Monthly Archives: December 2008

callous heels numbed in travel; endless maps made by their scalpels.

29th dec 2008

i’ve been so up and down with my emotions today, for all sorts of reasons, manifesting from me just thinking too much about everything and everyone. but right now i’m pretty good, smiling, actually.

i wrote out this long, long, long and extremely self-revealing explanation of why i felt so shit today; mainly about boys and leaving and feeling pretty lonely. it made me feel better, but i deleted it. stuff like that is always good, it helps you rationalise your own emotions; to figure out why i was crying in the shower about not being missed when i go to sydney even though i know i will and all sort of fundamentally irrational shit.

so right now i’m listening to at the drive-in, i have all of their albums, but haven’t listened to them in ages. they’re pretty amazing, i lovelovelovelove their lyrics.

This song, which is about the dead women of juarez, through a long twisted path of research actually inspired my extension history major work (i am that cool), and fanned the flames of my interest in mexican culture, especially the place of women.

http://www.revcom.us/a/v24/1161-1170/1166/juarez.htm

actually some stuff from my research (off the top of my head): ciudad juarez is a city in mexico, quite close to the border with america. it is a hub of factories, especially “maquiladoras”, $55 a week assembly plants, operated by huge corporations with vast wealth; some of the wealthiest in the world, in fact. 70% of workers are women and girls, some as young as only 13 years old.

at least 370 women, most of them factory workers, almost all of them young, slim, pretty, with long dark hair, have been raped and murdered here since 1993. 500 are still missing.  yet despite this, little is done to protect the scores of women who continue to arrive in juarez desperate for even the minute amount of money maquiladora work can provide; nor seek or bring to justice whoever is doing this to these women. every 12 days, a woman goes missing, yet authorities have only responded due to mounting pressure from advocacy groups and international authorities, and have largely scapegoated and made excuses.

yet from this has emerged a strong consciousness of the need for women to protect women, with many advocacy groups being created. not just in terms of this horrific violence, but the violence and misogyny that permeates much of mexico. in 2002 a law was made in chiahuahua (where ciudad juarez is located) where sentences for rape could be reduced if the victim “provoked” them. this is symptomatic of the base problems of a society where a husband cannot be charged with raping his wife and domestic violence is rarely prosecuted; where even the attorney general said that murder and rape victims brought it on themsleves by dressing provocatively. clearly, violence against women is not taken seriously, as the inattention by authorities to these murders ilustrates. this has catalysed a greater awareness amongst the women of mexico to their rights and responsibility to fight for themselves against violence and misogyny.

the things you write at 1 in the morning.

at the drive-in. pretentious, perhaps, but brilliant? undeniable.

Invalid Litter Dept.

Intravenously polite, it was the walkie-talkies
That had knocked the pins down
As their shoes gripped the dirt floor
In the silhouette of dying.
(Dancing on the corpse’s ashes…)

Yeah, they had plans for him
But they had spun the last of the pimps
Polyester, satin nailed, jewelery lips
While the guillotine just laughed again.
(Dancing on the corpse’s ashes…)

And the paramedics fell into the wound
Like a rehired scab at a barehanded plant,
An anaesthetic penance beneath
The hail of contraband.
(Dancing on the corpse’s ashes.)

On my way,
Nails broke and fell
Into the
Wishing well.
Wishing well.
Wishing well.

On my way,
Nails broke and fell
Into the
Wishing well.
Wishing well.
Wishing well.

They had defected and been excommunicated
And all the pulses were subverted,
And they made sure the obituaries
Showed pictures of smoke stacks.
(Dancing on the corpse’s ashes…)

A vivid dissection that mocked
The strut of vivisection
A semi-automatic colony
And a silencing that still walks the streets.
(Dancing on the corpse’s ashes…)

In the company of wolves
Was a stretcher made of
Cobblestone curfews.
And the federales performed
Their custodial customs quite well.
(Dancing on the corpse’s ashes.)

On my way,
Nails broke and fell
Into the
Wishing well.
Wishing well.
Wishing well.

On my way,
Nails broke and fell
Into the
Wishing well.
Wishing well.
Wishing well.

On my way,
Nails broke and fell
Into the
Wishing well.
Wishing well.
Wishing well.

On my way,
Nails broke and fell
Into the
Wishing well.
Wishing well.
Wishing well.

Intravenously polite, it was the walkie-talkies
That had knocked the pins down
As their shoes lay dangling on the dirt floor
In the silhouette of dying.
(Dancing on the corpse’s ashes…)

Well, yeah, they had plans for him
But they had spun the last of the pimps
Polyester, satin nailed, jewelery lips
While the guillotine just laughed again.
(Dancing on the corpse’s ashes…)

And the paramedics had fallen into the wound
Like a rehired scab at a barehanded plant,
An anaesthetic penance beneath
The hail of contraband.
(Dancing on the corpse’s ashes.)

On my way,
Nails broke and fell
Into the
Wishing well.
Wishing well.
Wishing well.

On my way,
Nails broke and fell
Into the
Wishing well.
Wishing well.
Wishing well.

On my way,
Nails broke and fell
Into the
Wishing well.
Wishing well.
Wishing well.

On my way…
Dancin’ on the corpse’s ashes…
Dancin’ on the corpse’s ashes…

Callous heels,
Numbed in travel
Endless maps made
By their scalpels.
Scalpels.

Callous heels,
Numbed in travel
Endless maps made
By their scalpels.

Scalpels…

Catacombs

Lark throated spit through beaks tonight
These gagging chirps were written in disguise
What’s that sound?
Caskets floating

Hey you, did you ever intend to sleep inside my tomb
And you would you ever attempt to kick from inside this womb
Hey you, would you ever attempt the excavation of these fossils
And in case you haven’t noticed, we’re already dead

This gravity is a quadriplegic horse and carriage
This gravity is a quadriplegic horse and carriage
This gravity is a quadriplegic horse and carriage

Pendulum swing through tantrum slits
This scalpel’s gaze untamed won’t feel romantic
What’s that sound?
Caskets floating

In laymen’s terms sewn through matrimony

Hey you, did you ever intend to
Hey you, did you ever intend to
Hey you, did you ever intend to
Hey you, did you ever intend to

This gravity is a quadriplegic horse and carriage
This gravity is a quadriplegic horse and carriage

What’s that sound coming?
What’s that sound I hear coming?

