so i go back to what i know
fucking and fleeing, anchor in tow

i felt safe under your sword
both digging that raggedy edge

posturing and loitering with content
on an amber love and tongue

the beautiful unforgiving
your steel among the swamp

i am holding tight to the subtleties
breath on breath desperation

counting the eyebrow furrows
specks in your ever-changing eyes

you are my fire, my death
and my forever-sullied breath

everything is so far removed
i can barely remember you...

wishful fingertips...

2010-03-28T15:22:00.000-07:00

our tree looks different now
lattice love in a duck egg sky
the naked fingers reach
for things as unattainable as you

i am transported
in it's shadow and gaze
south to where you hide
back to the rogues retreat

i hover in the space
where gelatin reels hold us
a smirk on constant replay
but the earth looks different now

your repose is a saintly stutter
a silver dim amongst the glow
our tree is a barren form now
and with it are my hopes

one hundred wishful fingertips
a protective and proud embrace
faint summer rituals fall
on the deaf ears of your lover's faith...

satellite...

2010-03-25T09:14:00.000-07:00

thrump thrrump thrrrump
my heart beats still

a legless toothless pump
grating frenzies lose me friends

and my car parts die on hills

i am a flash-in-the-pan girl
a restless cusp
a little lost
found wandering death's waiting room

'she's a special kid'

don't you miss me, muddy slump?
i miss you

see-through and glorious
a tamborine dream

a blazing cunt
comes from the south
and dismantles my reality
flaming bitch

i'm left with whisky
and an amber compulsion

roast me
tell me stories
wrap me in mirth
and a little self-destruction

i will scratch you into walls
little glories
a watch-word
infamy, baby
y'dig?

singing songs about guns
i stutter

and my dust collects in corners

my loose-leaf crazy
unleash me, baby
i WILL take you down
and thank you for the trouble

show me your heart
and i will throw up in fright
don't treat me well
for i am just your satellite

my words are lost
lost on you

but i hinge on your every move
so i am motionless without you

inert
despite the thrump thrrump thrrrump

un petit meurtre (a little murder)... TAKE II

2010-02-23T03:01:00.000-08:00

(a crazy lady in a pub told me i needed to rewrite this one - so here it is. original here)

i speak of volition
if nothing else
my random acts
of restlessness
gather momentum
under your gait & gaze
i speak of you
for you have permeated my tongue
and it thinks of nothing else...

my torment, sir
is nothing, if not redeemable
your ink keeps me company
noir daydreams
and lyrical honey
i fold at every tryst
you deny me
then pique my senses
and keep me seven shades of blue
my lung awaits your breath...

i speak of fact
truths you conceal
remain masked
if unseen
but like my frailty
they exist still
ignorance can be bliss
for a weary & misshapen heart
but i gather the truths i know
and rest upon them
under scruff curtailments...

the lilt and beleaguering
sophomore lip
renders your buds
bloody
and oh so delightful
as for your stratagem, sir
your willingness dissolves
but i hold like a rigor-mortis hand
what will forfeit these moments?

i louche you, darling, like i would my green tipple. render you milky and dilute and one hundred times more palatable than before...

even in this state
we wrestle like giants
stopping only to sing
or to tear our shoulders open
explore my treaties wisely, sir,
as i implore your treatise
like the dim, i enable
opening doors and sharpening the knife
i lick my fat lip in readiness...

better a clean slice than a rusty and protracted jugular, boy.

the gators ate my sanity...

2010-02-22T09:19:00.000-08:00

my filament is mistrusted. so it should be. voluminous and despicable thing. do you pray for relief like I do? or do you sit there, vacant and ill at ease. as i wait on a bus, i hear your words. there is a line for every occasion. a rudimentary gobstopper of faith and concealment. i do not praise you, but you know your place in this fitful world. you will never see the light of day, for fear that it will shine a spotlight on your carcinomas, your disease. but as you hide in the black, the velvet-caressing nothingness, the world keeps moving, breathing, weeping along. as much as it revolves around you, in the end it only pauses at you briefly. looks dimly in your window before turning its back on your incessant beauty. you would have had to acquiesce in order to appease this world... and we all know that that's not an option. come now, pretty one, you know the truth's are only as real as you let them be. re-write your history if you wish... we all do it. if you don't acknowledge her existence, she doesn't exist. it's ok - ignorance is bliss, or so i've been told. in the stillness, and the mornings predilection for blinding light, the distillery tastes vast and we don't amount to much. the duck-egg sky rests like opium on my gullet. oppressive beauty. stealth. you covet that surprised look on my bake. is anyone ever up at this hour? i think not. everything outwith that cocoon is meaningless. we have no jobs, no children, no responsibilities... just beer, shit tv, pretzel-like embraces, twilight ramblings, and rimbaud at dawn. it's ok by me, honey-baby, it's ok by me.

as i shrug off this morpheus cloak, it clings like butter to my ragged edges. inescapable and perfect in its pursuit. so you follow me, little scrap, little death. your ghost keeps me company when i speak to the poets - the living dead. as they hound my bones with their syllables, i am reminded of you. the space left by my inabilities. and while i listen to him read me baudelaire in a reticent french, i think about his inabilities, and mine, and our avant-garde alternatives. i will tuck you in a pocket and feed you morsels of my afflictions. a little codeine, baby, and you'll be gone. struck down in the prime of your shadow. why do i let you stay with me, little one? i don't miss you anymore, in fact i celebrate your non-existence. i don't need you, and neither does he. then again, he doesn't need me either. fucking karma. and as i hear whispers and drones about how bloody awful this affliction is, or how bloody amazing the miracle, i am struck by how utterly useless i am, but how thankful i am not 'one of them'. i hate how he speaks of them. yet in the same breath i yearn to be something other than what i am to him. but only because i can never be stupid, or fruitful, or brittle like slate. i am what i am, and you are in my pocket - little one, and he is on my ever-loving periphery. hard man in soft focus. i love you both, my little ghosts. i am disfigured by you both. but it's ok, honey-baby, it's ok.

'the gators ate your sanity, baby-girl... but it's ok by me, honey-baby, it's ok by me'...

an elliptical truth...

2010-02-15T03:09:00.000-08:00

i wanna fuck married men
the ones with babies at home
and good wives that cook
things like peas and beef

i wanna render their household flesh
misunderstood and heroic
leaving marks in the dirt
and stains on their trousers

i wanna show them a cunt
that won't proffer a child
offer them a fleeting freedom
and then show them the mud

i wanna be their perfect storm
a groin at the rupture
selling tickets for their slaughter
just for a laugh

i wanna bottle their atrocities
and sell it back to them in vials
masquerading as mercy or hope
or even love, if they'd buy it

i wanna let them be Freudian
yelling 'mummy' when i spill
they're gonna be all gracious
until i tell them it's 'normal'

i wanna send them back tainted
like a coffee stained tooth
powerful by proxy
but missing the elliptical truth...

The Avant-guardian Book 6 - Honesty and the Avant Garde...

