Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Curve.

Soundtrack: Eric B. & Rakim / Follow the Leader

The hardest thing about getting back on your feet is your own weight that tries to drag you down. For me it's the voices which constantly remind me of the need to feel crap. That I don't deserve to face the day as a happy man. That I should stare at the floor. That I can't look you in the eye.
It's because I don't want to be the sort of person who doesn't think like that. I don't want to make mistakes and move on, wipe them clean in my memory, think, c'est la vie and oh noes and well, dust it off, cowboy. I think I want the dust to stick but I can't tell if that makes me a better person or just a guilt ridden sucker.
Sure, there's a fine line. It's always easy for people to tell you there's a fine line.
Mine's a fucking tightrope. And when I fall, it's a long way down between these two poles. When I fall I grab the line and it pulls the whole tent down with me.
Christ, all I did was throw a tiny fucking snowball down the side of the mountain.
But that's not all you did.
But it was all I did.
No it's not.
Yes it is.
And so on.
It rolled further.
And so on.
It grew.
And so on.
It took the whole fucking joint with it.
Ba-boom.

So

I guess if eyes are the window to the soul, then words are the key to unlock the front door.
A way to explore the rooms inside. But you can be a guest. Or you can crash in uninvited. Words can do that. I need to learn to keep my words secured safely to my belt. Far from the greedy hands of those imprisoned souls who reach from behind the bars in Hope of an escape.

I was never here to set anyone free.
I was always just walking these corridors.
As much a prisoner as anyone else.
That's why the words that came at me were just as much a torture as any I had shot.
Straight from the rack, both balls, top pocket, try angle that one, far cue, you made this happen, you wrote those names on the board with your small chalk and then you rubbed them off.
But it was a game I didn't even know I was playing.
Too late now, the white ball is stuck.
Game over - the metaphor is dead, off to green velvet La La Land.

That's what the empty soul does at the end of the night. Walks with its collar up back down familiar streets past the same old windows which have cursed it year after year of fucking menial - man, you are still fucking here? And there's a new supermarket and that old bar has changed hands and changed legs probably too and have you heard the new joint, it'll be like old times, those savvy operators, moving back, just up the road, let's all meet there and wonder at who is still here.
That's the worst part. To me we were Hope of somewhere far away. But I was too slow, too the same, too day by day, too opposite every part of your fantasy, for I was tied by a rope which anchored me to reality, and god I wished we could have met somewhere in between. It would have been right where the water met the earth. Where we were always at our happiest.
Wishin's not for me though, is it? Wishin's for you. Slow circles of time is more my gas. Way out there in the cold heart of space, where it takes seven years even to reach me, let alone understand what lies beneath my ice cold facade. That's-a-turn no one's been willing to make yet. Not with all the dangers involved in gettting there. No one except you. But your mission was doomed from the start.
I wish I was any other planet. I really do.
Still what happens now is tomorrow comes, it always does whether I'm here or not. Tomorrow comes and the part of everyone that holds the future expands with new possibility as the part that holds the past contracts. This is the law of gravity, and we're all suckers for it, just like the rest of the universe. We all spin in orbit around each other and sometimes things just crash into us and sometimes we just implode. You know that, don't you? That we are all the universe. I know you know that. We are the universe and we just keep on repeating bigger and bigger and smaller and smaller and it's dizzying the way it's all laid out, so beautiful and chaotic and daring and right. So beautiful. But we never said it was a forgiving universe. It's just the universe. Fucking crazy.

I wonder what it'll look like tomorrow.

Monday, September 29, 2008

...

I was wondering if you'd mind
if we could still meet in a dream
and smile
a forget
and hold hands
a tomorrow
and I don't want to push my luck
but I just thought
maybe I could just wear some shorts
or even a tracksuit
just something comfortable and daggy
so that on the clouds
I could fall asleep again
a dream within a dream
of falling asleep with you.

So Lah.

The scientist asks me -
Did you know the sun
actually
sings?

I shake my head.

I didn't know that.

It's true, he says
for billions of years the song of the sun
has gradually grown louder
and higher in pitch
as the pressure of its core expands
until eventually
- death, even for the sun -
where it fades to a tiny star
no bigger than the earth.

It doesn't explode?
I ask.