This gravity is a quadriplegic horse and carriage

One-Armed Scissor

Yes this is a campaign,
slithered entrails
in the cargo bay
Neutered is the vastness
Hallow vacuum check the
oxygen tanks.
They hibernate
but have they kissed the ground
pucker up and kiss the asphalt now
Tease this amputation
splintered larynx
it has access now

cut Away, cut Away
Send transmission
from the one-armed scissor
cut away, cut away

Banked on memory.
Mummified circuitry,
Skin graft, machinery,
Sputnik sickles found in the seats

Self-destruct sequence
this station is non-operational
Species growing
Bubbles in an IV loitering

Unknown origin
Is this the comfort of being afraid?
Solar eclipsed
Black out the vultures
as they wait

cut away, cut away
Send transmission
from the one-armed scissor
(get Away, get Away)

Dissect a trillion sighs away
Will you get this letter?
Jagged pulp sliced in my veins
I write to remember
Cause I’m a million miles away,
Will you get this letter?
Jagged pulp sliced in my veins
I write to remember…
I write to remember…
My right to remember…

cut away, cut away
Send transmission
from the one-armed scissor
cut away, cut away
(cut away cut away cut away cut away)

Cosmonaut

we sample from the shelves
tore a page out from this chapter
deface the essays in the book that you’re reading
we are the leaches that stop the bleeding
deficit attention program
by any means necessary
blare sirens to the library
whisper instructions to the book-wormed glossary

is it heavier than air – tell us, is the black box lying?
is it heavier than air – tell us, is the black box lying?

aeronautics hacked
the spine of paragraphs
prepare to indent, a coma that read-
floating in a soundproof costume
here comes the monolith
brass knuckles for the hissie fit
an abbreviation for the landing of fleets
incoming

is it heavier than air – tell us, is the black box lying?
is it heavier than air – tell us, is the black box lying?

position the stitches – like miles of torpedoes
permission was hinted
lungs that hollered in a sleeper hold

is it heavier than air – am i supposed to die alone?
is it heavier than air?
is it heavier than air – am i supposed to die alone?
is it heavier than air?

position the stitches – like miles of torpedoes
permission was hinted
lungs that hollered in a sleeper hold

position the stitches – like miles of torpedoes

Pattern Against User

the proposition
handcuffed to the park bench
hypodermic people poking
fun at the living
please lift the weight out of this
it takes the weight out of living
are we just infants
that are ripe for the training
the opposition
can’t feel the tenticle reach
suction cup the numb arms
of the elderly
please lift the weight out of this
it takes the weight out of living
let these walkers trip on
endless proof

pattern against user- dilated
bastard waiting for nothing
circus carny guarding
the gates of heaven
like stuck in limbo abduction
wormed our way through
distant earth

this intuition
limps with the cane of suspicion
folding space in the crease
of this page
it takes the weight out of this
it takes the weight out of-
trickling the ticking of this
grandfather clock
the opposition
can’t feel the tenticle reach
suction cup the numb arms of
the elderly

chorus

and if this clock keeps ticking away
will time be hesitated
of all the minutes that were
taken away
will your watch be waiting
sand falls through
time portals
these landfills – immortal
and if this clock keeps
beating down
let the branded time
keep playing
of all the minutes that
were taken away
will your watch be waiting

fuck i love them, but i hate the mars volta! i guess i just prefer the sound of at the drive-in, they’re… i don’t know, i like their energy, as well as their lyrics. seeing them live would be so awe-inspiring, i’ve seen many youtube clips, they’re crazy on stage.

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Filed under Music, Ramblings

27th dec 2008

For Homer

Gregory Corso

There’s rust on the old truths

-Ironclad clichés erode

New lies don’t smell as nice

as new shoes

I’ve years of poems to type up

40 years of smoking to stop

I’ve no steady income

No home

And because my hands are autochthonic

I can never wash them enough

I feel dumb

I feel like an old mangy bull

crashing through the red rag

of an alcoholic day

Yet it’s all so beautiful

isn’t it?

How perfect the entire system of things

The human body

all in proportion to its form

Nothing useless

Truly as though a god had indeed warranted it so

And the sun for day the moon for night

And the grass the cow the milk

That we all in time die.

You’d think there would be chaos

the futility of it all.

But children are born

oft times spitting images of us

And the inequities

millions doled one

nilch for another

both in the same leaky lifeboat

I’ve no religion

and I’d as soon worship Hermes

And there is no tomorrow

there’s only right here and now

you and whomever you’re with

alive as always

and ever ignorant of that death you’ll never know

And all’s well that is done

A Hellene happiness pervades the peace

and the gift keeps on coming…

a work begun splendidly done

To see people aware & kind

at ease and contain’d of wonder

like the dreams of the blind

The heavens speak through our lips

All’s caught what could not be found

All’s brought what was left behind

have spent afternoon reading beat poetry, and finished ‘when i was five i killed myself’. it was so sweet and sad and just a bit strange, since its told by an 8-year-old, and you’re wondering the whole time… highly recommended.

gregory corso is my new love. and allen ginsberg, AMAZING. HOWL! most stunning piece of poetry.

