failure and the dark

grow up and listen to the notes you paid to take. book a time to see the doctor. maybe there's more that could explain why I feel the way I do? her eyes are kinder than yours and this is nothing new: she's seen this film before and has her ways to change the end. 

change like the ice on the window overnight. sometimes there are easy fixes. sometimes things are harder. medical monitoring to catch the changes if and when they come. what will make me take the steps to stand and board the train again? am I driven by reward or fear of failure and the dark?

every day a phone call down the emergency escape. never quite hearing you over the steps of my descent. never more than late or out of touch. I still need to book my flights.

mirrors etc.

we make mirrors when the reflection in the pond isn’t clear enough. there was a time before we drew the face. now the feed is full. I know how I look and it matters. were we ever really meant to see so much of ourselves? at least we’re drowning less (for now).

a burning tree

somewhere between sleep and sense: a sun sets on the coals of a birthday I can’t face. from the kitchen sink I watch old ghosts laugh and dance around a burning tree in the garden. I could leave the house and join them but it’s getting dark and I need an early night for school tomorrow. someone runs through the flames for fun. I wave behind the window.

in the morning on the bus I listen to boys I don’t know share excitement for retirement on the way to work. ‘the cushion is going to feel so good when I get there…’ someone’s baby screams like I might have years ago. the boys in suits keep talking til the tunnel spits us out.

I think about water

a couple hundred patrons haunt the city's oldest screen: directorial debut of the vampire ingenue. she's written about childhood and the strings it pulls on how we try to grow. the film is a dagger to the senses: sharp sounds and shadows, glances from scary men to run from. fragments of memories, glimpses of beautiful bodies. blood in the shower and streams to which we always return. I think about water and how it runs in ways the harm and hurt we carry can't. shouting and tears over ashes poured into the sea. I sip the drink I didn't need and listen to the breathing in the dark. is it wrong to join the laughing when we want to fill the silence? how often am I watching someone else's trauma just for something else to do?

the second baby screams with questions I'll never leave alone. all born screaming; why were we ever woken up? the babies cry for answers: we feed pacifiers and hope that soon they'll leave the beast alone. at some point they forget or learn to look around the cloud that can't make sense or be escaped. we do our best to give them less to think about.

I wake to fill another day without screams or a path beyond the tramlines. an aching frame and want to believe in the illusion of chronology. rain on the glass and someone's wedding day. I am nothing more than here and now forever all at once.

does poetry belong?

does poetry belong

when I wake up to the rain?

there are blankets and walls

to keep me still

and warm

(or where I am)

when I fold myself like laundry

or paint another face

to only sell my soul for silence

and a bed before the end

does poetry belong

when I lose you

even in dreaming

because I turned too soon

or you were never more than my reflection

in your eyes?

does poetry belong

when my groceries and breathing fuel the child-ending machine?

the bath runs blood

and I can watch the masses burn all night

and only ever think of you

does poetry belong

if I stop running to or from

and human conscience dies in Vogue

but the livestream isn't on?

exercise

objective: increase energy over time

invest in building social connections. how can we keep this going? consider sustainability. listen to yourself/the body to recharge the battery. you are making conscious choices for the long-term.

sleep. read (a book instead of headlines). less screen before bed. exercise discipline and put the phone away. the choice is for you in the morning. give yourself time (rather than taking).

find the fuel and movement balance. what gives and what takes energy? how much does it really matter?

reduce stress. find new windows for the breeze.

manage tension between productivity and boundaries. reconfigure expectations. close your eyes and start again.

getting cold

when I wake I feel further from him than ever. but the dream continues.

I sit third or fourth pew from the altar with my brother. the priest is a talkshow host and quick with jokes to draw us in and out of scripture with one-liners. I ascend to the lectern and read a passage for the faithful: some prophet's vision of the future when the earth decides to open and the cities all fall in. my brother leads the prayers of intercession between tears that won't stop smudging ink down the pages. I know it's because of the kids and death of human conscience, and take the stairs to hold his hand. groans from the congregation as children lead reluctant parents to leave. we sulk back to our pew and let the priest play his parade to rivers of blood at the door.

the clouds draws me a fool for fun. man of the year riding Sydney road in the rain. clothes on the window to dry into night. all out of questions and smoke to conceal. heavy for a moment long enough. the kettle's getting cold.