2010-02-12T05:38:00.000-08:00

HONESTY AND THE AVANT GARDE : BOOK 6 -
'shadow' would be too much of a cliche. so, i'll use the term 'matches'... then we have the physical, the styx, the fierce but so brief flame... and also the lingering scent, the sulphur, the remnants. i could always taste the lingering fumes around you, the sticky particles of deception. the yawn and gasp of this half-life. but my segment was so sweet. clementine. chewy, you could say. and you did. the other segments? inconsequential! i was aware of the other matches in your box, but they meant little to me. i was the sulphurous death and the blinding burn that you desired. for a time, anyway. and this piece of shit tale will be seen as a clamshell diary, a ruddy back-book of continuations and whispers. and folk will hate me for ruining you with these words.

what words? these muddy slumps? these are not worthy syllables, wench. just fluff on an abandoned page. you are my chloroform subtext, filthy whore. how dare you render me (in)famous when i spent countless harried hours planning my dissipation. indisputable omission. cow!

so your trace follows me now. the flame died and i kept talking, as if you could hear me. on and on i mumble, swaying my sultry delectation's in what used to be your general direction. who knows who sees them now? no one i suspect, they are beyond those dumbfucks. but maybe you hear me in your granular state? maybe you spend your endlessness correcting my grammar. laughing at me. eth-er-e-al. al-um-in-(i)um. what else do you have to do out there anyway? but it is me that has taken over the regular beatings. my body still belongs to you, i abuse it on your behalf. the rum sings hymns to my liver and the gin she bakes those kidneys good. and i lose my lunch over porcelain and linotype. you witness my deferral from your smokey incarnations. you stop and plant scents in my disabled nose, knowing that i will look for you wherever i am - on the street, on the floor, on the rag. and even though i know i won't find you, i search anyway, looking like a coward, looking like a fool. more foolish than this though was the act of applying the same rules to you as i did to others. how can spark and dust be expected to behave?

rules? rules! they aren't even bitter taste buds on your peripheral tongue. if you deem every element to be below you, the rule-makers are unfit to judge you. no one was fit to judge you, yet everyone did. and you courted it like a rabid panther - knowing so much more than your prey. we are the subtle victims in your countless mind-games. hah! you don't even know it, cunts!

i am always glancing to my left now, waiting for your inevitable approach. but the choking smoking embers are embedded in me. smouldering with a longing and melancholic dysphoria unparalleled by my embryonic emotional peers. i am a complex burrow of empty spaces, voids where the smoke creeps. steeped in grime and filth and remnants, so many pieces of you. clutter, comforting encumbrances. little deaths creating space in this little life. this filth and ash is my peu ancre. where you have evaporated there remains a sign, a post-it note for my chloroform subtext to feed on. gleaning protein and sustenance from the pure fact that there is nothing more beautiful than a mark left where you used to be. and so the choke and flow moves along, disconnected from each flesh encounter. a document of reasoning in an unreasonable time. does the flurry release you, does the snowbound piece of shit haunt your skin? i am not released, but it is i that hold you here. little ghost. fucking travesty. forever the most delightful blight. the laudanum gaze has me by the scruff and the scent of your clavicles keeps me buoyant amongst the malfeasance. you should have loved me. now with the flit and flail of what is left i am useless. i spend my time filling other peoples gaps through the sheer inability to fill my own. your ash-filled voids. just me and the porcelain and the reverberation of you.

and the endless knowing that you could never love me.

COMING SOON: BOOKS 3, 4, & 5!

love, dove, coo, smooch

2010-02-11T05:59:00.001-08:00

so, as we dance to this metronome
this inevitable heartbeat
that will beat.
beat.
beat, a long time after we stop beating each other
and our hearts stop beating
and i've finally stopped that incessant breathing
and you!
you can stop that amaranthine beauty too
and do what you do so callously too
and those cocoons we shed can love and dove and coo and smooch in the perfect rhythm of all we choose
write their melody now and leave them swaying, praying
in guarded anticipation of life without taking
me and my little anchor
residual rancour
a-bliss with northern fragrance
so we take our statements in defiance and go grey while we pray our frantic breath away
our deathly metronome
a distant drone to love and dove and coo and smooch in the imperfect rhythm of all we choose
dance and eat
beat!
beat, like jack with eggs and feet
and the souls with worn tread
are red and read and re-read by you
'til their grooves are oppressive and smooth
only then can we talk about the truths
the bell and candor that we love to dove and coo and smooch in the most perfect rhythm of all we choose...

The Avant-guardian Book 5 - Metronome

2010-01-04T08:37:00.001-08:00

METRONOME : BOOK 5

hacking and suffocating in the wake of midnight's pleura. a travesty, i'd say, to so wistfully waste such words on one so pretty. so meek. seems like an absolute bore to me. but then again, you are the only one that can keep me from the quaff and yawn when the dusk settles in our throats and we croak through whisky and tooth. put your thumb on her, sir, do not give her the time of day. let her be timeless in the true sense of the word, for she is no garbo. render her immobile in the flow, halt her onward passage - she is meaningless. i speak like a scourer, scraping your edges. bloodletting cleanly is so passe. but i'll lick your wounds if you want me to, a little salt, a little love and i will sting you like vinegar.

i pour liquid on my skin, down my throat, down your throat, yet we do not drown. we are the same fish in this potent soup. this placid sludge. this placating balm. love me, incapable one. bathe your wounds in my disability, my incongruity, my dysfunction. we are two fish swimming in our own filth. we deserve what we get. everything but relief. carp-e-dium... stupid fish.

i sparkle when my breathing is suspended, like a stutter or a gasp. it's like i radiate only when suffering. then again, you flutter at the sight of that precipice too. oh, how we tiptoe like elephants on that beautiful raggedy edge. shuffling like oatcakes and brie on an hors d'oeuvre tray. wake me up when my life isn't so boring, will you? it's such a healthy barricade that surrounds your front. your sweet cowering tangibility. you can be my tank whilst i sit under this fairy umbrella and sew a fence of my own. swing your artillery this way, sir, there are many folk who deserve your bullets more than you. i am quite fond of the 3am ned-trashcan-chorus now, the cheeky little fucks remind me a little of you after a bottle of jameson's. keep them, but throw the rest in a heap and drive over them, oh armoured one. hah! metaphorical carnage is just as good as actual carnage, m'love. smirks. and you thought i was joking.

so, as we dance to this metronome, this inevitable heartbeat. that will beat. beat. beat, a long time after we stop beating each other. and our hearts stop beating. and i've finally stopped that incessant breathing. and you, you can stop that amaranthine beauty too. and do what you do so callously too. and those cocoons we shed can love and dove and coo and smooch in the perfect rhythm of all we've left behind. write their melody now and leave them swaying in guarded anticipation of their impending life. on their own. soulless. bereft. without me and my little anchor. just our residual pulse, our deathly metronome, our fustian flow.

redundant goodbye...