   HOWL

                    For Carl Solomon 

                           I 

       I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
              madness, starving hysterical naked, 
       dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
              looking for an angry fix,
       angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
              connection to the starry dynamo in the machin-
              ery of night, 
       who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
              up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
              cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
              contemplating jazz,
       who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
              saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene-
              ment roofs illuminated,
       who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
              hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
              among the scholars of war,
       who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
              publishing obscene odes on the windows of the
              skull, 
       who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn-
              ing their money in wastebaskets and listening
              to the Terror through the wall,
       who got busted in their pubic beards returning through
              Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
       who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in
              Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their
              torsos night after night
       with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, al-
              cohol and cock and endless balls, 
       incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and
              lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of
              Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the mo-
              tionless world of Time between,
       Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery
              dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops,
              storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon
              blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree
              vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brook-
              lyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
       who chained themselves to subways for the endless
              ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine
              until the noise of wheels and children brought
              them down shuddering mouth-wracked and
              battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance
              in the drear light of Zoo,
       who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's
              floated out and sat through the stale beer after
              noon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack
              of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
       who talked continuously seventy hours from park to
              pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brook-
              lyn Bridge,
       lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping
              down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills
              off Empire State out of the moon,
       yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts
              and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks
              and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
       whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days
              and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the
              Synagogue cast on the pavement,
       who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a
              trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic
              City Hall,
       suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grind-
              ings and migraines of China under junk-with-
              drawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,
       who wandered around and around at midnight in the
              railroad yard wondering where to go, and went,
              leaving no broken hearts, 
       who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing
              through snow toward lonesome farms in grand-
              father night,
       who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telep-
              athy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos in-
              stinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
       who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking vis-
              ionary indian angels who were visionary indian
              angels,
       who thought they were only mad when Baltimore
              gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
       who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Okla-
              homa on the impulse of winter midnight street
              light smalltown rain,
       who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston
              seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the
              brilliant Spaniard to converse about America
              and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship
              to Africa,
       who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving
              behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees
              and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fire
              place Chicago,
       who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the
              F.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist
              eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incom-
              prehensible leaflets,
       who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting
              the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
       who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union
              Square weeping and undressing while the sirens
              of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed
              down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also
              wailed,
       who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked
              and trembling before the machinery of other
              skeletons,
       who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight
              in policecars for committing no crime but their
              own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
       who howled on their knees in the subway and were
              dragged off the roof waving genitals and manu-
              scripts,
       who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly
              motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
       who blew and were blown by those human seraphim,
              the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean
              love,
       who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose
              gardens and the grass of public parks and
              cemeteries scattering their semen freely to
              whomever come who may,
       who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up
              with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath
              when the blond & naked angel came to pierce
              them with a sword,
       who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate
              the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar
              the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb
              and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but
              sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden
              threads of the craftsman's loom,
       who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of
              beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a can-
              dle and fell off the bed, and continued along
              the floor and down the hall and ended fainting
              on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and
              come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
       who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling
              in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning
              but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sun
              rise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked
              in the lake,
       who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad
              stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these
              poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver-joy
              to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls
              in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses'
              rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with
              gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely pet-
              ticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station
              solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
       who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in
              dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and
              picked themselves up out of basements hung
              over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third
              Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemploy-
              ment offices,
       who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on
              the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the
              East River to open to a room full of steamheat
              and opium,
       who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment
              cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime
              blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall
              be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
       who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested
              the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of
              Bowery,
       who wept at the romance of the streets with their
              pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
       who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the
              bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in
              their lofts,
       who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned
              with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded
              by orange crates of theology,
       who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty
              incantations which in the yellow morning were
              stanzas of gibberish,
       who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht
              & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable
              kingdom,
       who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for
              an egg,
       who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot
              for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks
              fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
       who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccess-
              fully, gave up and were forced to open antique
              stores where they thought they were growing
              old and cried,
       who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits
              on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse
              & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments
              of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the
              fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinis-
              ter intelligent editors, or were run down by the
              drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
       who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually hap-
              pened and walked away unknown and forgotten
              into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alley
              ways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
       who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of
              the subway window, jumped in the filthy Pas-
              saic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street,
              danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed
              phonograph records of nostalgic European
              1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and
              threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans
              in their ears and the blast of colossal steam
              whistles,
       who barreled down the highways of the past journeying
              to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude
              watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
       who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out
              if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had
              a vision to find out Eternity,
       who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who
              came back to Denver & waited in vain, who
              watched over Denver & brooded & loned in
              Denver and finally went away to find out the
              Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
       who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying
              for each other's salvation and light and breasts,
              until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
       who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for
              impossible criminals with golden heads and the
              charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet
              blues to Alcatraz,
       who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky
              Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys
              or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or
              Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the
              daisychain or grave,
       who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hyp
              notism & were left with their insanity & their
              hands & a hung jury,
       who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism
              and subsequently presented themselves on the
              granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads
              and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding in-
              stantaneous lobotomy,
       and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin
              Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psycho-
              therapy occupational therapy pingpong &
              amnesia,
       who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic
              pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
       returning years later truly bald except for a wig of
              blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible mad
              man doom of the wards of the madtowns of the
              East,
       Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid
              halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rock-
              ing and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench
              dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a night-
              mare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the
              moon,
       with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book
              flung out of the tenement window, and the last
              door closed at 4. A.M. and the last telephone
              slammed at the wall in reply and the last fur-
              nished room emptied down to the last piece of
              mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted
              on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that
              imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of
              hallucination 
       ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and
              now you're really in the total animal soup of
              time
       and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed
              with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use
              of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrat-
              ing plane,
       who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space
              through images juxtaposed, and trapped the
              archangel of the soul between 2 visual images
              and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun
              and dash of consciousness together jumping
              with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna
              Deus
       to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human
              prose and stand before you speechless and intel-
              ligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet con-
              fessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm
              of thought in his naked and endless head,
       the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown,
              yet putting down here what might be left to say
              in time come after death,
       and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in
              the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the
              suffering of America's naked mind for love into
              an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone
              cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
       with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered
              out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand
              years. 

                           II 

       What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open
              their skulls and ate up their brains and imagi-
              nation?
       Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unob
              tainable dollars! Children screaming under the
              stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men
              weeping in the parks!
       Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the
              loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy
              judger of men!
       Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the
              crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of
              sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment!
              Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stun-
              ned governments!
       Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose
              blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers
              are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a canni-
              bal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking
              tomb!
       Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows!
              Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long
              streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose fac-
              tories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose
              smokestacks and antennae crown the cities!
       Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch
              whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch
              whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch
              whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen!
              Moloch whose name is the Mind!
       Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream
              Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in
              Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
       Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom
              I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch
              who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy!
              Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch!
              Light streaming out of the sky!
       Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs!
              skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic
              industries! spectral nations! invincible mad
              houses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs! 
       They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pave-
              ments, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to
              Heaven which exists and is everywhere about
              us!
       Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies!
              gone down the American river!
       Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole
              boatload of sensitive bullshit!
       Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions!
              gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! De-
              spairs! Ten years' animal screams and suicides!
              Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on
              the rocks of Time!
       Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the
              wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell!
              They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving!
              carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the
              street! 

