i miss having hair.

and feeling like a girl.

and not hating myself
for ending up here.

And now.

I came home too early from work.

I saw things I should not have to have ever seen.

I miss cooking dinner.

I miss not hating myself for trusting someone who never really loved me.

I am tired of being wrong.

I am tired of people.

I am tired of hating myself for it.

He is lucky, he knows what he has done, and why he must be alone.

But I don't get that luxury, all I know is I had loved, and been there and did my best.

And it made no difference.

I'm the stupid cunt of a girl who sucked it up.

And I sucked it up, I humiliated myself.

I was a fucking idiot.

And I hate myself for it.


Thats where I am, thats where I live thats my fucking street.

Gin anyone?

a little tired, i hate.

it has been a while
since running about under a washing line
naked in the rain
has happened

I have sent letters
hoping to make sense
of no sense
and been left

once again
cold by an absence
of reason

where there should be
understanding
there is not

where there should be
affection
there is not

you should give me
back a watch, and the hours in it.

so I don't have to doubt myself.
or my ability
to be everything you now regret.

to walk into a room
decorated with things
i made home with

to burning sheets in the garden
drinking small paper packages
making coffee

slaving like a pig, for a pig. on our pig farm, just burning the fat.

a man who took the last piece of my dignity
and pissed it against a wall
the asked for forgiveness

i will never let the water slip by under the bridge for you.
sweet stains on my pillow,
and a prickles in my side

i burnt holes in the girl i used to be.

I cut off all my hair to be the man
i thought you wanted,
or did not know.
you wanted.

i hate
         i hate.
i hate
I am exhausted by my hate, and my success feels like sweet nothing.

because i was not with you, am not with you.
cannot ever trust you, and you tell me no,
then yes,

then sorry,
then all I ever thought I had

pissed up against a wall.

I hate
        i hate.
I hate, to be the one you mail.

forget,
to hate.
forget to trust, they are
the same
only older
uglier
more sure of themselves
sue of their inability to be anything other then

disappointment
and shame,

oh
i hate.

considering flight

and the answer is clear

if it is you must fly

so must I

bow out gracefully.

and she cannot see it.

cannot realise.

it does not enter her psyche at all.

it is as though, there is nothing, no common ground to find.

there is no want there, no determination.

no pleasure to be had.

there is only this glimmer.

of what was.

and i fear i will become.

just as they where.

not measuring up.

and i don't know how to act.

i dont know how to respond.

pathetic, lifeless, passionless mess.

maybe it is time to bow out gracefully.

if that is at all possible.

Hawthorn Rd

On the corner at 11pm there is not much to mention, a few drunk teenagers stagger off the tram and wonder into the decrepit yard. They slip by nonchalantly a mailbox overflowing with fines posted for residents who have long passed though. Most of them are steaming their packs to remove the sediment of Ganga and grime half way up the east coast, searching for menial dish washing jobs. Some are waking up to smelly socks and dirty farm bots for another day of hard hand picking potatoes, those that remain, are drunk, high, lost and enjoying every second of this easy come, easy go, find what you can and make the best of it space.

I am on the roof, out the window at the top of the stairs, whimsically strumming my ukulele, and hoping no one notices me on their way to the one bathroom in out twelve-bedded house. I imagine how poet it all seems, how the house breathes in and out the children under its roof. How at times it seems a sick child being hand balled from traveller to traveller. Pass the buck, relinquish the mad responsibility of it all.

I could not have planned it, and to be fair with some sweet lack of hindsight and disregarding an actual idea, of just what, and where and how I wanted it, all seemed pretty peaceful. There where beds to fill, an endless pile of dishes to ignore in the kitchen, and an apparent house mood to maintain. The mood was somewhat managed with a few casks of goon, an atleast one attracted forienger in the living room to keep the warm blooded males content. Fleeting seconds of young girls skimping away to the shower and a few macho conversations over poker as we sweep cigarette butts under the couch.

It is there we find each other, there I found myself, asleep on a dirty mattress trying to make love quietly while a few loud mouthed Germans play Halo. I am in love with the freckles on your back, the smooth line of your shoulder, as you sleep through the noise. The idea of what my mother would say skims across my mind as I slowly arouse you again, and again, amazed at the responsiveness. Warm in our cocoon of sheets and pillows, we could be on any floor, anywhere, a mess of each other.

Little did I know then, and even less now, hands deep in flour attempting to make the dough rise. Brushing an egg mixture for that picture perfect glossy finish, and dreaming about the possibilities and impossibilities of the roles I play. I am an attempted seductress, a lunatic and a chef extraordinaire. I am dreaming of your hands on my face, holding me, as though, I am what you want, need and believe to be. But there is no grounding, no guarantee. For that I weep.

half stripes : half spots

and i could not imagine

how lovely you were to be

and how hours could pass

without regard

in the space you hold between us

the warm spot

between the warm ones

in our three sleeper bed.