some kind of power

waiting in the wings at your whim. I tell myself I'd like to see you in my dreams. it's true and I do until I wake up.

cold toes and fingers for thoughts to pass through to the keys. some kind of power lingers.

pulse drawn every dawn to fight the disconnect into the next. there's always tomorrow forever. but maybe I'll find the rhythm with my feet someday soon. for now we ache into the rumbling traffic through the day. I think about bombs and greater evils to dwarf guilt felt for my own. wash away the blame for every breath that shapes the day. how much more would a mirror do?

like it matters

I wake to another day of disconnect between the body and the mind. both should be mine and under control, though the imbalance dictates every morning. the day is no more than an effort to tie the two back together. between the commute and conversation through screens and vibration I read the blueprints, left no choice but to surrender to the recipe of pleasantries and movement.

in bed on the pillow my dreams spend the effort on painting days I'll never see. some I'd love to spend with you. without fail the effort counts for nought; waking to the same frame of limbs and absent thoughts that doesn't move or want to. I sigh into tomorrow and the headlines only write themselves more dire. dreaming less of the apocalypse in light of just how fast we're caving in.

a hemisphere of suits gasps as the curtain falls before the plan they've known since the beginning. Gaza will be fully occupied. watch the men play dumb and clamber into clusters to denounce the sudden transparency from the machine they built themselves. the people rally in the streets; I spend my time on something else.

we're in an ice age. I keep thinking about the fact I stole from a friend. we are in an ice age, and mean something less than nothing to the rock we live on. our silly little project will pass millions of years before the sun decides to die. a thorn in my thoughts between tasks and expectations. I drift and try to picture what the place will look like when we're gone. how long will trains keep running? is life below enough to puncture through the asphalt, all the pavement? what happens to the things we built? what of everything that mattered? will the Louvre outlive the supermarket? nowhere to take questions but the fridge. I leave them with the monster. he's eager for new friends and always waits for more to come.

crawl back into the shell intact and only wake to leave again. let's talk more about our feelings. I'll listen like it matters like the graveyards on my phone.

maybe you visit when I'm asked about what happened or maybe I just miss you

you visited me again last night. it's nice to spend time, though I wish you'd give me warning. we were hiding from the group of whoever we were with in the corridor. never somewhere still - you always catch me in the liminal. but you wanted me like we had wanted each other on the way home at the start. we swayed into a slow dance and you kissed me. it felt like the first time, as though this was always where we were going, as though you always knew. and we are home for each other for a moment. you hold on as though I'm something you can't lose. all I need is to be held until we hear them crash the bus.

space for more

taking life too seriously. every day ticks on and moves into the next like clockwork. no roses around to stop and smell. I watch the man laugh at his journal on the tram. scribbles pouring over lines: handwriting or hieroglyphs? the key to joy is left behind in someone else’s language.

I hug my brother through his jacket and loathe every day that comes between us. we learn lines for different people and try our best to make more time. he sends me what he writes from dreams he doesn’t want. I would live through his eyes if I could. if only we were closer.

I read from a real book for the first time in weeks. power and human sacrifice for the sake of the stock market. you can watch it play out on my phone. new footage from the planes passing over the mess we’ve made: dystopic destruction we’ve bought with our silence and streaming subscriptions. what’s next for the humans? what more can we take? will we see the end of days or will the times move on without us? the weather woman says we’re in an ice age. humanity stays for a blip; still billions of years for the sun. a world without taxes and worship. we’ll leave so much space for more.

odds and even dreams

we've seen this film before and stay to watch the search continue. you keep your eyes wide open in the face of odds and even dreams that scare you back to bed. do you write about them too?

poetry is at our feet. paths are always more than asphalt and the leaves wept from the wind. poetry is on the screen; behind layers of paint on the walls of some other building somewhere else. the right words are always there in hiding, waiting patient for your voice. tell me when you find them (if you want).

paint the wall

sunday. for my first twenty years I spent every seventh morning praying with my parents at an altar. we'd sing songs and hold hands, making silent apologies to a judge we couldn't see. mum would give me coins to light candles for the people we worried about most. I'd list my wishes and send them wrapped in thanks and pleas for forgiveness to the clouds. since leaving home my days look different, and every seventh morning is a little much. though I still slide into the shroud of nighttime prayers, I can't quite shake the guilt for leaving empty pews and expectation on the phone. the house of prayer watches over tram tracks: I disappoint and race to someplace else to spend my time.

my costar makes me laugh without opening her mouth. she asks me what I think about the dying marriage between the characters we're creating. I think he wants her back. we both agree he's far too proud to apologise or ask. she's better off without him, though she might miss what they thought it was. you can paint the wall white again and again: it won't change what's underneath.

a holocaust continues. some hundred thousand say enough and cross the bridge through a city I gave up on. will this change what happens next? feeling far from where I am and want to be. I fix the chain back on my bike and wipe the grease onto a tree. 