No, the scientist replies
our little star is too small
to explode
to go supernova
it merely incinerates Mercury,
Venus
and possibly Earth
before the gentle breath of its goodnight
subdued by Time
billions of years in the making.

I look at him staring at the night sky.

And for a moment I forget

my tiny life

as I listen for the song of the sun.

Sunday, September 28, 2008

Hell.

My sins are lust and theft
stealing the idea of Hope
from those lost souls
who place it at my feet
in soft fragile surrender
as the tornado
of me
lifts the earth
beneath their feet
and we all go spinning
into the air
without a thought
of where we might land.

But you had the words
they'll say
that promised so much
yet words are but an empty shelter
the smoke of a fire long since deserted
the maudlin ghost of an empty bed
the education of a broken heart
the self deluding lie
carved into the past
to become a nightmare
which you will wake from
but I will be forever trapped within.

And if only God were here
he might shake his head
in solemn disappointment
as the last remaining parent
sending their son
to his doom
in order to preside over the final lesson
and say,
there is nothing more I can do
you told the world you would go to Hell
and you did, you fell
into the bleak flagellation
of your own ambition.

And
my Hell is a torrent of blood
so I'll drown
in the thick red rain
which pours from all those open wounds
trying to hold on
for dear life
to the part of me
which honestly
is distraught
with sorrow
and haunted
by the shadows
of what I have done.

A Dry Dream of Me.

I'm in the desert and my arm is under a rock and I have a knife and I know if I don't do something I'll die - but the way it is now, I can't do it, I can't do it, I mean is it mad, is it insane to press my lips to the salt of the rock and say, you've really got a hold on me rock, and I must admit it only hurts when I start to wriggle, when I change position, so well hey, I guess out here is as good a place as any, and the sand starts to boil beneath me and my skin sticks to the rock and we become one, the Rock and...

No, that's not it.

It's -

just before I die, my eyes locked upon it, the rock rolls away, and I am too weak now to follow it.

So I die alone in the desert, looking at myself reflected, in the clean blade of the knife.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

Mono.

God
I was scared to let go
of your hand
as we walked
I mean it was cold
and I was easily lost
spinning
beneath
the tall grey strangers
which cast their charcoal moods
upon me
and I watched
my memory of the light
shrink to the size
of the dot
in my i

But there is no eye
in
a man bereft of hope
who blinded
does not see
the way forward
but I do
and I did
those mammaries
golden and joyous
which hid
never from sight
a delight to behold
to massage back
until the windows
to happiness were many
as art
on a gallery wall.

And yes
there are shadows
in front
and behind
but a shadow is merely
what light
tries to find.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Addiction.

Cold empty days as today
waiting for pay
when
my poverty lounges upon my shoulders
in conceited repose
a half sucked and damp cigarette
in its mouth
reminding me of the glorious day
when I saw beneath a table outside a cafe
at lunch
a tailor made
teasing me to take it
come get me big boy
it crooned
as the wind rocked it gently
to and fro
its hypnotic dance
a seductive show
for me to prove oh just how low
a man might stoop
or in my mind
another voice still
casts away mere opinion of them
for survival of my want
(more than need)
anyway I nant I weed that cigarette
it's lunch
and the white beach carrion
- buoys in the water and gulls leaning and preening -
spread rubbish across the sand and tables
and everyone is blinded but I can see it
an empty pack upon the table
and this treasure which has spilled unseen
and come to rest beneath an empty chair
now
will I sit
there and extend the act
perhaps I could use my nonchalance as feat achieved
I think no one noticed
so I'll take my leave
or
better faster sleight o' hand
without thinking
is what I'll do
I can
and I did
I walked straight past
I leaned down I grabbed it
Dunhill I noticed that
keep walking
someone saw
it's okay
I'm gone now
out of their life
a tiny instant thought
that man
he picked up
that cigarette
how disgusting
yes
there
are
voices
that
register
their
disgust
of
me
in
me
so I wait at least a block or two
in fact
I walk to outside my work
so that my colleagues
can see how well to do I am
with my fancy tailored cigarette
the golden bands and elegant font
which midas like turn my
fingers and teeth
to Gold.

Monday, September 22, 2008

Familiar.

There is always a stone
in the pocket
of my jeans.