2009-12-21T09:01:00.000-08:00

watch, watch, as she beats
a hasty and thriving retreat
flung from the verge
a stuttering dirge
such a loss
such a cry
such a redundant goodbye
this fateful epilogue will cease
and my words will fall on deft ears
maybe now all i want is lip service
to ease me into the deservedness
your lips, my service
you owe me that
goodbye, my love
my love
my love
my love
who never loved

The Avant-guardian Book 2 - Outskirts

2009-12-16T08:06:00.001-08:00

OUTSKIRTS : BOOK 2 -
you certainly could shuffle, sir. and bump your head. always bumping your gigantic head. we would laugh that it was 11 months and 10 days since you last knocked yourself out. then you'd do it again. you versus the concrete once more. your poor head. so many concussions. so many hangovers. wham. grrrr. fffuuuuuucccckkkkk. wow, that made you sound like a 'tard... but even when concussed you were some kind of genius. 'cept when you fell down the stairs and broke your ribeyes. special man.

hey, babygirl, how'you doin' on my outskirts? you like looking after me don'choo? even though i keep you an arms-length away. a guitar-length away. my sookie. let's get fuckfaced and hold hands. i'll let you lick my teeth. got any beer? let's watch some ball, honey baby. i'm in the mood to see the sox fuck them yankees. fuckin' arse-wipers. i love it when you ask someone if they're an arse-wiper, and they say no. dumbfucks. you mean you don't wipe your arse after you shit? hah! you got any c unt cs? gimme some of them curly fries. remember to salt 'em, salt 'em good, babygirl. is the curry sauce from over the road? goooood. salty curly curry goodness. dig, girl, dig. hah!

we sang a song about calamine lotion. and never slept. well, maybe we slept a little. in strange pretzel formations on the couch. prod, poke, bite, chomp, kiss, tickle, gnaw, sigh, making me cum with witty quips into a faithful ear. we took valium and grew balmy. and our songs took strange turns and skipped a little. we’d watch two fifths of a movie neither of us cared about and then pass out. always shuffling. always falling where we lay. crumpled pre-madonnas. scruffians.

got any v, baby? got beer? ok, i'll come to yours. but i'm gonna crash, ok? you better not have work in the morning. we're gonna stay up all night. and get don pepperoni in the morning. and steak. and curry sauce. you know i'm not just coming for the beer, right? hah! don't worry baby, you can sit on my face any time you like.

it was in that maddening dawn light that such truths and spectacles transpired. i would turn the lights off and we would become accustomed to the television flicker just in time to pass out again. wake, take a drink, pee the dog, grab a slice, talk shit, run rings, maybe sing a tune, maybe kill some time, maybe kill a bit of one another. a little bit of death never hurt nobody.

come here, baby. i need a pillow. and some rebellion. say ‘no’, baby, say ‘no’. dig.

maybe a little death did hurt. maybe these little lives and our restless little deaths were too much for what little reality we saw fit to accept. but the crows and the aeroplane trees did warn us. recklessness is for the wicked. they said that our biting could be cured. we needed drugs and psycho-analysis. we chose drugs and more biting. i was your suicide door. one easy swing and you could jump.

how's your inebriation, dollface?

The Avant-guardian Book 1 - The Clavicle...

2009-12-16T04:06:00.000-08:00

THE CLAVICLE : BOOK 1 -
there was a shadow on his clavicle that i couldn't quite reconcile. was it the shadow of his coruscating jaw or was it the remnants of his demeanour? no, it was the ring he wore heavily around his neck. the skin-burnished chain, a muted silver. there was a story there, one that i would eventually find solace in, a tale that i would explore the periphery of. and that is my place in this yarn, i am on the outskirts... sometimes clinging, sometimes just leaning with an unholy compulsion on the outer territories of this man. i was comfortable there once i had relinquished those desires that our world tells us are so vitally important. two people. marriage. forever. babies. no. honesty is all that matters. i was learning that convention was not always necessary. i was learning that i didn't need it to feel safe. i felt safe on his outskirts, in the midst of all his chaos, in the completely and utterly unconventional thing that was our love. my avant-guardian. but back to his clavicle.

blinkered. corrupted by that bone and the blessed pulse that can be traced up his neck. i began by checking he was alive and it became unrelenting habitude that year. it seemed ridiculous that someone could see my motives before i had admitted their reality, but i suppose there have got to be some surprises in this life. he was my biggest. his skin had a redness - albino genocide. there wasn't a whiff of the unnatural. he smelled like flesh and passion and iron. he tasted like salt, as if his skin was crying, and like gum. always like gum. he had fingers just waiting to be placed on keys, but instead they did their best on those phosphor bronze callus-forming strings of his. he was the black and blue of things and his fingers let him do whatever he pleased. he would've said it was cos of his eyes. his smokey bleus. his eyes played tricks on you y'see, pulling you in and then in a flash letting you see what most bury deep, and all of a sudden you are both uneasy and masochistically drawn-in. his hands said more to me though. i never did tell him that. his hands spoke volumes to me while everyone else was transfixed by his eyes. don't get me wrong, i got lost in those deadly things enough times... but he had so many gates built up in them, sometimes you would get sick of having to pick locks and shimmy over those darn things just to find some semblance of a truth. his hands lay below the radar, skinny and ragged representations of his mumblings. at the beginning there were protestations. hesitations. all those little rumblings, hints at the tail of this tale, and some masterful side-stepping. but there was magnetism and a gravitational pull that makes you run headfirst into the blackest of blackness to lose yourself in someones shadows and light and entanglements. looking at the window now i see the oil from his fingertips. the smudge of a palm. i said i loved him on the 22nd of february. he shook his head. and away we went on this push and pull. i would offer him my heart in return for head-shaking any day it seems. within weeks i had wrapped myself in his syllables, or more likely they had wrapped themselves around me, the way they do - like molasses and velvet and cobwebs. but back once more to the clavicles.

for a time i ensconced myself under his left arm. if positioned right i could hear his heartbeat, bite his shoulder, kiss his cheek, or snuggle into that mythical protection he gave me all without hardly moving. i liked the washing detergent his mother used. something plain, fresh, non-bio. but most importantly i could caress those clavicles, trace the bone and air around his neck. trying so desperately not to be that fucking albatross. i sent him old-fashioned invitations for nights out in the darkened corners of town... he declined for one reason or another. his head-shaking started long before the 'i love yous' were uttered. 'i'm in a really bad place just now', but we'd kiss anyway. one or other of us would hug the demons away momentarily and off we'd go on the push and pull once again. he could talk about himself for centuries. lucky for me i could listen to that velveteen voice for centuries too. it didn't much matter to me what he was talkin' about, i think i liked the sound of his ramblings as much as he did. funny. so so funny. and always too high-up for most people to understand. sometimes i'd miss a trick and he'd laugh at me. and i would scoff and admit my momentary retardation and he would assure me that i wasn't stupid, just tired or 'off my game'. always making me feel worth something, always challenging me to be more than i was, more than i am. never letting me sink into that dangerous vegetative state that so much of the world inhabits. i have strong calves now, cos he kept me on my toes. now from clavicle to tooth.

from any angle his teeth sat strong and angular and sharp in juxtaposition against his feminine lips. running a tongue along their tips would slice you like a papercut. his ivories were most familiar with this flesh. i would relish the sensation of not only the bite but the anticipation of such from those teeth. always just visible out from under the a-line curtain of his upper lip, a sharp end to those impossibly high cheekbones. as always it was the not-showing that kept you looking. little white flashes of tooth held your senses. an epileptic under strobe. and on the rare occurrence that the cheshire cat did reveal himself it was less about the amusement and more about the simple delight that an ivory voyeur could revel in. such pretty pretty pegs...