                           III

       Carl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland
              where you're madder than I am
       I'm with you in Rockland
              where you must feel very strange
       I'm with you in Rockland
              where you imitate the shade of my mother
       I'm with you in Rockland
              where you've murdered your twelve secretaries
       I'm with you in Rockland
              where you laugh at this invisible humor
       I'm with you in Rockland
              where we are great writers on the same dreadful
              typewriter 
       I'm with you in Rockland
              where your condition has become serious and
              is reported on the radio
       I'm with you in Rockland
              where the faculties of the skull no longer admit
              the worms of the senses
       I'm with you in Rockland
              where you drink the tea of the breasts of the
              spinsters of Utica
       I'm with you in Rockland
              where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the
              harpies of the Bronx
       I'm with you in Rockland
              where you scream in a straightjacket that you're
              losing the game of the actual pingpong of the
              abyss
       I'm with you in Rockland
              where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul
              is innocent and immortal it should never die
              ungodly in an armed madhouse
       I'm with you in Rockland
              where fifty more shocks will never return your
              soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a
              cross in the void
       I'm with you in Rockland
              where you accuse your doctors of insanity and
              plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the
              fascist national Golgotha
       I'm with you in Rockland
              where you will split the heavens of Long Island
              and resurrect your living human Jesus from the
              superhuman tomb
       I'm with you in Rockland
              where there are twenty-five-thousand mad com-
              rades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale
       I'm with you in Rockland
              where we hug and kiss the United States under
              our bedsheets the United States that coughs all
              night and won't let us sleep
       I'm with you in Rockland
              where we wake up electrified out of the coma
              by our own souls' airplanes roaring over the
              roof they've come to drop angelic bombs the
              hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls col-
              lapse O skinny legions run outside O starry
              spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is
              here O victory forget your underwear we're
              free 
       I'm with you in Rockland
              in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-
              journey on the highway across America in tears
              to the door of my cottage in the Western night

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Filed under Books, Ramblings

truth and beauty bombs

26th dec 2008

best christmas ever i’ve decided.

normal family lunch, always fun. eating canapes and drinking expensive wine. eating ridiculous amounts of haloumi and cauliflower and cheese and hard sauce.

picnic + goon + white castello cheese + best people + drunk singstar+ passing out on evaan’s floor (as per normal).

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i’m such a sucker for foreign boys and boys with accents. and trying to get past language barriers is fun… trying to explain to the poor confused boy i dragged all around port as my protection what ‘all boys are assholes’ means.

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“one day you will ache like i ache”

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i got a post secret book, it is amazing, i couldn’t help but cry. just… fuck i love it, just people bearing their souls. it must be liberating.

some of my fav lj secrets i’ve collected 🙂

2q9cqb8

10yrs

2edblnk-eavulnerable

uwp6g

mvhglu

thatsaboutit

2yufss1

postsecret-231

cars1

i love this one so much.

hgfdsa

and this is like my secret, my way of looking at life.

28ho56w

me

1203473850-good-enough

laughlines

this is actually the sweetest thing i’ve ever seen, it makes me smile so much every time i read it.

happy

hts6r4

1zpti1d28md894

secret20-6f

1203473785-home

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a softer world is seriously the greatest thing ever, the photos, the words, just amazing. it makes me want to… live, to go out, to adventure, to keep being young and crazy and do stupid things and love and hurt and cry and laugh.

countclouds

goldengate-1

andrewpants

spadina

christmastime

guns

truedreams

punkrock

and this one, i can’t stop smiling:

slingshots

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Filed under Life., Photos

21st dec 2008

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i can’t believe how different i am from even like… 3 months ago. i swear my confidence has just like tripled (i’m not even like super-confident now, i was just so bad back then).

i like seeming like the goodest little good girl, the smart girl, the nice girl, the girl that seems so innocent (i have seriously actually been called innocent by a guy).

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$10 op shop dress with sideways robots made out of tessellating shapes.

oh yeah some guy fully grabbed my arse in altitude and winked at me.

my knees are so fucked up. my throat hurts. my feet still hurt. fuck i love nights out.

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33 days!!!!!!!

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“ice-cream is gonna save the day!” muscles, i love you.

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fuck i love morrissey!

“first of the gang to die”

You have never been in love,
Until you’ve seen the stars,
reflect in the resevoires

And you have never been in love,
Until you’ve seen the dawn rise,
behind the home for the blind

We are the pretty petty thieves,
And you’re standing on our street..

…where Hector was the first of the gang
with a gun in his hand
and the first to do time
the first of the gang to die. Oh my.
Where Hector was the first of the gang
with a gun in his hand
and the first to do time
the first of the gang to die.

You have never been in love,
Until you’ve seen sunlight thrown
over smashed human bones

We are the pretty petty thieves,
And you’re standing on our street..

…where Hector was the first of the gang
with a gun in his hand
and the first to do time
the first of the gang to die. Such a silly boy.
Hector was the first of the gang
with a gun in his hand
and a bullet in his gullet
the first last lad under the sod.

And he stole from the rich and the poor
and the not-very-rich and the very poor
and he stole all hearts away
he stole all hearts away
he stole all hearts away
he stole all hearts away
….

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“honey you know where to find me”

I’m not gonna cry for the things that never occurred
So do not remind me
I’m happy to be as I was in the first place

Honey, you know where to find me
Honey, you know where to find me
Kicking away from the mundane everyday
La la la la la

The envy is beyond me
I’m not gonna pine for the things that can never be mine
Do not expect me to
I am happy to be who I was in the first place

Honey, you know where to find me
Honey, you know where to find me
Kicking away from the mundane everyday
La la la la la

The future is around me
I see it, I seize it, I use it, I throw it away
Because I’m happy to be like I was in the first place

Honey, you know where to find me
Honey, you know where to find me
Running away from the mundane
La la la la la

Oh, honey you know where to find me
Honey, you know where to find me
Honey you find how to know me
Oh, la la la la la la la

mozzy

i miss my graphics tablet ]=

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haha there are still those party popper things from my birthday in my backyard.

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+++++

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Filed under Life., Music, Photos

19th dec 2008

fuck i love my mum, she is just so amazing, just such a beautiful person. i’m so grateful to have a best friend in my mum, who i can tell like 99% of things to and even the stupider stuff i do, she just shakes her head, and is like ‘meh, i was young too’. i’m going to mis her so much! i’ll be calling her all the time for advice i’m sure.

had the best chat with her today over our cafe rio, just talking about the future and life.

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you know those moments? those ones where, even though you’ve seen something a million times, you just suddenly feel like you’ve never seen it before? i had that today, just walking into town. i’ve lived in port for 14 of my 18 years, and i’ve never really liked it. honestly, i’ma  city girl. i live for the life and colour and diversity and culture and contrasts that city life brings. but you know, i’ve been here a long time. and i’m sure i will miss it. i’ve never felt that connection with port, that feeling i have when i’m in melbourne or sydney. i was born in melbourne and though i moved here at only 4, i will always consider myself a melbournian. i’m so cosmopolitan after all, haha. no just that city thing… there is nothing like being in the city, to me. i can understand the appeal of country life but i love everything about the city and am so excited about finally living in sydney (45 days!) i love the sensory assault. i love being surrounded by people, yet still feeling alone… which sounds depressing, but no, its more like independence. i love how many different kinds of people there are! so many places to go!

p.s. its not me with the problem liking patrick wolf, its everyone else who obviously has no taste as he is wonderful… WONDERFUL! wonderful…

i’m so excited for the intellectual atmosphere of university too. but i also find it pretty intimidating. because really when it comes down to it, i’m a shy girl from a fairly country-ish town, who went to a public school (although public education FOR LIFE) and there are going to be so many brilliant,  passionate, brilliant people at uni. which will be a new experience, port isn’t the biggest hub of intellectualism.. its also very, very exciting.

