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.