Coming soon - THE OUTSKIRTS : BOOK 2

beleaguered tongue, tender hand...

2009-11-27T07:43:00.000-08:00

tongue, beleaguered and disgraced
fortified by mothball soirees and dirt
digging lotus shadows and palpitations
walking with feet upturned and out of place...

tiptoeing gingerly around the chaos
triggering not the screams and the cursing
fragrant catastrophes drip down a brow
earnest calm protects her cause...

and i stand rippling, in a bath of my defeat.

lips, entrenched and misanthropic
tooth defined and bruised alike
pulling the blood from the sewing circle
in a yarn of the blackest red...

tiny steps of toe and carelessness
nodding to the air in between us
sallow vacuums where the eyes remove
abandoned sockets in that nom de plume...

and so i sit vacuous, in your silver lined pocket.

i chew on fluff and tramadol.

and wait.

to be forcibly removed by your tender hand.

TwitterKu'ing

2009-11-13T05:26:00.000-08:00

I spent a day twittering only in haiku - here are the results. Genius!

I am somewhat mad
Yelling like dog under moon
Pretty and wasted.

~

Sleepy work meeting
Slow mind wanders like treacle
I forgot to write.

~

Fucked up lover
Alone razor cocksucker
Permanently smug.

~

Gig at Wee Red Bar
Will be Theoretical
Long live the music.

~

@nickycarder rocks
But not at super-tweeting
Maybe at haiku?

~

Teaching how to tweet
While tweeting is kinda mug
What a melee, dig?

~

TwitterKu'ing rocks
Poetic license to fool
Losing all rhythm

~

This is a bus-ku
I am the one under hat
On the number two

~

The Dirt and ol' me
Playing Wee Red Bar, oh yes
Starts at eight.

~

It is dark in here
Red lights and Jack Daniels
Time to yell and dirge

~

He doesn't want you
Do you hear me stupid girl?
Stop loving him now.

~

Grim liver stutter
Bathe my ku's in a dim haze
Time for tequila

~

Diggin' Kerouac
Could read him for centuries
Lunatic road man.

peu ancre (little anchor)...

2009-10-28T09:43:00.000-07:00

is it possible to feel more adrift than this?

a million solitary pieces
not a lotta glue
not one soul knowing it all
but then again
who would wanna?

i want to know your depths, but that is because I am a despicable whore who feeds off the dirt...

venerable riddles
keep me guessing
i don't have a clue
but i like you for it
is that madness?

the dirt keeps me nourished and a veritable lunatic too, or perhaps that is the maddening lust...

cock-eyed and thirsty. always.

is it possible to dispel this insatiable hunger?

a constant craving
but i'm a porcelain princess
exiling gut for want of exiling you
i still don't have a clue
but who does?

my tongue is a listless tool, hating everything and speaking of nothing, until i speak of you...

a stupor of overtones
renders me vacuous
you cease to see me
but perhaps you never did
am i worthy?

my anchor lies in the damage, the catastrophic aftermath that bites my useless tongue, my incapable thigh, and my ever-bloodied lip...

cock-eyed and thirsty. always.

peu choque (little shocks)...

2009-10-27T11:56:00.000-07:00

shuffling the pigment
violet mosaics suffer
puerile depictions of your calamities

and now you are wasted, and atrophy is your sewer mate...

irradiated hue lingers
tongue-bound
caught in a thrush faucet

and the whiplash vein speaks volumes, a papyrus of animosity...

dulcet moans
like the bladders of whores
lick the flaming periphery

and so your cavernous socket swoons at its wretched pathology...

maverick tourniquets
hold tight to Eve's temptation
and halt your flow. so.

and now the scruff and cunt are a maddening dirge...

blissfully reaping dirt
beneath sodden fingernails
for the freakshow man

and the palpating desquamation is Rubella's crumb...

a phlebotomists nomenclature
lyrically drawing blood
skin abandons knees for less

and so, betwixt the skeletal tips, the ampersand raves and curdles.

fin.

un petit meurtre (a little murder)...

2009-10-24T06:25:00.000-07:00

i speak of volition
if nothing else
my random acts
of restlessness
gather momentum
under your gait & gaze
i speak of you
for you have permeated my tongue
and it thinks of nothing else...

my torment, sir, is nothing if not redeemable. i sit and commune with you, alone. yes, alone. your ink keeps me company. my noir daydreams and your lyrical honey. suffer not the hope removed, i fold at every tooth-soaked tryst. you deny me just enough to pique my senses, and proffer just enough to keep me seven shades of blue. my nonsensical doorway swings open at your approach and hits you on the backside as you enter. we are what we are, and for once that rests lightly on my back like a purpose-built sheath, and not like the burden you so vehemently propose. slither my faithful la Bleue, my lung awaits your breath...

i speak of fact
truths you conceal
remain masked
if unseen
but like my frailty
they exist still
ignorance can be bliss
for a weary & misshapen heart
but i gather the truths i know
and rest upon them
under scruff curtailments...

the lilting and beleaguered sophomore lip renders your buds bloody and never more delightful

to what stratagem do you hold, sir? as many arrows have been slung by those faithful to me, you exclaim your willingness to dissolve. but like a rigor-mortis hand i hold our deathly embrace. what forfeits these moments? what mark upon my vicious brow does this saboteur so cunningly cling? simply put, you are safer there alone. in the comfort and motherly coddle of your warped and preventable wilderness. i sit by the fence, little finger through the razor wire, and stroke your most coruscating jaw.

i louche you, darling, like i would my green tipple. render you milky and dilute and one hundred times more palatable than before...

even in this state
we wrestle like giants
stopping only to sing
or to tear our shoulders open
explore my treaties wisely, sir,
as i implore your treatise
like the dim, i enable
opening doors and sharpening the knife
i lick my fat lip in readiness...

better a clean slice than a rusty and protracted jugular, boy.

petite rébellion...

2009-10-17T04:13:00.000-07:00

the stillness waters down my grief
abiding only by your fitful gaze
blessing all the mayhem in between
i will dance in your shadows, sir
and be joyous with the crows
as they mull over your faithful carcass

good morning, my venerable distraction
my vague and stately disease
how i covet you, hope and disdain
your permanent discord & meticulous refrain
leave your fixtures and fissures
the useless trappings of our fragility

our humanity, your humanity
are just consequences of another action
respect the air, sir, for that is where you end
breathe it well and defy my stare
and i will breathe you in again
all rise for my death-indulgent son

good morning my little rebellion
let our heads bang together 'til we weep
and we bleed our tiny minds dry
for want of a more disgraceful tongue
my useless clay disintegrates
under the whim and wit of your despair...

petites morts (little deaths)...