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went for a walk along the water, looked like a big tourist.

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childhood memories…

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i swear i still taste cigarettes, seriously.

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made like 3 earrings, 2 necklaces, 2 bracelets, and like 4 hair thingies… wow i did well actually.

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sparrow necklace/ earrings.

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hair band, just gold cord braided. i wanted one but they’re like around $9 to buy! this cost me like $2 haha.

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congrats flowers from tay and grandpa.

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i’m excited for tomorrow, bumming around with emi and sammy… yayayay <333

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Filed under Arty things, Life., Photos

18th dec 2008

the last two days have been a surreal little collection of experiences. just… wow. a chapter of my life has officially closed and another one dawns. january 23rd baby.

i’m so stoked with my uai, 98.85. just-ish (by .4) missed out on dux but fuck i was happy! the work paid off and i can be just so proud of what i’ve achieved.

so these 2 days have been ones of happiness, yet they’ve been a bit of a rollercoaster too, just because of stuff. funny little incidents, and not so funny ones. well kinda funny actually haha (thank you dude who looked like a zach condon on a really bad day for your jokes and making things very, very awkward… and calling alanah dumb, a lot).

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oh shit, sam, ems and i went to the beach. it had been hot and sunny all day. so of course when we go to the beach, what happens?

it hails. we got so drenched, sam and i went into town looking like a pair of drowned rats.

+

i didn’t sleep last night. i’m so tired. my eyes aren’t working properly.

+

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Filed under Life.

My extension 2 english work =)

EXTENSION 2 BABES.

“Love, and Other Symptoms of Madness”

Reflection statement (just so you understand it)

What is love? Is it the most basic of all human feelings? The deepest, grandest; most beautiful? Perhaps love is the greatest folly of man; perhaps, what defines the naturally foolish mankind. Or perhaps,

love is a symptom of madness.

the disease is called

humanity. “The Science of Love”

I wanted to investigate and perhaps even come to a personal understanding of just what that crazy thing called “love” is and what it means; and portray this through what I felt was the perfect medium: poetry. But love was not just subject; it was also conduit, as through this concept I explored humanity and life itself. “Madness” here is metaphoric for the state of our human condition; a thunderstorm of tumultuous emotions and thoughts that, like love itself, is often irrational and inexplicable. The character’s follies in matters of love, and their attitudes towards it, are symptomatic of the nature of mankind itself. Thus there is often an allegoric undertone to the poems. They are definitely not just about love, though this is the focal point: a range of issues spring from this one linking concept.

This evolved from an earlier concept in which I looked at four characters, all of whom had different mental disorders, and their perspectives on love and life. This was a very limiting thing to do and despite the extensive research I undertook to understand these different disorders, I still felt alienated from my characters. It became clear that I needed to edit my concept so it would be closer to me, and so I could lend it authenticity, which my first poems lacked. Thus, I have plunged into a highly personal work, refining my concept based on my response to the ideas that I encountered and imagined; while focussing on ideas that are universally appreciated.

Part of my process has been the revisiting of some of my favourite poets including Sylvia Plath, e.e. cummings and Dylan Thomas. Cummings, for example, cemented my resolve to work mainly with freeform, mirroring the chaos of human emotions and love, emphasised by the use of enjambment.

Two of the key texts- the first I encountered in fact- were “Romance” by Arthur Rimbaud, and “Saddest Poem” by Pablo Neruda. These two poems present extremely different visions of love- the first, an ephemeral young romance; the second, a melancholy reflection on love and heartbreak. The contrast of these two poems developed in my mind the idea of the multifaceted nature of love which has been prevalent throughout my work, and helped me reach my final, overriding concept.

The catalyst for this was two articles, both titled “The Science of Love”[1]. These articles seek to explain the phenomena of love in scientific terms.

It feels like love. But the most exhilarating of all human emotions is probably nature’s beautiful way of keeping the human species alive and reproducing.”[2]

The ideas from both of these articles are obvious in “The Science of Love”, a speculative musing which rejects the idea that love can somehow be explained through hormones and science as both impossible and unpalatable. The enigmatic nature of love, however, is apparent in all my poems.

Indeed, this knowledge is what I have gained from doing these poems. Despite presenting a diverse array of facets of the nature of love, and thus life and humanity, I am no closer to understanding any of these. Love is by nature full of ironies and paradoxes, which I portray in my work. The irony of:

“yet the more you understand the sensation of love, the more you realise how little you can really ever understand it.” “The Folly of Love”

and the paradox of:

““Hearts will never be practical until they are made unbreakable[3] “The Science of Love”

reinforce the inexplicable nature of love. It is not something that can be comprehended. Just like the machinations of mankind, love is rarely ruled by reason.

I have looked at not just romantic love- though admittedly this is the focus- but familial. I didn’t just inspect the wonder of love, but the harsh realities, and the variety of often conflicting emotions love can invoke. Thus there is a strong contrast in tone and voice found in the poems. This is blatant in the stark contrast between the hopelessness of “They Called You Lolita”, and the nearly naïve resolve of “The Folly of Love”. The final line,

“I was never too afraid

to love.”

refers not only to an acceptance that love involves a variety of emotions and often leads to heartbreak, but that life offers a variety of experiences, good and bad, and we must take all the opportunities we are given.

The progression of the poems is one of an overwhelming sense of naivety to a sense of disillusionment; but these two opposites coexist within most poems, forming a dichotomy. This dichotomy aids the feeling of the confusion of love, and of life; the way we are constantly gaining new experiences and are forced to change and adapt. Another dichotomy is the idea of belonging and alienation. The close bond between these two opposites was established in our Preliminary Area of Study, “Alienation and Belonging”, which gave me an intimate understanding of how these two coexist.

Another key concept that continues throughout the poems is the desire for freedom. This is most obvious in the poem “Expurgation”, where the character has a desperate desire to escape her marriage, which represents her intense need for spiritual freedom. But instead of trying to flee, she waits, absorbing herself in daydreams.