It changes each day
depending on what I want.

Some days
I wear my skinny jeans
and I search my room
for the black black rock
that I know lives somewhere
close by
and when I find it
I squeeze it tight
no
tighter
no
tighter
yes
like that
so it hurts
and my hair falls
over my face
as I slide it
deep
into the pouch
so it can come
with me
all day long.

Some days
I need the tear catcher
which was given to me
by a girl who had it made
special
special for me and all my tears.

It's aboriginal dreaming rock
painted and everything.

She went up north
and brought it back to me
just before she left me
which you know
I can see the kindness in
I guess
and the funny thing is
the rock split in two
when I filled it with tears
and I wonder if that meant
I was over her
or if the rock
committed
suicide
rather than have to keep
listening to my crap.

Anyway I still carry that rock
when I'm sad.
At least it knows me.

The third thing I carry
isn't a rock
it's an acorn.

Mornings when I reach for the acorn
I'm either hopeful
or desperate
but I'm not saying
"Hey Acorn
sort this shit out"
I wouldn't ever ask that of the acorn.

It's more a case of
the acorn
reminding me
that Hope and Desperation
belong in the dirt
together

the bullshit that feeds
the real push up
into the light.

That's right
little acorn,
I say.

And I slip
all that potential
into my pocket
as I walk out into the day.

Falling Water.



This is where I meet myself.
Safe in the smell of the wet forest and cold stream melodies.
We can relax here.
We can open up.
Under falling water.
We light the fire.

"Drink?
Please.
"Whisky? Wine?
I think a red.
"Red it is.

You can see what it looks like can't you. Here by the fire.

The leather chairs by the slate fire place and the shag rug and the room is dimmed so the light of the fire dances voodoo on the walls around us and shadows jump and dash as they follow the tone of our conversation.

Red light danger /
white light belief /
no light as we kick ourselves in the guts, and tell each other we're out of Hope.

But there's a big log by the fire.

And Hell, it's gonna burn all night long.

"Someone gets angry at you, they think they have a right to cut you out cut you all the way down.

Maybe they do. Don't they?

"Yeah, maybe.

Everyone has a fucking right to not get hurt.

"Which means I do too

Yeah. Which means I do too.

I take a sip.

"What you think it's really about, as in, underneath? Those stupid messages?

I don't know. Reassurance. Fear. Something weak like that. Nothing that sounds good when you write about it.

"You like to write a drama, huh?

I guess. Long time since I've been funny. Maybe I wrote myself into it.

"And what about all the pretty?

Pretty? What makes you say pretty?

"I don't know. You're almost terrified of it. You almost hate it.

I think about that.

Pretty's a dream just before you wake up.
Pretty's dreaming of three impossible things you want to do before noon.
Pretty's a lie too you know.
But it's pretty.

"So you don't believe in it?

I don't know.
I wanted to.
But I'm at my prettiest
when I don't.

I think about that too.

I miss the pretty. All of it.

The fire, the fire, the fire.

We sit and stare at it. I let it burn the sentimentality from my heart. I let it burn my heart. But I don't feel a thing. I just lie back in the leather and stare bemused at the flames which leap from my chest. There are burning photos in my shirt pocket. I see the faces on fire as the edges curl and bring them closer to themselves. People always seem to get closer to themselves. As though I am an example. A dead end street which they laugh about later on their journey, once they're back on the road, marked on the map.

Although, there are other things I know too.

"You don't know what to believe, do you?

No.

No, I don't.

I know the wrongs and I know the misunderstood rights.
I know I will accept the self flagellation to a degree that I deserve it -
but I know other things too.
Double standards
held high by princes
riding black ponies
as they watch the fray
from the side of the field.
Reasons to do this
so close to the escape hatch
just trying to find the trigger
the switch
here
you left it here
in the trash
must be you're an evil bastard
must be you're a cunt
(God, I wanted this way out - I wanted to look for it - I needed to hate you)

You needed to hate me?

Yeah maybe.

Who's to say what is right anymore.
The loudest prettiest voice sets the level of hurt, seems anyway.
I'm sure there's a raft of words floating down that river which leads to a brighter tomorrow.

At least I try to say the right things about people.
When they're not around.

"You think that's gonna get you into Heaven?