2009-10-13T15:01:00.000-07:00

she is the graceful segue to your infamy
you travel light, she packs you heavy
with a quill and a purple notebook
and a faithful design behind those eyes...

because of her you will remain alive
her history defying your little deaths
with tales of the morticians doorway
and the scraps of those dying Levi's...

she has your voice too, squirrelled away
forever the Ballad of the Lost Weekend
break her reverie with a slit throat
for that is the only way you will disappear...

she is the river that could have been
the tributaries that shone on your lashes
stark and crisp like my autumn breath
laced with the promise of your peripheries...

in the perfect and remembered hollows
where your blue eyes once lingered
she places the remnants of your lilium refrain
it was always the withered lily you sought...

your empty husk and shell can flood
and you can ripple ceaselessly
but she will give you scents and longing
and take solace with the leaves...

thrust blindly and far too late
into the throws and folds of our scene
capitulating to not a soul
except your own of course...

that which struggles to breathe
under the wrath and wrap
your fine and upstanding knuckles
and your conciliatory gaze...

she will be your bridge by the square
should you need such a place
she will sing 'til she bleeds anyway
in spite of you, because of you, for you...

ever more so with every tainted step
she reflects on the upside-down-ness
you were nothing, now you are air
no dust, just relics of your regalia...

she is the graceful segue to your infamy
the wishful caveat to your faithful slaughter
in spite of you, because of you, for you
over and over, she will defy your little deaths...

peu vit (little lives)...

2009-10-12T05:15:00.000-07:00

i wish i could spend my time
crying wolf
or just crying

tipping the balance
just because i can
or could

do i stand in the sway
chaotic
defiant

apparently i do
but i'm weak
and redundant

stop, my studid heart
holding breath
holding court

my muscles would feint
at any blow cast
you have taught me well

and from my precarious perch
i survey the damage
so pretty

every absence is noted
held tight
and wept over

every breath is counted
through depths
and wolf-filters

never has numb felt so much
like hurt
like my little deaths

my little lives fall
one by
one by one

as i watch the fucking clock
for your fucking
mark, my love...

she bought him flowers so he could watch them die...

2009-10-11T07:21:00.000-07:00

it is the comely stealth that intrigues me
the restless thieves that supply my shadows

such a raucous death

it is with sticky tape and swear words
we are joined

at the hip

but you are burdened by the disfigurement
even though i am lighter for it

does my surety bring you comfort or discontent?

shake off this drag
this molasses funk
you're too in love with it now

i am pitch-fork mad
buried by your distance
consuming

my abortions
my aberrations
my little deaths

fragrant in the doorway
flagrant under the weight
of illicit hope

and the aeroplane trees
shudder at my approach

do i come here for solace or torture?

there were four feet
2.54 centimetres
so many hours
2000 minutes
and a quill

now i take comfort in the one thing that you never could abide by

hope.

your gait
it tells me goodbye
it speaks of the farewell
your face cannot manage...

Mon déclin doux...

2009-10-05T17:24:00.000-07:00

and she stood amidst the silent sway
pushing hard against the nothingness
snowbound and externalizing
or so i'm told

you had the ambulence lights
and the word 'suffer'
hot shit

as the neds wake me
with their one a.m. trashcan chorus
i remember the moments
when our emptiness had companionship
and wordplay

a laudation, sir
to your madness
and to mine

i am still here
externalizing and snowbound once more

a wishful caveat to your faithful slaughter...

the daylight robbery of him...

2009-09-29T11:28:00.000-07:00

A HIM

he asked me if i wanted to go out
i whispered quietly 'no'
'i'm not ready to see
the alternatives'...

so he asked me if i wanted a shag
the prospect depressed me
'if my alternative is you,
i'd rather go without'...

he looked at me as if i were mad
maybe i am
so he grabbed my hand and said
'will you suck me off instead?'...

he actually had hope in his eyes
how strange
so i kissed him briefly
and then walked away...

~ :: ~

THE REAL HIM

the real him?
i didn't know him
perhaps i saw the dust
whatever's left of him

there are traces in the air
tiny vacuums awaiting his return
piety gained in his wake
warships won through our turmoil

what was real?
i can't really tell
i felt it, does that make it real?
i hope so.

hope.
there's that word again
am i as foolish as the last?
for believing in moments
for believing in him

and i'm into the wild
so to speak
resting on you, when you're able
when you're here

did you know?
i'm so jealous of your freedom
i wish i were as brave as you
but my tissues are black

people say i'm crazy
to have loved you at all
they don't get 'it'
but then again, neither do you

will there be Baudelaire where you are heading?

read him to me
when you haunt me
tell me swiftly to 'stop hurting
or else'...

the lost weekends are simply
heresy
daylight robbery
of my love and sanity

but if that is the loss
then so be it
for i have gained all i need
in my lifetime with you...

~ :: ~

FOR THE HIMS THAT LIVE

tell me
about your life
and i will judge you
for wasting it

tell me
of your exploits
and i will laugh
at your emptiness

but if you tell me
of the depths of you
i will commend
your trifling hand...

on the outskirts...

2009-09-29T10:54:00.000-07:00

i wonder about your other life
the girl you loved
or maybe even love

the people that you keep at bay
the long time friends
your folk and folks

i cringe at the thought of you living
so easily without me
please forgive me

my forgiveness, it began with you
but it is weak
and unworthy

i have to remember, i am inconsequential
a bleak testimony
of our condition

and i play your delightful companion
in the darkness
in the space left behind

i would surrender every moment given
for one moment more
savage grace, in your company

sir.

a fallow triptych...

2009-09-27T11:39:00.001-07:00

weeds.

i walk over you
silver sparklers
my green armchair
where i write shit poetry
and my dog sniffs
at your succulent carpet
an ants tragedy
my philosophy lost
when they mow you weekly...

~ :: ~

crows.

static limbs on
abandoned tree tops
talk of kamikaze
leaps of flight
your swell and dance
at dawn
your curtain call
in the abstract air
filling the space
with mourning
but no context...

~ :: ~

and me.

my shaking duality
crows, defiant
as i force the upheaval
the tangible split
leave the carcass
at your side
and take refuge
in your vacancy
that defines
my futility

remove me
delicately, slow
grating my valves
of self-deprecation
supping all i give you
freely
in advance of
the tattered vines
and the fallow bows
of our humility...

you mined my soul and died like a canary...

2009-09-22T04:44:00.001-07:00

i ponder the recyclable moments
the intangible cunts
the odaxelaniac shoulder
and the predictable rants

such despicable tongues
that lick our teeth
from sternum to beak
and fly free from moderation

does my arm now fly
just because it has wings
painted gingerly
over the most delectable veins

i wonder at you, remnant king
the sweet facade
of tooth and progression
and the maddening paradox

pull yourself up a chair
in my chaotic psyche
the ottoman is your empire
and i am just your place to rest

don't single out my shoulders
from their tenders and their hooks
shake off that tendril pocket
and crow like the dead

i have felt you in my spine
the completeness in hand
a relative of perfection
and your season of discontent...

a formulaic distillation...

2009-09-21T08:57:00.001-07:00

i try to find my feet
amid the rock and the sorrow
trusting
biting
raging and incomplete

i have a constant rip
down my feigning spine
bleeding
hoping
dying and so alive

i lay my hand
against all that I can
hearing
holding
the ragged wingspan

i wear my maladies
around my neck
seething
gasping
just to protect

a sublimation...

my humble, sir...

i cave in and palpate...