I wear my gloves to school

passing a rally on the tram between battles and a book I won't finish: kaffirs with pots and pans scream for justice by the library. I hadn't known I'd missed it til the chants came through the windows. all too late and tied to discount dinner plans. with a schedule of new places to be I'll be missing almost every chance to join the demonstrations. no choice but to do my best on my own and watch the bombs drop on my phone.

I breathe clouds into new neighbourhoods. ride my bike down tram lines, sing for passing cars. reading street signs for directions to something more than just the places I can be. I chew on stories sold by billboards by the path. the incinerator gallery hosts a playground project for kids on the way to the park. metaphors and nothing more than names this far from all the blood.

we fill the abandoned room with pillows and potential. the mystic says it means something, a strange time in her life, etc. the cat yawns and pouts for quiet. just happy to have somewhere else to sleep.

nights are cold without you or the cat; hands and lips can only do so much in dreams. we miss the bus and hide in the bathroom. you wear my clothes and they fit much better round your limbs. your laugh is poison to tomorrow in your absence. mornings are ice and I wear my gloves to school. have you swam since Tallow Beach?

children feeding ducks

stumbling through questions beyond the phone. I keep seeing you in my dreams. you were visiting my island home, another adventure we had contoured for the future. we drift in a raft on the river, pass the children feeding ducks. a little like us; blissful and oblivious to the consequences of what we do and all the time we spend. you get a haircut and enjoy me when you want to. I can't tell if it's a disguise or more calculated; a spark to resuscitate the validation of half-buried infatuations. they never lie for long. I'd let them fly to you if only I knew.

but you escape around the corner in the afternoon sun. the river drains into dusk and you're gone. some new reason for distance and time. I swear at my uncle over dinner and upset the virgin Mary hanging in the hall. my parents are speechless and I too can't find the words to fit the shapes you've taken from the sense I need to make. the clouds aren't any clearer when I wake.

non-lethal

before common error: drifting like a storm past windows over tramlines. hunters and collectors drawing tears down the parade. familiar bells ring to stop with a friend on the way to school. eyes dry in a moment. I leave the song unfinished on the road.

eyes hang lower than the bar we dig the grave for. I remember when sleep was enough. seven of clubs at house of cards: regular and large with just as much inside. the screen is hostile to the lids that want to close. too much chatter in the basement, too cold sitting in the shade. we look out over the green for something else to laugh at. eyes shut city limits. playing mum for someone else's colonoscopy. I keep the car keys in the bag with empty books.

my phone tells me what to do. take my meds, 'grow and flow'. I brush my teeth to sleep and greet another day of genocide. at least the arms we use to kill are non-lethal in nature.

neglected prayers

the writing on the facade tells me to go home and sit by the fire. I ride as fast as wheels will spin along to sirens or saints, passing pyramids and haunted homes I might have seen in movies. bricks and future funeral pyres I'll only know in passing. signs to places I will never go.

in my room the bed is how I left it and the washing hasn't dried. neglected prayers decorate the walls I can't quite cover. she scratches at the window and cries until the rain comes back again.

the cat will keep me warm

forgetting the time that was with wishful thinking that you might see a little more than through the glass to what you wanted. what did you tell your mother on the phone? remind myself to remember what matters and the rivers of blood spilt into forever by our taxes and silence. we play ignorant and draw each other blind on the train. I keep both pictures in the book. you already have one on the wall.

on the last page you insist on walking me to the bus, as though there's more to say or do. we stand where we first said goodbye and thank each other for spending time. you say something about de ja vu. there's also something different in your eyes, just for a moment. I can't read what it means and it's well and truly time to go. rays through fingerprints on lens? just a smudge or a passing thought to never see the light of words.