Doubt it. Not in these shoes.

"I had something for you, anyway. Have something. It's here, beneath my fingers. I'm scared it's a tombstone now. A marker. A memorial to the void.

That was part of it, you know. Empty messages sent to empty nights to fill an empty frightened soul.

That's the part I thought you understood.
As the fire dies. And casts me into the shadow of the past.

"I'm losing you..."

No.

I'm losing you.

But I can hear the sound of falling water as I fade into sleep.

And when the time comes

I will stand tall

again.

Saturday, September 20, 2008

Extended Intermission.



I don't know where to start.
Here is the rain.
May it wash our tears away.

Friday, September 19, 2008

Empty.

I want to keep
the shape of you
on my pillow
to remind myself
that you were here.

To punish myself
that I
was
not

and in Hope
that we might still
dream
together.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Blog.

And the last part, the tragic half or the bitter ice cold masochistic laugh, is me left alone in the house with words for company and a fever the reward.

What a ridiculous sight loss makes, as draped in the clash of tracksuit and pyjamas it sits alone on a porch with a cigarette for company and a tall glass of lemonade in hand. Trying to find the center, trying to understand what it was and what it has become. Desperate now, to get to the source.

There is music skipping down the street from a neighbour's party. A gentle despair vibrates in my hands. The cigarettes do their damage. A mysterious pain reminds me to breathe as I remember the way she walked. Grace Kelly. A feminine promise. An appropriate dress. A pair of shoes. The day beginning in the afternoon. The whole world a fantasy - if you believe.

First, I think, you've got to believe in yourself. Starting here. Alone on the porch.

A laughing couple walk by. I lean further back into the shadows. I watch them pass and I suck the last life out of the cancer I hold in my hand. Then I wipe my nose, my eyes, my chin. And I walk back inside.

Siglo. (2)

And there's more
in the night
when the wind
sets
the house
creaking
(the rope
you think
I swing
by
which I don't
I only hang
pitiful
and blue
rocking back and forth
with the wood
for company
and naught else)
and
there's more
as the man and I
sit bare to the wind
and care unspoken for each other
taking solace
in a piece of cheese
by a window
both wrapped
in the absence of them
a tiny touch
beneath the table
which I was once
able
to do
without hesitation
(it may never happen again
so
please pour another
for a poor rotten lover)
and so
(soshite)
(dakara)
(shigata ga nai)
tonight
I simply toast
this fine wine
bled
by a fine man.

I simply toast:

(Hey friend, I'm here for you.
I wish I was true.
But I'm here for you.)

"If my adventure scots to be ending
well may yours continue
my fine stand up friend."

So we drink
on the roof
too old to cry

in public at least.

And the wind
makes me remember
how cold
I
truly
am.

Arachnid. (1)

It feels like home, this place.

As though the rope of failure
has pulled tight and burned against the skin
to scar tomorrow
with the friction of yesterday's inaction.

I wanted to make some money.

I wanted to be loved.

I wanted to feel as though
these lies were the tooth
that was pulled by white skirts
and doctor's brow
a serious conversation
held with a mouthful of fear
and cottoned on
only by the eyes
(and in mine
the surprise)
that you might forgive
and understand
the hand the led the
ass
astray.

A red carrot in a foul mouth.

A candle by light
the delight
I took
in the look
you gave
when you caved
(finally)
after days
and the waves
meant the sea had returned
and so had I
but you didn't know that
or did not believe
you only saw
the wool and the weave
stuck to your eyes
as panic
as web
as loss
so you struggled
and I played the spider
(inside her?
beside her?
you fucking cunt
wider)
Yes
I was the spider

more afraid of you
than you ever were
of it

well hung
in a dark corner
catching flies
to survive
the night.

Waiting to be crushed
later
by the giant feet
of a real man.

That's the hole
beside my bed
that haunts
my dreams.

It's been there for years.

I cover it with paper
I cover it with
anything
I can find

but it never goes away

it remains
by
my

side.

Monday, September 15, 2008

Run.