2009-09-17T13:34:00.000-07:00

you extricate yourself
from this Molotov mouth

cunning, sir

a pleasing sycophant
in place of a vague rant

and you come at me
over
and over
and fuckin' over

relentless, sir

i could covet you
'til my breath ceases

my confidante lung, sir

and there you are
my dull thud
throwing up traces
stellar

a listless pleura, sir

we have no labels
just bad behaviour

figments of our distortion, sir

and i will trace you
in ink and insurrection

'til there is nothing left to save us, sir

but for our wine
and blood
and vacant nerve-

endings...

love sucks...

2009-09-14T07:06:00.000-07:00

the chaotic rule and dance of our extinctions
trembling doorways to the fetid mess that is our brow
dead cherubs litter our transitory liaisons
and make new our perceptions...

we utter the remnants of what we were supposed to say
born of the creeping deterrents on our liver
a thankful shadow casts itself across
our brittle and undeniable exceptions...

when we awake we are lost to a lethargic harr
nothing is as deliberate as our own footsteps
finding purchase in opposition
to our recalcitrant and liquid desires...

in the melee and swarm of the dissident embrace
i fail to breathe even under your release
so we hold tighter to our insentient lips
in pursuit of our inconsequential freedom...

Muse musings... part II

2009-09-11T12:29:00.000-07:00

We suck at the air
Claw at its demeanor
Sullied particles deny
My existence here...

There is heat in the air
Sweat and maybe a little brutality
My dog runs away at our gasps
We sound like we're dying
But then again, we are...

I can taste you
You leave a resonance
A space
Now a gap in the air
The psyche of your omission...

Then there is the debris
Clutter on my emotional mantel
That I collect
Leave to gather dust
Treasure...

We pull at the seams
Render ourselves present
Tainted dust resumes
My existence here...

Muse musings... part I

2009-09-09T04:24:00.000-07:00

I'm a writer, see... of shit poetry and song. The songs are less shit and sometimes rather good, but the poetry... heaven forbid. I would never deign to call myself a 'writer', but I have this compulsion to string words together, even though I have some kind of elemental deficiency in that department. Maybe I have some ok ideas, but like most of my endeavours they are unplanned, uninspired, and mostly don't hold my attention long enough to come to fruition.

Occasionally I discover a muse, but there have only been two. 'Haloman' and the beautiful yet completely fucked up 'Clove Kinson'. Haloman is still in my life, as a friend now, not a muse. His musing stopped once I finally let go, once he sat comfortably in the armchair of my friendship and I no longer loved him so uncontrollably.

Kinson on the other hand is so completely part of me still, yet so entirely on my periphery. I write now because of him, in spite of him, for him. He is the reason I exist in this current state. To say that I love him would not do justice to the complexity. He is my trusty and reliable arthritic hip, my tuberculosis lung, my dust and regalia. He read me Baudelaire at dawn... that cannot be matched.

His moat is wide and I only ever managed the occasional hold on his walls, before being eaten by the crocodiles. I creep now, to the edge of his territories, to gaze upon him and to stir this grief at my own death. For I died when I met him and was reborn a crocodile-eaten poet. This life is so perfect for me - perpetually wounded and in love. I could ask the malevolent gods for little else.

He is the accoutrements to my fetid uniform, yet he doesn't even know it, so far removed from my existence as he is...

dust & regalia...

2009-09-05T11:25:00.000-07:00

a simple swing of a chandelier
and the heartbeat stutters
a slowed metronome finding its feet
swing and stealth and melancholy...

and the truth bears no resemblance
to the last piece of wit or merit
but he capitulates just the same
growing weary under wheat and worry...

my lips grow pale under stipulation
you steal my nerves as souveniers
but i made you bury your face tonight
unearthed and always unappreciated...

as i rock like that defining time-keeper
a-sway with the dust and regalia
your breath loves and defeats me
and we hold on to what we can in defiance...

A simple matter of traction...

2009-08-31T08:44:00.000-07:00

based on folly and circumstance
the brittle quakes of disruption
shiver in my confidante lung
yelling at me to 'breathe, damn you, breathe'
but i stutter into the blackness
simply because i can...

it is a warm and pleasing hand
at my throat these recent months
bruising every pipe and loathing
whispering controversies into my eyes
making my blackness red-tinged
and perfect...

filtered through rusty chains
and a million bleak divisions
the shaking earth reverberates
through my russet resolve
begging me to curb my addictions
with a sledgehammer...

what a face, that face
dabbling in my aftermath
with a taper-thin strategem
and a guttural sigh 'dig it, O'
you render me a lunatic
just because you can...

2.54 centimeters and lost...

2009-08-30T05:14:00.000-07:00

it's barren here
now that the aeroplanes have lost their wings
and the season has turned to this, its true north.
there are colours i have not seen
and a million souls under this one tree
but it's quiet here, devoid of your ramblings
and the scent of your misfortune...

i am the harlot whose roots you avoided
you are the bedlam that bled on my breast
together we are the tangible
the unreasonable
the delicious...

there were moments before the desert spread
when this place had a pulse
a rush of us and our blissful arrogance
but then the bleus kicked in
and the delicate nights took their leave...

i am the elemental, me.

you think without feeling
i feel without thinking
such a war.
and the tributaries trickle only when i let them
'all the time then?' you say
waywardly and in a whisper.
i burst at your sanctity...

i have bottled what i can
in this grain-tinted moment
and i hold my breath when you crow
'you lasted longer than I thought you would'...
so i am here again now in this desolate green
crunching aeroplane wings
and feeding souls.

show me the way back to that tree, sir?

Porcelain and linotype...

2009-08-25T01:28:00.000-07:00

for those whose torments linger gently on midnight's pleura
weeping hopelessly with hearts heavy and full of deceit
lay, if you can, in the resounding silence until your ears bleed
'til your bile exiles itself to the stony gloom
and your reckless tears fall on nothing but porcelain and linotype...

for the madmen and gentlemen among you
scrub yourself of this affliction
your empty shadows fill with iron and contradictions
and your breath deconstructs the lull and lullabies of this whisper
cast off these trappings of sleep and consider this disfigurement...

for those who crave oblivion and the ultimate peace
shifting restlessly from cage to cave and beyond the truce
stand up, if you can, and welcome the mercurial truths that linger
until the golden glow shivers softly amongst the carnage of your life
and the finery and accoutrements wither at your touch...

for the weeping, i offer you the grail
the blessed breath after the purge and the stutter
the chance to revive and reveal all the embattlements of your filth
a velveteen compress for your unfixable fissures
hold tight the enamel and the wine that stains you clean...

for the gods and the convicts who press us
your gloves come off and your ivory stare buries us alive
free us from the guilt, and gild of the lost entanglements
extol the virtues and the petty charms from your depths and pule
it is blood that falls, but on nothing but porcelain and linotype...

Lockdown...