my brother wraps his head round new chemicals. we talk when we can and wish we could more. off the tram I lie in bed and fall into my phone. play house and watch a holocaust with cashews in my mouth. the kids are getting thinner. I spy the flames and feel the cold of a new home. maybe the cat will keep me warm tonight.

at this height

a dream in someone else's bed: escape the sweat of summer sun into a house I used to pay for. red brick walls and barred front windows in the shade of a chapel I've never prayed in. I'm running down the hall and losing rays of rest and relaxation to errands from a list that never ends. too much forever. a thousand failed attempts to clear the fridge into the bar across the road. I forget my clothes every time and return to a home swarming with masks of people I have loved. once familiar ghosts want to pitch a tent in the hanging gardens. others dance through the kitchen and our bedrooms with each other and children I have been. I see myself at different ages: confused, in search of flowers and new friends from the crowd of people I haven't yet loved or lost. flies on the wall for a moment of a life of time to come. the kitchen writhes in nighttime colours and the wine flows from the sink. well and truly past my bedtime. I can't reach my phone or the news from the bench at this height. we dance to laundry vibrations loud enough to shake the night.

like kids

they kill another thousand with the stuff from America. I sleep and dance into your orbit blind, back to chase a dream I'll never reach. arms around waists like a few times before. you laugh at all my baggage and let me wear your jacket. someone smiles at our packs in the city, insisting it's the best way to travel. wait with the black dog at the pier for the boat to take us someplace further from the city and our phones. when it comes we sit on the roof and choose future homes from our view of distant lands - forgotten village of sleepy dwellings without roads or cars. lost dog escorted back to her father by a neighbour.

we sing and twirl round questions in the sun like kids. sandcastles and confusions by the fire. you cook and I clean and we think of ourselves through days without signal or rosaries. we look out to the lights across the bay and maybe we could make a life inside the hologram. ice cream clouds and at least nine types of birds. sharing gentle light to at night for different books (same author). we don't really enjoy what we're reading but neither party surrenders. I forget to check the news or pray for change.

my portrait still hangs beside the office insect pleading you remember what you want. I wonder why my mark remains - if only the heart would open just as easy as your diary. I fix my hair in your mirror and you walk me to the bus. you’re looking out the window at tomorrow and the clouds. I call my brother on the way to somewhere that makes more sense. we sigh alone together, holding onto the leaf. forget the line of beauty and reach for nothing in particular. accidental theft of kitchen tools. take a shuttle to the cinema to watch the end of days with zombies. 

seek out something new to worship on the scenic route to hell. pray for perfect from the mirror, watch another hundred starve to death. the man on the bridge stands silent by the students with his sign: ‘christ will return’. the kids sing nursery rhymes at the departure gate. I watch the heavens roll the day to dusk over the tarmac. lights dim and babies scream into tomorrow. breathing fine at thirty thousand feet from home and truth and consequence. maybe it’s time to wake up.

not affected (Tallow Beach for two)

in your light

I can squeeze myself into any shape to only disappoint

as I am

not affected, etc., unless I hope

too close to the sun

or dumb enough to dream words

more than what they mean

on a dying star

of burning kids and Babels

the boy from the corner split open for you

around and around

bottomless combat in the sand

abandoned driftwood home

the stars, or what we didn't drink

(Tallow Beach for two)

we don't touch each other anymore

and subscribe to rules you've written

I light the fire with your matches and watch you dance like it makes sense

forget about the headlines

where we started, how it felt

polarise the night:

sing my favourite songs

and tell me everything you want about the boys I couldn't be

cast me hopeless on the edge

play friends

and take my picture

til we're waiting where we were

and it's time for me to leave.

close to the edge

sitting still on the cusp of potential. distracted from the screen: restless and unfocused. pixelated thoughts and familiar brushes of a feeling I once knew well. a current pierced through daydreams down my spine.

the lack of answers only invites further dreaming. I glide through pools of what could be and offer sleep as sacrifice to the wonders of perhaps. no eye hangs too heavy for the cloud of curiosity. you spin a score for my ears just in time for flying. I count the songs I showed you sewn within.

to kick the cage

I watch the new world order bursting open on my phone. the fat pig wants more and the little ones are still too fat and pathetic to even think of trying to kick the cage open. the mud reeks of death and I am covered to my neck, iced thick enough to confuse my own hands for hooves. we squeal and snort for something more than water from the fountain. they play silly movies on the ceiling to send us to sleep. the slaughterhouse speakers rattle with the laugh track and we forget about the other sounds outside. screeching of late night trams on the breaks or the scream of every child that should have lived to see tomorrow. we’ve heard it all before and only ever wake to more. armageddon in the name of progress.