Other individual poems look at a variety of both universal and topical issues; examples of which include fighting in the home, sexuality, and femininity. Homosexuality is the subject of “Love in a Panic Room”. People hide from an external threat in a panic room; and this is a metaphor for the experience of the character. He is attempting to cope with his homosexuality in a hostile world, and denies his feelings to conform to traditional expectations.

With neither subject matter nor style too esoteric, I believe this work will appeal to a wide audience. The literary quality, such as in the use of allusions, like to “Lolita” or the Bible, and the multilayered meaning reward the intelligent reader but do not exclude significantly. Love is a universal issue, one that is easy to empathise with, and with the variety of issues I hope these poems can strike a chord in a very diverse audience. These poems call on not only an intellectual but an emotional response, as emotion is so strongly imbued in the whole collections, and is an intrinsic component of love.

Indeed, one of the purposes I have is to evoke feeling in the responder. Poetry was the perfect form for this, as it is inherently emotional, and ultimately subjective and evocative. It has always been my choice of medium, as it is something that I have enjoyed reading and writing, and my experience with it in the Preliminary course confirmed my resolve.

The greatest wonder for me of poetry is the demand to find the perfect words; the perfect use of devices to express meaning. One thing that I have definitely gained from Advanced English is an appreciation of these different techniques, which comes especially from the study of Peter Skrzynecki’s poetry. I was immediately enamoured of Skrzynecki’s poetry, and saw many of my own thought patterns in it. The way he expresses his personal issues has had a strong influence on the shape of my major work.

With the tools this study gave me, consolidated by work within other topics, I have come to a more advanced understanding of how to use literary devices effectively. Consequently, I have used a wide variety to effectively express meaning. Figurative techniques like metaphors feature prominently, as well as a range of imagery, including colour imagery, which is prominent in “Expurgation”. I have also stayed true to the individual voice of the poem, both in tone, stream of conscious style, direct speech and use of colloquial language. I used the sonnet form ironically as it is naturally associated with romance, to highlight the disparity between our perceptions of love, and the reality. As well, rhyme is used sparingly, to give a naïve quality.

What is love? I do not know, and I have learnt I never will. But through the presentation of a variety of facets of love, which both represent and complement traits of humankind, I feel I have created a portrait of love. A portrait that is both beautiful and vague; not a photo, but a subjective view. A portrait, too, of life and of humankind.

Noooow, the actual poems!

the science of love

love: noun, verb, adjective

  1. a profound feeling of attachment, devotion and affection for another person
  2. attraction based on desire
  3. the object of affection
  4. the fatherly concern of god for mankind
  5. a score of zero in tennis

The first theory:

if our hearts are the dangerous rapids we threaten to be immersed by; that we become lost in, our brains are just the faulty compass to set us right.

but we never end up on the right track because we are meant to be drowning, meant to be consumed. we keep fighting against the whims of the heart, but it knows far more the brain ever can.

And I write all these things down, all of the theories I have

on love;

all the data I’ve tracked, all the observations

on the science of love,

all the speculation about

what it all means.

I’ve looked at the stages of love,

the chemical reactions of

testosterone and oestrogen

that facilitate lust; that become

attraction, and finally, attachment.

the adrenaline that flow through to our hearts

which pump on the fuel of love.

As a poet, or, a doctor of love

I think I have some authority on the matter

especially the matter of disparate hearts

that send us down those dangerous paths.

I am an authority on the matter of broken hearts

that shatter the soul, the bones,

the life

of the love-lorn.

Love has a high mortality rate

and I do believe what the lion says

“Hearts will never be practical until they are made unbreakable”.

we try to protect them

but then we put them on our sleeves

as we all travel down that yellow brick road

and try to find the home

that is love.

But I suppose a poet is no less a fool

what man said love is short; while oblivion is long?

I’ve never believed

love is ever short.

love is a whole lotta things

[powerful, painful, prodigious, paroxysmal]

but it is not short.

it goes on and on and on; it never stops. never ends.

And another theory:

love is a symptom of madness.

the disease is called

humanity.


we pick up the pieces again and again and never wonder why there are pieces in the first place

She thinks I’m looking for a messiah

to grow obese on lies

since I’m fixing all the time.

‘you can’t fix what’s broken’

she says with a smile.

But I do not scream out ‘help me’

as I write a stage play

about a nuclear family explosion.

the woman who thinks that she can glimpse god

in the fridge;

who dreams of liberty

in a puff of her cigarette,

a man who sleeps with a cold bottle of vodka

to remind him that he is still alive

(even if sometimes he wonders why he should want to be, as he takes another dose of his medicine).

there are two children who think there is a language

laden with profanities

the punctuation of which is

throwing the dinner plates at the fucker

you’re speaking to;

the heirs to such a household,

to such a disease

so they will spend their lives

picking up the pieces that remain.

They just step over

the fragments that litter their home,

broken shards

all the plates,

the remnants of a chalice, for water,

the bottle of vodka,

the vases that once held flowers,

or the full ashtray;

picking up the pieces that remain.

The story stars a boy

who tries to glue them into place,

or bind them with tape

or just assemble them like

a miss-matched jigsaw

a tolerable picture

though the pieces don’t really fit.

He tries to convince himself-

the whole is merely the sum of parts, what matter

how the (broken) parts are placed?

Bu the cracks are always there

and the crude attempts at fixing

something that is broken,

and all the time saying that it is as good as

what was,

all the sunny days-

it’s growing harder by the cloudy hour.

All the time,

saying that he’s Lazarus, and

picking up the pieces that remain.

So I keep trying to fix it,

I imagine-

Heaven is just happiness away.

I write my memoirs,

with the stars of this insane pantomime

who burn all the pages I try to write.

They don’t understand fixing;

they like their broken world,

all the

broken hopes,

broken dreams and

broken promises-

trying to pick up the pieces that remain

(that you can’t quite grasp).

These wrecking balls.

I call them family

despite.


writing romance novels and love songs

you always wanted to be amazing;

you hated the everyday.

I liked you anyway.

you told me “I am lines and script and the sounds of beauty and fury”

and I knew how much you wanted to be

when in reality

you were the diary of a teenager who has a crush and issues.

(after all, you’re full of blank pages and little love hearts.)

You wrote songs

about forever

when all I wanted was today.

and you used to say

love is such a wonderful cliché”

when all I wanted was the everyday.