2009-08-17T07:11:00.000-07:00

do i recognise the smooth despise
the blessed melting conflagration
or do i suffer in the recognition
that the light doesn't reach your eyes...

hopeful putty in a sweating hand
a seed of something kinesthetic
aflush with kinson's soporifics
such a marked and shadowed man...

every hour i wage a little war
on the treachery of our ethics
too beautiful the sweet poetics
that derail the candid whore...

come with me to this sallow place
so i can feel your heavy lips
translated by your buoyant fingertips
until my iron does sate your taste...

am i cruising under heavy heart
awaiting the blessed curtain call
yelling blissfully to one and all
waiting patiently for the seas to part...

but my lonely soul, defiantly sees
gives away all my shadow, my doubt
thrashing the point(less) 'til it's out
sewing circles around him and me...

au revoir mon bien-aimé

2009-08-14T05:32:00.000-07:00

ah! the grape
and grain enhancement
that will hinge
our fragile lives

we see our flesh
through wheat coloured
sophisms
that change our tunes

do we grope
at the middle distance
like thieves
and misanthropes

greeting the dawn
with a honeyed tongue
a sweet stem
on the cuckoos seat

wrapped in arms
and farewell caresses
morpheus
clings to our ragged edges

standing tall
in the midst of our filth
our love
our fragile disasters

au revoir
from this perfect place
of nights
and loves complete...

la contusion calme...

2009-08-13T12:54:00.000-07:00

such a tranquil
bruise
she sits alone
full of whim
and duration

a counter top
smooth
she fumbles lightly
bathed in doubt
and brutality

a sullied unseen
suspect
she pulls him close
like a truth
or a child

such an untamed
love
she knits her peace
pulling sinews
and quotations

holding moments like
ornaments
she walks her load
with no shoes
or expectations

such a fetid
soul
she reads her manuals
full of hope
and resignation

still that tranquil
bruise
she holds her own
on his whim
and his duration...

From Baudelaire to other fuck-ups...

2009-08-11T09:31:00.000-07:00

my regrets
they are few and far between
but if I were to have one
it would be

that I didn't ask
to have you read
in your sullied french
Baudelaire to me

A Former Life
and the blessed Dawn
cascading from your mouth
your figure worn

i heard but once
these dulcet tones
in that crowded room
we were alone

but like all good things
it faded well
a soporific glimpse
from your cheap hotel

if i could have one thing now
it would not be the truth
it would be our Baudelaire
from a mongrel's tooth

the dusty truth would haunt me
from betwixt your ragged curse
so alone I turn to Baudelaire
come! let him do his worst

Don't try to understand...

2009-07-30T09:01:00.000-07:00

my life on a plate
a database
a conflagration
of time
of space

i'm thwarted
because i'm bad
shifty
and defiant
and wrong
all the time

but i admit it y'know

i don't need to be good
but i need to be liked
that is the crime
really

when what's the point?
none of you
mean shit
to me
the lily is dead you see

it withered at the
hands, long
and deft
these things are older
than you, me
and the wind

the rain you smell
was once
part of me
my body will defy you
permeate
your significance
your radiance

but i am old now
a crone on her knees
people ask
'what do you want to be when you grow up'
but it's too late for me
i've grown up and back down again

now I just lie
thickly
waiting
fighting
hoping

(but not for the things you'd expect)

because that is all i know how to do...

Is it as rhetorical as you...?

2009-07-27T11:01:00.000-07:00

maybe civil
maybe yawning
maybe a drowning piece of you
but her eyes are milky absinthe
a precipice of truth...

we start with rags
and clumsy knuckles
scraping deftly by the by
do we suffer the heroic
or leave you there to die...

take the cutless
to your sockets
and to your ragged throat
pull the sinews
emote, emote, emote...

The crow above...

2009-06-19T05:08:00.000-07:00

(More status update poetry. it's crap, but hey, at least it's expression, right?)

ah, the blessed yearning call
the crow above sees us all
take solace in the hungry theft
in the dying moorings of all that's left...

sugar-coated diamorphined queen
singing volleys of go-forth and go-to scenes
take your leave or take your time
amuse'd flurries of the purported sanguine...

rifle through the short decay
found whistling in a lilium daze
sup now, sweet one, on your red divine
and pull your rituals out of thine...

Enough
Enough
Enough...

The curtain call...

2009-06-16T05:10:00.000-07:00

Ah! What is this sudden affliction I have... writing crappy poetry. What a curse.

Alive at the curtain call
The curtain call
Melancholic
To abort y'all
But Baby
It's gotta be done
Be done
Be done...

Serenading the purchase
He has on her heart
Moulding fragments
Into bigger parts
Such a smattering
of temperance m'dear
In an otherwise empty space...

I would be a wiser fool
If her moth did flame
Before the curtain call
But sallow heartbeats
Curtail you all
Function, liver!
Despite the maul
Apothecary dreams
will fill the void
and surrender the fall...

You generate fire
In the belly of a mad man
Devise truths for hire
And pretty funeral pyres
For rats.
And lovers of the dim-witted
Cease your withering
Old one...

There are only two things
To hold onto when in rags -

Firstly, we are all alone...

And secondly, we will all make concrete out of dying flesh in the end...

There is nothing else
But the curtain call
The curtain call
Melancholic
To abort y'all
But Baby
It's gotta be done
Be done
Be done...

A different view of him...

2009-06-05T08:10:00.000-07:00

A showdown, a rundown, a countdown...

Azure afflictions on an otherwise perfect plane
Craterous roadblocks hold court and snigger
You dare to gaze?
Graze deeply in these fickle panes
Scoff shortly at the sun inane
Heir apparent in the brilliant blaze

Past the place where the earth and iron flows
Shadowy sinews holding gun and trigger
You are rusty gates
Digging clavicles and crows
Licking glimpses of the show
Surrender, sir, capitulate

Now swiftly the anamorphic dives
Slinging change-ups about her figure
You stop to tease
Abusing Baudelaire and knives
The muscle string of lives
Diffusing tongue for gallantries

Then the trade-winds send us south
Amongst the russet roving vigor
You pause to take the reign
Amid the parchment and the drought
A shimmering proffer of a pout
A Lilium light refrain...

There is solace, even for the strangler...

2009-06-02T07:41:00.000-07:00

I wonder
Betwixt the rood lofts
and the sky
does a silence so complete
Befall those who venture there?

If so, take me there
Sir
Gather together my pieces
And we shall recline a while
In the stillness...

Pulling melancholy daisies
From reluctant greens
Communing with the gaudy gulls
And the lonely mills

Stealing glances
and creasing our ebullience
Looking down upon everyone
From the stars
To Incongruence...

Do we linger
Like the ragged and the fallen?
Holding fast to the nothingness
That we have grown into
Like the chlorophyllic
Lean-tos...

Your raging permutations
Sheath the quivering
Little bean
The vulgar vulnerability
Your sight remains unseen...

The winds they shift us sideways
My arms preclude the worst
You battle all my heraldry
By your subtle whispered curse...

We are safe here
Sir
Betwixt the rood lofts
and the sky
In a silence so complete
Sir
We cannot hear the fight...

Tributaries and the innumerable finer thing...

2009-05-12T02:59:00.000-07:00

y'know, that Sookie,
she caresses each manifestation
as if it's the same

taming lions
and shews
would be simpler
but less reflective

gunshots made out of neds
and wheelie bins
give her ammunition
for 3am linotype

but it's the things she speaks quietly
and mutters about
that you need to pay attention to

she will shrink before she rages y'know...

eternally grateful
that her rage means something
to someone
in this piece of shit existence

even if just for a minute
to know that her expulsion
is more than just hot air
for a vagrant

and she realises that someone else
seeks the same tangibility as her
but for different reasons

both will make concrete out of dying flesh in the end...

loosen up, Sookie, your Bill's already dead.