I read the signs in the city for answers. flashing green man and ‘do not spit’ on the wall of the tunnel passing under the station. I ask the heart what it wants and play with hope. from the pillow I can watch the currents gushing over state lines into limbo. maybe they know where they’re going. maybe I should know a little more.

ants and sugar

white walls welcome me to sleep in a room I'm yet to make my own. I dream of Gaza under the weight of someone's cat. the skies change in flashing greys, static between telegraph poles. soldiers run amok like ants over spilt sugar in the pantry. I watch them scramble to shoot children in the street, at school, what might once have been a playground. some dash to hide behind crumbling corners of wall as though the blood won't stain unless they're caught. when I catch them they protest, claiming accident or misfire, sulking off like school-kids called out for detention.

the kids hiding in the diner want to go out to pet echidnas in the carpark. their parents won't let them risk getting shot. they play ordinary times and chess in a burning shell of childhood as I've known it. I spy them through a frame without a window. the bombs raise hell somewhere else, reduced to little more than ambience to shake the pawns on the board. the kids don't flinch or look beyond the game.

chasing after the soldiers I stir to realise they are children too. they fidget with buttons on their guns and uniforms, sing crude songs through streams of blood. I follow them in and out of the smoking remains of hospitals they've bombed, skipping and laughing, school kids through the mall. another ordinary day of play around the grave of human conscience. despite my disgust I can't tell if I'm against them. regardless I am safe at their side to witness the terror. their weapons never point my way.

like you

fulfil me with a kiss

or don’t

you could just use your words

like armour

or the tools they used to make the statues

before the bible didn’t matter

when people would pray

and dream

they knelt and wrote psalms

without checking their phones for something else

they made love in stone and paintings

angels sang

and everything was beautiful

like you

or the memory

of a feeling

lips or nose or fingertips

laughter

in the space before I wake

violent reign

of every night that should be mine

as though I could be what you want

in the dark

when you’re here but you’re not

and I reach

and you’re gone

but I still hear your voice

and you’re still on my phone. 

three aliens who brought their own lunch

we find people to be to pass the time. I wait for the tram and scroll through faces on my phone. every smile matters to someone. sometimes they show teeth. I think about the tracks in the asphalt and the fact that almost everyone I’ve ever met I’ll never see again. everything is memory until we can’t remember. 

the days are light until they’re not. I wear a shroud of guilt for nothing in particular. premeditated tax for fare evasion or knowing where the money goes. conjure trials and tribulations just to give the mirror edge. I pass the aliens in suits frozen on their way to work. between briefcases and boulders we’re never anywhere for long. stoney eyes see more than most. stoney mouths stay shut although their secrets could be answers to my prayers. I wonder if they’d share them if they could.

livestock

the rhythm stops for sliding doors. an army of God's children waits for arguments outside. banners with photos of lifeless pigs hanging from bars in the slaughterhouse. I feel for the vegans fighting for converts with such a noble cause. haven't they heard? change is a daydream - there's no stopping the machine. what hope is there for livestock while we kill our kids in thousands? I want to tell them to watch the news. the men in suits have sold our souls: we're all just hanging meat. I settle on a nod instead. a smile of recognition spins me back into the sales.

I cross the street to lose a sense of knowing who I am. in the fog I mean as much as gaps between the tiles that make the path.

in the shade of Vogue

a dream: I wake up on the island where he saw the end of days. they've made a luxury resort of the beach. money glitters between the tiles through every grain of sand. I watch the people squirm and dance about the remnants of a city we will never know, repurposed for our whims in excess: to drink and eat and look in the mirror. the young stay young forever, pose for photos from the cave. swing into the Mermaid Bar: you can drink your weight in Aperol where he spelt out the apocalypse. supermodels bask in the shade of Vogue outside. everything shines gold against the sun.

