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.

writing in permanent marker.

We are moved to a new room.

The carpet is soft underfoot

Baby has space to run about.

I live with two men I love.

I am lucky.

But as always I am aware.

You see this space as semi permanent

as I prepare a home.

slipping into the familiar.

and there is no excuse to be made for why

we lie in the beds we make

and turn and toss in those sheets

heads and hearts a mess with

some strange tenderness

fold and unfold yourself into

this

continually asking yourself

the same questions

scars.

you are scarred

and i am a plaster

that hopes to cover you

even though the scar had healed over

like any other scar would do

i cover still the space

the wound that was

once split and sore

how long will i be so useless?

a.C.i.D

i have to trust you for the next five to seven hours

as i will be under the influence of something i am not familiar with

i hope you do not lead me to the sea and drown my weary bones

or take me to the forest and leave me to wonder

i hope you do not leave me by the roadside

or let me burn in some strange fire

i hope you do not feed me to the strange wolves

but most of all

i hope you do not even realise

i am to trust you for the next five to seven hours.

red thread.

is it best to love without regard?

Or

to love with complete knowing?

still i wonder,

how is it so perfect

between the others.

how is it they fit

as though

they have spent their lives

growing into the shapes

and colours they are

and in perfect unison

they move forward

content in the promise and security of the other

i long for separation from the self

separation from the burning need of understanding and adoration

separation from the continual pull toward that which in turn

will endure some sad form of separation

yet in that i fear even more

the truth of Merwin's words

Separation

Your absence has gone through me  

Like thread through a needle.  

Everything I do is stitched with its colour

in your wooden arms

the splinters left

have made small

scars

i have let the skin heal over

the tiny pieces now just bumps under the skin

they are reminders

of the friction

between

i wish it would be

in colour

at least i'm awake

in your vacant stare

at least i'll try to escape

even if i am to return

it is in my attempts to leave

that i resurrect my dignity

your wooden arms

left furniture

and help make him a home

your wooden arms

once held me warm

and now all i'd do

is take a match

to the lot

with no regard

with a scorned heart

and a bruised ego.

if only i did not want to.

my head is swollen

like a genetically modified tomato

i have not been focussed for what feels like months

in truth

i think it may really have been months

since any remotely coherent thought processes have gone on

it is as though

i've lost my dignity

my sense of reason

and my gumption

and all for what?

to be hanging about like some sad wall flower

pinning for an illusive smile that never really settles long enough on his face to mean anything

waiting for a fleeting, half hearted embrace

that is is wrought with unnecessary unease and tension

would it not be better

to accept what cannot be

and move on in kind favour?

apparently not

apparently it is easier to rip me to shreds in front of my colleagues

to accuse me of stealing

to bullshit me into thinking there is some kind of caring nature there

lurking behind your disinterested and vacant stare

if only i'd not lost my knickers to just another man

one so unworthy of my attention

if only you where as lovely as i hoped you'd be

if only i did not have to see you everyday

if only i did not want to.

as good as it gets.

i will say thank you
for the honesty
our conversation did provide

i will say fuck you
for the outcome
our conversation did provide

i will say i understand
because in truth i really do

i will say i'm fine
because in truth thats all you need to hear

i will say alright
because even if you dont believe the least you can do is pretend

and eventually i will say too late
when you realise this is
as good as it gets.

real things. part 2

one day
you will
realise
just how perfect
it could have been
had you actually
looked me in the eye
and said
sure
yeah
that sounds good

but until then
i'm too tired to go out drinking
pretending to actually like the company of the friends you keep
i'm too tired of pretending full stop

i'd rather be real
at home
making music
or listening to music
or painting
or drawing
or writing
or just being
real

the blue room

the blue room

is where we lay in slumber

lost in the space of each other

the sheets a mess of tenderness

smile into his chest

the warmth of you seeping into

this worn out mattress

as we fall into each other

full of some unknown endless hunger

i am in love

i am in love with the mere memory of it all

oh my beloved

you are mine

sweet blue room

sweet bedroom eyes

taken from my travel journal 11 February 2009

dug up by your neighbours dog.

you cannot fight history.
it has been
and will always be
as it is
as it was

it maybe disguised perhaps by some new change
or it can be hidden beneath a vast landscape of excuses

OR

it may be buried in the neighbours yard
where now you must only fear its submersion

heaven help the day

it's dug up by your neighbours dog.

untitled

she is having nightmares

about the dog that scared her face

and all i want to do is walk down green parade

and sit in my orange afternoon and smell the rain.

i looked at Australia today

and saw the burnt land

the dry leaves

and the bluest bays

i can remember being able to smell the rain before it fell,

the tight feeling of sun burnt skin

and salt water hair.

i am beginning to miss.

very much.

come sit by the fire.

come out of the night
and sit by the fire
it knows the story
you've not the energy to tell
after such a journey
through the storm outside

let you feet
sore and tired
warm inside your boots
let down the burden of your pack
and let your back stretch in this heat

the eternal furnace that glows before you
burns not only in front
but through you
reaching past your experience
to simmer your memories

the fire knows what it must be
to be you
it knows the road
was long and perilous
it knows you've seen more
felt more
earned and lost more
then one would like to recall

so come out of the storm
and sit by the fire
for it knows the story
you've not the energy to tell