We regress together... but I digress.

2009-04-24T05:48:00.000-07:00

I find myself regressing to age 22... parallels surround me. There are differences, obviously... I'm in a different country, the piscean is different, I don't own a sports car, the love is for another, the business is different. But the similarities make me giggle, and cringe, and cry, and miss people, and not miss things too.

In 2002 I was a 22 year old photographer/publicist/librarian in Wellington NZ. I worked in an art reference library during the day, and ran my own company 'Counterpoise Photography & Publicity' during all the other hours of the day. I loved 2 men in 2002... one was the unrequited love for my piscean best friend, the other was a dangerous love with a mental piscean musician who mistreated me and caused the demise of my habitation in NZ. He wanted to die. I drove a black sports car, and took great pleasure in whipping boyracer arse... and was very proud of my clutch control. I listened to a lot of NZ music - Che Fu, Uncle Monkey, Blindspott, Jester etc. I sang only in my bedroom. My friends and I would spend most evenings at Kitty O'Sheas pub and go 'hunting' for the boys we'd like to fuck. We'd take turns at being the 'wing man' and many a times we 'took one for the team'. I hunted constantly, that was the bit I liked... I had no interest in having any of them... except the 2 that I couldn't or shouldn't have. 2002 was the year Chantal taught me to take full advantage of my boobs. I went out with a guy called Chris for a while, but his parents told him I was 'too good for him', so he got insecure and dumped me. I was the PR Chick for the band Monkey Puzzle. They taught me to let go, while I still looked after them. Danny taught me what madness could do. We were sponsored by Durex, thank goodness. We went to Gisborne and bled and externalised. I drove for 8 hours on energy drinks and anger. I learned the power I could have over men. I was enamoured and immersed with my business. My car was my bubble. Blindspott was my fast-driving music, except for track 12. I was a sponge for the elements, for emotions, I was everyone's mirror. I did everything on zero energy... I ran on adrenalin and spunk.

Now, 2009... I run on adrenalin and hope. I am a 29 year old musician/PA/music promoter in Edinburgh Scotland. I shuffle paper during the day and play music by night. I still run my own company, but a different one. I have only loved 1 man this year. He is a mental piscean musician... but he does not mistreat me. Although he also wants to die. I drove a black car for a while, but it died. It wasn't a sports car either. It was still my bubble. And my angry driving music was only played in my head cos I didn't have a functioning stereo. I am still proud of my clutch control. I sing everywhere... including my bedroom, but more often than not, in public. I have a local pub, The Reverie... but I no longer play wingman. I am not a whore anymore, but I snog an incessant amount in pubs with the piscean man I love. I only hunt him. He's illusive, so I don't get bored. I am not 'too good' for anyone these days, I am just good, and he digs that about me. I no longer need Chantal to help me appreciate and 'use' my boobs, but I miss her all the same. I am still a PR Chick, but for my collective, still a bunch of monkeys though. I still drive on energy drinks and anger, but I am no longer sponsored by Durex, shame. I am still enamoured and immersed... and it is my music that keeps me going. And still, I am a mirror... I feel EVERYTHING.

But most of all, it is my frame of mind that is similar. For a time I was a 1950s housewife - this never sat well with me, because it was a lie, a truth I wanted, but could never live with. I am 22 again, in my head anyway. But this time I have more mental instability, more knowledge, more love, and someone strong enough for me.

I do not regret a thing, and will not regret my now.

Another 'lost weekend'...

2009-04-20T09:50:00.000-07:00

It has been more than a week since my last meme... but it feels like an eternity.

As quickly as my life became history last week, is as slowly as it meets the same fate this week. Fundamentally I know that time moves constantly, it is our perception that changes... but I would like to think I can slow it down if I choose to.

We had a tumultuous week - my stupid sponge body sucked up your blackness and I reeled and fell. I wasn't prepared for the depths that I was exposed to. It was good for me though, to see your depths... to feel how you feel. It woke me up, and broke me down. I was hurting, but thankful. Yes, thankful - bizarrely it made me feel closer to you.

So I wrote this poem for you...

He smells like dragon flowers
Of a warmer time
Of safety and a precariousness
A beautiful cavity
A painful paradox

There is pain in the air
It smells like chewing gum
And dragon flowers
A beautiful curiosity
A bone of contention
Another bone in the ground

I stop moments
I yell and externalise
It is all I can do to hold
The moments
The dragon flowers
And I hold the pain too
A painful purge
Bleu dirge

Take this dragon flower man
Give him ballast and anchors
Give him reason and love
Unfold his paradox
Understand it, immobilise it
Keep him grounded
And out of the ground

I will always howl in harmony
With you.

Then we shared another 'lost weekend' and it was bliss. I love how we can disappear, how we can co-exist and isolate ourselves from the bullshit, from anything that might sway us. I don't feel like I'm missing anything when I'm with you.

I suppose it is stupid of me to have hope now... but I can't help it. You were so vital, how can I not? I will sup on this for a time, and let myself feel the hope - it is good for me... it is good for you.

Long live the lost weekends, the chips n' curry sauce, and the baseball on the box.

Today is the first day of your life...

2009-04-09T04:35:00.000-07:00

Today is April 9th 2009. The year has flown by, a fact that I am both pleased with because it means there is lots going on to make time pass easily... and saddened by, because it means the things I wish to hold on to are ever closer to making their escape.

But today is a new day. I am making it the first day in a sub-life I have decided upon. A life where I am stronger, more able to do battle, more eager to fight. It is how I need to be just now. I can't say that it is easy, given that I am starting somewhat on the back foot. But is there ever time to recover, really?

I shake a lot these days. I think it is because I will never relax - not while I am constantly waiting for loss. Waiting for the inevitable. We are all alone eventually. I am alone now. I have to remember that. That has to be ok. Because one day that will be what I am left with.

Once he has gone. Taken himself out of my life. Our lives. He is hell bent. I am hell bound. Spending time at 2am at 'death's waiting room'... spinning trolleys and placating cops. I will have memories, and that residue. You know the stuff? That complicated mix of senses that form how you felt at a precise moment. I will always have the scent of his shoulder, the feel of his shirt, the cut of his tooth, the depth of his eyes, the emptiness of them too, his words on my back, the bruises that always fade too soon, that screech and his pomp, video evidence of his strut, his unusual sounds, his hands restraining my wrists, the thoughts of breaking my wrists to see if he'd let me, his conversations with Moose, his hand in mine, my attempts at 'flow', the right-hand corner of his mouth curling as he tries not to smile, his hand pulling my hair, our timeless escapes, my 'nooo' and his 'y'alight?', our ballad, his anger, my relief, our nights with the sox, the exact feel of his skin, his sprawling intertwining hugs, his scrawling, his madness, my madness, our madness...

I am immovable. I am strong. He makes me moreso. I could not be any other way.

I regret nothing, because I believe in something.