the hand of a child reaches through rubble, clawing at the sky for nothing. her blood stains the dusty stones under which she’s buried. I can’t tell if she’s alive and wonder if she'd want to be knowing this is how it goes. the people scramble like water to pull her out. walls and legs of chairs and more debris of former homes between the body and breathing til tomorrow. when they lift her from the dust her face is washed in blood and tears. a shell-shocked daughter in double denim. I close my phone and look away until I think of her again. motionless fingers reaching from the graveyard of our greed. a sight to cast in stone and haunt the new world of tomorrow. I wonder what she’d think about where all my money goes.

last night's cup of tea

the city passes through the window like a film. at the rally the writer sings a song about hiding from the bombs in her mother tongue. the melody is a knife to the heart, or a curse to haunt the streets of stolen land forever. she reads a passage translated from a play she's writing: ‘when the world burns we peel garlic and keep our souls fed’. no choice but to keep the rhythm through the nightmare. there are always empty plates to fill.

pedestrian lies on sidewalk at the feet of the preacher pleading the city to repent. he waves his hands and shouts something about salvation from our one true saviour. on his soapbox in his beard, animated fresco of a prophet from the bible. he holds the book to the sky with a judgement day warning. we pass with shopping bags and more important things to do. nobody stops walking. but the lady lies at his feet, closed eyes, open hands. maybe she believes.

the colours soften in my room. gentle beige and peace on mute. it's all quieter here. life happens outside; I return to fold and sleep. the silver swan watches over the bed I come to dream on, softer than the heating humming through the floorboards. I take a photo of the fly asleep in last night’s cup of tea. 

hell is here

a crow taunts the smaller birds from someone else's garden he laughs and I miss the comfort of the rain against the window. static I can live without but relish all the same. I turn to my screens and pour the hours into spirals leading back into myself.

some headlines claim that hell is here, some won't yet verify. yesterday they killed a hundred people. fifty were waiting for food. I hear it’s laced with poison now. the news is fixed; the audience depletes. we have emails to send, oxygen to carbonise. apathy is armour. my faith wilts like compassion. I follow doctor’s orders, dig for something else to hate. a monster in the mirror and the patterns that we share. no pleas through the ceiling change a single cell. at the edge of the bed I’m the same as my shadow: protected by my self obsession from the nightmare on my phone.

I vacate the spreadsheet to livestream a funeral. I learn about a life spent before I knew him old. he studied latin and recited Virgil as a child. collected wines and friends from all over. whilst enduring treatment he became a student of his own illness, researching the cancer that was bringing his breath to an end. his daughter-in-law reads for her mother, something about love and consistency. I spy the back of her head looking up between the lectern and the coffin. the words matter because they are hers and I want to hug her but I can't. I choose a shirt and close the lid. places to be and hours to upset.

in the kitchen someone makes a smoothie. the blender wails just loud enough to keep me safe from thinking.

adults in the igloo

lost in self obsession on the tram leave bed and go to market just for somewhere else to be

they make sculptures out of ice

and take cash or card they’re selling dog toys and old postcards from dead places candles and art made by computers you can buy on shirts or mugs there's a lady waving flames like ribbons from her knuckles passing smells of foods I used to love in a scarf somebody made me that I’ve never worn offstage join the queue for something warm a prop to hold or make me drowsy a ticket to permission for eavesdroping on the tourists or dj duk duk’s silent disco under fairy lights like Christmas with the couples and the wine I dip my tongue in by another tarot reader

and watch the adults in the igloo

dance and buy the imitation of some kitsch game we’re all outgrowing on the uphill hike to hell I drift within the stream make myself invisible in my scarf on my phone behind cinnamon and steam ears open for nothing at all the silver angel sways on stilts I stop and watch her pose for children’s photos while the sirens sing in spanish drawing cameras from the bar casting curses on the city I should know a little better spinning on my heels

I track the way home on my phone

modern leper of the year 

playing hide and seek alone. 

cutting clouds open

the cat jumps onto the bed as I’m taking off the sheets. he stomps into the duvet and curls up into his spiral. it’s the first I’ve seen him in my room since my arrival weeks ago. I scratch under his neck and he kisses my thumb. the sudden affection fools no one. he gets sulky when any of us leave, as though a packed suitcase threatens his reign of the house, or the doting of four others isn’t enough love to lap. I run my bedsheets through the wash with clothes I can leave at home, the right armour already bound tight by a zip. the prince stays put on the bare blankets until he wakes and wants to eat.