And you hated when I said things like

I love the colour of your hair

and how you think I’m so special and rare

when I’m like you; you, like me;

and I love how cold you hands always seem to be.

and I love how you talk to yourself like you’re all alone,

though I’m always waiting by the telephone

and when you’re confused, you can’t help but smile,

and when I tell you you’re wrong you get so hostile

and you make me so scared, but you make everything okay.

you make me so happy every single day”

you would kidnap my voice box

staple it to your chest

and swallow pennies and nickels

just to play our song

you said you would sew your fingertips to mine

and we would never part.

we’re not Romeo and Juliet,

or Venus and Eros.

and I love how you dream like there isn’t a sky

and you live like this lasts forever, without a goodbye

and you want to be special, like you think I am,

when the truth is I’m not; but I don’t give a damn.

we’re footnotes in history

but the love is enough for me

forever.
implosions are less magnificent

He is a sort of supernova;

a force you can’t reckon with and you can’t help but admire.

And I am just a choirgirl

always teetering on the edge of gravitational collapse.

I love him like he’s my only child

as he’s always running with scissors,

jumping in front of cars,

and sticking forks in toasters;

always under the influence.

He is a sort of volcano

and he always seems to be setting things alight;

I quell the volcano

I extinguish the fires

and I sing lullabies that stop the explosions-

Ring a ring a rosey
A pocketful of posies
ah-tishoo, ah-tishoo.
We all fall down.

and other off-key hymns.

He is the destitute kingdom that

the devil offers; being no lord

I take it every time,

“get behind me Satan” I say, as you forget what words mean

like all the “I love yous”.

I love like he’s gonna kill me

and he might, one day.

But for all his explosions, there is an equally destructive implosion

that keeps us okay.

(love is a sort of black hole;

it is some kind of doom

some form of infinity

something forever

and ever

and ever…)


(two sonnets)

the perfect man

The man I loved was a David with breath;

still marble, crafted by a god divine

to fight Goliath; he did not fear death.

His almond eyes sent shivers up my spine.

A sweet, dapper manner with charm and wit;

a perfect smile, so bright, it seemed to beam.

There was damage I would never admit,

but he was still the star of all my dreams.

Mercy, unrequited love was unkind;

Oh, so many loves and lives in that long time,

oh, for so long, oh, how long I pined

consumed by that man so nearly sublime.

But even perfect marble wears away,

from fair alabaster to dull and grey.

the perfect woman

Her lips are full and red as crimson clouds,

her eyes are of the darkest ebony,

and her hair is a silken soft black shroud;

her skin as clear and smooth as a calm sea.

Yes, her beauty equals Helen of Troy.

Or some siren, beckoning me yonder

with just one smile I was a little boy;

my fragile heart always growing fonder.

And when she left me, I tried to believe.

I still had the memories of the past,

photos, portraits, promises; so naïve-

that I still have the hope she will be my last.

She is my always, and a heart attack:

Will attack my body the day she’s back.


the private war

What bought us together?

I doubt it was divine intervention,

or fate; more likely,

the work of the devil

who set this raging train off the tracks,

unable to be stopped.

There is no conductor, no alarm;

neither of us can escape,

even as our terrified eyes

look at the emergency exits.

Our first date

was neither here nor there,

and it never really got better,

so I wonder how this all came to be, then.

We each wage a private war

of failing diplomacy

and broken agreements.

A war of attrition;

where silence wears us down.

We pour milk over cereal every morning

and avoid each other eyes

because then we might actually ask “what’s wrong”, what

wounds we’ve sustained and

how we might heal them.

Our soundtrack is the muffled sounds

of voices on the television

of the lives we imagine;

the threat of the clash of our weapons

and the crash of our dishes

stacked too high.

We ignore the smell of burning toast,

hate responsibility

fantasise about the neighbours

and throw sombre dinner parties.

It seems so inappropriate to throw a plate

when everything is so carefully arranged.

We’re afraid of arguments

and bruises, and emotions

that might threaten our stack-of-cards home.

We’re afraid of each other,

of what lies beneath the ominous silence

and the “hellos”, the “goodbyes”, the “i love yous”.

We’re afraid of the word ‘talk’,

because once my mother said “we have to talk”

and she was gone the next day; and her ex-husband said the same

when he slapped her in the face

with the divorce papers.

Talk becomes actions,

and what can we do?

But then I remember:

there is no ‘we’

just two people

who built a home out of sticks, laid their eggs,

and are now just waiting for the day

someone flies away.


love in a panic room

There was a man I knew

who learnt new things everyday

never read a textbook-

with his diaphragm and lungs

he had no need for diagrams and guidebooks.

He taught me everything

he’d ever known:

the wisdom, the mistakes.

He knew me like no one had before;

every cell, every molecule.

He felt my marrow

and knew that I would never change.

I said to him:

Let’s go back to cotton-red

the plaid of my favourite dress

all these tattered threads

I’ve used to stitch these old wounds.

“I myself,

was beginning to feel like

all my rights are taking left hand turns

and all my wrongs are rites

but breathe what you believe what you feel,

inside.”

But outside

they say:

Stay in your panic room, stay inside your home, stay inside your ventricles. You are not a man, not even half a man.

-and I wonder if it might be true

with the

breathe out, sigh,

hyperventilation overdrive,

weather patterns, newspapers,

bible black broadcasts over the bird-wires,

weird words, morphine morphemes,

half-bit propaganda my

Sunday education on Friday night.

I like to sing my

lullabies and good nights and goodbyes.

There are no good mornings

just the sound of silence,

of emptiness,

of secrets.

And maybe tomorrow I’ll stop salvaging sunken ships,

old marine drunks and dirty mouth sailor men,

picking up boys who don’t know any better;

the boys who wander, the boys who wonder.

But my bones are saying I will never change.


evolution

and they’re all the same,

when you go past the smiles, the words,

down to the bones

we’re all the same:

desperate, naked, alone.

but we never evolved.

on our wall hangs a sabre hide

and his womb (even now, that’s all a woman is.

a pair of ovaries;

and if you took them out

she’d still weigh the same;

if you distilled her veins

you’d feel everything

swim away)

she has given everything

any woman can give

and still now we give

and give, and give

and the world takes even more,

until we are left with just our hides.

we are left with memories;

all the memories of the bootees

we knit from our discontent;

and hooker heels that never fit.

all the words they ever told us,

all the names (slut) they ever called us.

the crux is words,

like everything: words

and so we crucify ourselves;

tell me,

you actually wanted me

not just another woman

you could name jezebel.

they will crucify you.

you are not good enough,

just another woman

named jezebel.

and all the time I wanted to be a Jesus,

and I was just a Jezebel.