There was a time when I was prepared to write the brutal truth. When the world had ended [moved on without me - the whole fucking world] and I felt as though I could write my way out of it. I thought that was what I did. But really, all I did was write a new world, a fictional world, one that I could watch objectively, one where I would never get hurt, one where the hurts I caused would not scar, or bite back, or bleed, no blood, never any blood. I made the world around me with callous disregard. I lied to the sky to create the rain. I charged over the horizon before the horizon had time to create another. I stood in the vacuum of my own ambition. I drank. I drugged. I lost my belief in people. I became so numb, my kindness had teeth, and my love brought sadness and my hope was escape, a promise I'd borrowed from a lifetime of fantasy. 
All I wanted to do, was regret what I hadn't done.
All I wanted to do, was not look at myself, but run.
When I was in the country, I said, g'day mate.
When I was in a club, I said, let's get on it.
When I was holding hands, I said, god your eyes look beautiful.
When I was staring at the mirror, I 
turned away quickly
not knowing what to say
or what I would hear
or what I would see in these eyes
I don't know what is in these eyes
sometimes I think I try
and other days
I die
inside
knowing that I could be better
if I wasn't my own bitter
enemy.

Run, rabbit.

Run.

Empty.

I guess it's just us now, kid.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Hot.

Conversation:

Nick: Mangarook.

Me: Mangarook.

(this is a normal conversation at my house)

Me: So how was your day off?

Nick: Actually, I had to work.

Me: Oh. Bugger.

Nick: Yeah. And I burned my hand.

Me: Oh. Bugger.

Nick: Yeah. I burned my hand on a printer.

Me: On a printer? How do that for?

Nick: Well, it's like a Fax Machine. It's on all the time. And I was printing something.

Me: Yes. Go on. (Shit, I ate all the tim tams last night)

Nick: I was printing something and the printer said - cartridge empty, so I stuck my hand in to see if I could feel the cartridge.

Me: Must be some sort of chocolate here somewhere.

Nick: And I was feeling around for the cartridge and then all of a sudden, ow, it was hot.

Me: Maybe I'll just make a muffin. Do we have any vegemite?

Nick: Yeah it really burned. I wonder what was so hot in there. Guess it was the cartridge. Anyway, now I know how those Bali Bombing Victims must have felt.

Me: Sorry, what?

Nick: I said, I can really empathise with those Bali Bombing Victims now.

Me:...

[looks to camera]

Monday, September 8, 2008

Ballad.

So

hard
to think
to know
that all I right
is boring now
not even real
I've bored until
I no longer feel for
anything more
than
a blanket
of those nights
when I leave the window wide
in case the hurt crawls back
inside
or comes
perched upon my window sill
and sings to me a melody
of sorrowful change
or
in sodden distress
a memory breathes upon the cold glass
that I might press my finger
gently upon it
and draw in the mist
the jewels of last night
and yesterday
which cling with graphic desperation
outside this haven
or Hell
whichever you may think it be
the truth you see
is barely there
a ghost which flees
a haunted man
a heart which is
just home to me
and a sea
in which
I swim alone
until upon the site
of sure
I land
and grasp
in Hope
your open
hand.

Thursday, September 4, 2008

Monday, September 1, 2008

A Poet.

A rather poetic
looking poet
stands beneath a tree
on a winter day
and I stop and listen to him
as he recites his work.

His poetic jeans are rusted
grey from black
thoughts which he has held
since childhood
pulled high under
his jumper's
afraid weave
not hung
on every one
of his poetic words.

He says -

"I am
standing on the side
of the stream
conscious of the cold
change.

"I can see the rocks
in the water
that split
the currents
and retard the flow.

"I can hear
the voices
that rush from
the white peaks
and bubble
trouble
in wild waves and whispers
of what lies further
downstream.

"I can feel green
in the air
dark
with worried leaves
that leap from their elegant homes
sailing
a slow pendulum
in a sorrowful sigh.

"I can taste the sour
memories and bitter doubts
and Heaven knows
I try
to spit the seeds
that feed
the delicate insecure skin.

"But the birds sing here
in my would eye
my good eye
so
shall I
just jump in
and let the water
take me away?"

"Will I float
upon this reflection
of my self?"

The poet asks
above
and turns his face
to the sky
which cries
and I wonder
as I run to
shelter
if the rain
was the answer
he was looking for
or the push that he needed
to stop looking to the Heavens
for an answer that lies somewhere
here on Earth.