at the departure gate I wait between strangers and flights to and from the city I used to call home. uniforms rush in and out of doors I’ll never walk through. they call out unfamiliar names to board and I laugh at the idea of sneaking through onto the plane in their place. there’s a foreign mischief pulsing down into my fingers. I couldn’t tell you where it comes from, but tonight is a little different. I don’t dread the return as I would have had I left on time.

in seat 16c I rub my eyes and think about you. ready to make another mess without a single word. watch the lights dim and remember what you are. does any of it really matter? cutting clouds open in the dark at however many thousand feet. we’re in between at any height. I let the siren sing because she knows more (when I don’t). Virgin has teeth. eyes closed and it’s raining inside. the lady with the trolley gives me orange juice for free. 

who's afraid of primordial soup?

I cut myself shaving by mistake in the shower. diluted blood paints the water running down the plughole; weak reds that could be pinks. this used to happen every morning between the scales and brushing teeth. cuts assume familiar spots under the chin along my jaw. water stings the openings, passing down my neck into the sink. I dab them softly with a towel until they're less inclined to bleed and looking more like freckles. smile with teeth and count the red marks in the mirror. I think about the burning kids and want to smash the glass. curse myself for caring enough to even bother shaving. people only notice if they really want to see you.

blood dries on the towel and runs through pipes into the sea. everything returns: laughing and bleeding into the same queue for the flames. only ever somewhere between clay and the ashes. what are we still waiting for?

Goliath etc.

at the window waiting for the cat to come inside. I spy him by the driveway; frozen and staring at the convict-chipped stones of the garden wall. I wonder what he's thinking, if he ever thinks at all. there's a sadness to his stillness by the flowers and the bees. a sombre statue til the front door opens. bells and leaps up steps into the warmth. a silver dish of breakfast waiting on the kitchen floor.

the fruit bowl overflows. we think of making lemonade instead of progress. surrender what we shouldn't with excuses from the news. there are glimpses of clear between clouds. birds chirping through chatter and Uma Thurman's daughter. we talk about our therapists and compare back catalogues of dreams. sun reaches through gaps between branches to light your eyes. your laugh feels like a hug. maybe we’re learning each other again. half asleep on the precipice of peace before tomorrow's hammer.

I scrunch the paper for a fire and prolong finding my new home. we’re running out of matches. mum talks about the man of the shroud; carbon scans and photos on her phone. I think about Goliath and where we'd be if he had won. the actors on the TV cry through stories I won't follow. 'you really might want to think before you speak.' I fold my brother's laundry and keep hiding from my own.

paper pedestal

I imbue too much importance to the thoughts in spite of what I see and know about the world. fragile as forever, years of anger cast into a matchstick frame. the limb man stands to make the shadow of a statue he admires. we balance on a pedestal of headlines folded footsteps from the fire. carbon crackles into clouds. I listen to the psalms I wait too long for. sync my pulse up to the rhythm and shower in their anguish and confessions. all the while we ghost the mirror and read the numbers on the floor.

on the floor to make new shapes. I fold myself closed and open again; down on my back in obsessive compulsions, resculpting the flesh for a god I could never please. the ache wells, a familiar grip around my belly, scrunching smaller into a fist. caught between the unnamable; never being enough and a perennial unwillingness to relinquish the shred of potential I saw in a dream. I venerate the vision hanging on the walls of my sockets like a crucifix. repeat the rituals with toothpaste in my spit. 

Virgin in the sunroom

I cut the orange open: it bleeds a different colour though it all still tastes the same

six years of taking pills to fix my chemical imbalance

at best we water down the curse, dress the parasite in silks and sunny colours

when did I last fly a kite?

I want to be held

conceal my limbs in armour

or someone like you

I want to be well

to not need to make myself so small

or livestream holocausts to feel my pulse

I want a different body

from the boy movie or magazine

to be met at a different time in my life

saint Sebastian or someone on the sidewalk

we wrap our scars in bandages and each other’s arms

and talk about anything but tomorrow

I want to breathe alone

and live beyond my phone

when the nightmare ends

to start again

a new world order

with kids at school and not on fire

their paintings cover mirrors

less bombs and more thinking of you in the confectionary aisle

I want too much

and still pray for more

half asleep and knowing just how little I know

I want to play Virgin in the sunroom tonight. 