Now upside down, you with me,

and we just keep swimming…

swimming, swimming,

any second now,

drowning-

(is this my baptism?)

with one equivocal quiver,

surreptitious surrender;

take it all

as we go down, down,

take the atoms

down…

take ‘no’ and ‘yes’ and ‘no’ and-

suffocating under

the tremendous weight

of the ocean

-take it all away

and of all the words, all the names;

it’s his engraved on my heart,

and my forehead;

his in red.

he had a heart for me, he said.

but he took everything I had left.

was he so desperate, so naked,

so alone?

(I needed it,

and I found it wasn’t a substitute for love;

but I felt like a real woman,

and I felt beautiful,

and I felt wanted,

and it felt alright, I guess.)

smiles, words, bones

but we never evolved.

(hahaha, oh man, showing this poem to mundy and explaining its about losing your virginity… AWKWARD. nah he’s cool.)


hysterical blindness

the phantom in front of your eyes, a lie,

a liar like I,

like my love.

– the one i was waiting for

to take me

away

to save me

from grey life

like the dumb leads the blind,

fool and false prophet entwined

like the fools; the kids, who want to tame the sky

so will I.

I want you to be

like it’s the summer, 1969,

life, just a corrugated iron roof

on a hot day.

life, dancing like no one was watching

life, you and me, and our youth

sliding away, a cat running from its tail.

(perhaps I was the cat, you the bird, or we were sparrows and I wasn’t living with you, just occupying the same cage, that’s all.)

hearts like eyes

they never grow;

wings that never stretch.

and a life that does, like a road

(may we one day traverse together?)

life is like a blank canvas

a painting not painted

a song never sung

caught in our voice-box,

ready.

it is always just a short story

without the neat and tidy end

you’ve come to expect.

Now

I can still feel you

beside me. I can still hear the music

I used to hear when you were near.

Was our love mere monologue

when it felt so much like a great opera?

If my heart is not broken, it has been left in Venice.

I feel the sharp pain in my chest, piercing, shattering,

my breath caught.

I left a piece of my soul to St. Peter

(or was it a curse to Venus?)

I rent the rest to saints no one has ever heard of,

the love ersatz.

But it’s you, amore ti amo, it’s you,

I waited for so long, for you,

to save me.


expurgation

the watercolour sunset bleeds from red to yellow

out the window, the horizon seems so near.

the days seem longer as each passes,

hotter, too. the days are heavy,

weighing on the mind every hour, every minute,

every second. weighing down my eyelids,

painted up with charcoal.

i close them, in the hopes

that the kitchen, the colour of mildew

the lounge suit, the colour of some long dead flower, and

our whole damn shack,

will disappear.

but no, i am never lost.

my husband is a lead weight beside me

living his life in black and white,

he looks like a smokestack most days,

sounds like an ape. at night, he sounds like he’s going to die in three years.

maybe he will. i’ll be the grieving widow for a few days

but i’d know my husband died many years ago

i could have gone with him, over that cliff

named resignation

-but i’m alive.

i’m living, i’m breathing, i’m thinking, i’m planning,

all while i’m simmering, slowly,

feeling days slipping away.

he’ll never know

i have another life. it plays through like a film,

in slow motion and muted colours,

where i’m a star. i’m an actress, you know.

my husband doesn’t.

he likes to keep me locked in this cocoon of a home

trapped like a wild animal in a cage

teetering at the edge of patience

and sanity.

he chips away at the edges of my dignity

and self respect,

and my hope

but i will never break.

he doesn’t know i have had many lovers, his friends and strangers. they see

what he doesn’t. the make up i paint on, the red lips, the delicate dresses,

so carefully selected. they know my eyes are blue

because they see them.

and they see how, even if my mouth turns up,

my eyes never smile.

life rarely turns out the way we plan,

or the way we dream when we’re kids, and we think everything

is possible. and even when we think we’re adults,

we still wonder

what could have been if only,

if only…

we dreamed a little longer,

tried a little harder,

and didn’t marry the first man who said you were pretty.

‘cause then you realise,

the man is blind, deaf and dumb anyway;

and an ogre, who only wants a princess

for show.

maybe one day i’ll escape.

maybe one day i’ll live the technicolour film

after writing the prologue for too long.


they called you ‘lolita’

A carcrash of limbs,

a trainwreck

with a conductor mumbling your name

(or calling you “Lolita”, if he’s that way inclined)

as he disassembles the whole

into parts.

You stare at the peeling wallpaper,

jaundiced, like you once were

like the bastard you might have, if you aren’t careful.

You wonder,

is this all there is?

You’ve never read a poem

or one of those romances

you once loved

that names the pain or

the feeling that you might never be clean or

the way his eyes look at you.

and you know what you should do,

and you know that you know too much.

You too are a poet who knows three hundred ways to say-

‘beautiful’

but cannot describe the rising feeling in your stomach

as he pounces on you, like a lion on a gazelle

with only her pride wounded.

So you count the pages in your diary,

the springs in your bed,

the bruises on your skin;

you count sheep at nights

or the roses on your walls

or the countless men-

you’d rather forget.

And you wonder why

love is such a dirty word

no one wants to hear.

Or you wonder if

you’ll always be waiting

for a Prince Charming

or a bolt from the sky

to catalyse the reaction

that people call life.

Once, it was all simple. A watercolour portrait,

all fucked now, all colours

like a Rorschach explosion.

But life is just one damn thing after another,

someone once said, and you’ll tell the middle-class man

you married at twenty

(who seems as charming as any Prince you could bear).

He doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t see

the ghosts resting behind your eyes-

and you tell your therapist, then you ask:

is this it?

(this has to be my favourite… i don’t know, i just feel this one so much)


the folly of love

yet the more you understand the sensation of love, the more you realise how little you can really ever understand it.

You say only fools believe that there

is a thing called ‘love’;

and I agree.

Every man is a lover

(alone or not)

and no man is not a fool.

And if only fools let their hearts

be open to the heavy hands of lovers

(especially with a strong grip on such a

delicate little thing);

but I have never been afraid of heartbreak and

I like to make mistakes

because I’d never learn otherwise,

and I’d rather know the wrong turns

than never take the right one

that could lead to something better.

I don’t know where love will actually lead me

and I know my heart is no sensible guide.

Because it makes so little sense.

But I wouldn’t love if I could express

so simply

why indeed I love.

It is for the moon and the stars,

and the whispering of trees;

the sunset, when day and night meet.

Love is

passion and forgiveness

it is you and me

becoming us.

If I said “I love you”

I could take “no” or

whatever you might throw at me

because I know at least

I was a fool but

I was never too afraid

to love.

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