the museum of modern love

I close tabs for an email from a friend: a book review for a novel she bought on her trip to my hometown. we were in the store and she said she wanted to read something from the island. I recommended a book I hadn't read by an author I've only heard about through other people. something about an artist I don't know much about. on the phone she tells me the book has taken her to New York rather than the Tasmanian wilderness. she had wanted to read about the place I grew up - a confession she makes at the start of the review. I guess I let her down on that front, though I care less about my fault in reading where the novel took her. it seems she passed through far more important places than a closer understanding of the stolen land I learnt to walk on.

she writes and asks me to be still and listen. the I am challenged by the invitation. the review opens a generous glimpse of the tapestry she's weaving upstairs in the current moment. there's an openness to her voice that rarely carries on the words of someone so wise. blinds left undrawn, sincere without the wistful hope of naivety. she finds reflections of herself in revelations from the trials of the mystic followed in the book. a desire for intimacy with a heart closed by an epoch of dishes and headlines too pressing for hope. prophets see the stars: every good thing ends and all we have is one foot in the stream. she casts a fresh sheet of glass from these fragments of herself. tears and more tomorrow. I see myself through her new window and I think she sees me too. 

John

death of a family friend: third husband of my father's ex employer. a sudden stroke at eighty something. he would catch us fish from the shore and make me feel useful in the kitchen while he cooked us dinner. invested in my interests and whatever I brought to the table. I remember his lessons on red wine etiquette before hitting double digits in the village. my brother and I caught his stomach bug on a week at their place with the backyard pool on the coast. I was sick by the car and he patted my back at the airport drive-by drop-off. he liked to read and knew me better than my grandparents. I'll miss his hugs and funeral. the clock ticks over and we roll on as we were without quite knowing why.

into solstice sun

away for a moment. we wake before we would have liked to swim into the sunrise of the shortest day. freezing sea as still as glass. I slip under and feel the burning through the skin into my bones. on the surface hues of blue give way to pastel pinks and yellows. morning clouds and a slight chance of hypothermia. I retreat into the refuge of my own arms and a towel.

I peal the paper from the ceiling of the bedroom of my youth. pages torn from a book I never read flake onto the bed; reluctant leaves, late autumn breeze. nine years of mould and long forgotten cracks left by the weather or the weight of possums in the attic now exposed. I catch a glimpse of my former hopes and wistful disillusionment in the pathetic fractures of the paint. there are bruises behind every postcard and other paper relic cast from former lives upon the wall. this whole room needs an exorcism. am I ready to grow up?

the leader of the free world plays with world war three for fun. I read the news as it comes and watch us bomb our way to hell. you can tune in when you want. there's always something else. what world will I wake to when I get up in the morning?

someone else's school

I lose the thoughts before they come

open tabs to freeze

they buffer under expectation

on a network underresourced

I want too much

the stuff of dreams I forget

I want too much

and waste my time

in shards of glass that fuel my hate

I see myself in faces on my phone

posing idols and friends

and children who’ll be dead by time I wake

apathy and anger

a holiday I'd kill for

ego and the funeral pyres our taxes made of someone else's school

heroes I can choose to chase

springs of love to draw from

I make my bed and sleep

safe from bombs and consequence

for what I've seen and choose to hide from

because it's all a little much

praise me for my boundaries

let's see what else is on

resign the living to the nightstand

til I choose to care again.

drawing from the well

what joy can be drawn from the well of dreams. waiting nervous outside a party by the curb, dawdling just beyond the path down to the beach that raised me. I start to shake a little. my parents are reluctant to leave me to venture alone like this. a colleague finds me at the mouth of the path and I follow his lead into the shadows down the cracked sandy pavement, winding closer to the flames on the beach, the murmurs of the crowd, the music.

dusk grey gives way to bright moonlight cast through mid-winter blue. my nerves shield me from the claws of the cold and I only shiver from anticipation of the chance of crossing paths with someone I've been seeing in my dreams. familiar faces in the crowd delight in passing pleasantries and offering another pour of wine. we gather in groups only to compete and celebrate, hoping to catch glimmers of our own ambitions in someone else's beauty or performance reflected back in strobes through the shine of light on bottles and white teeth. we listen to satiate the ego's cries for validation. I sense my saviour round a corner and lose what grasp I'd managed to tie to confidence despite the sweat and nerves. swift escape up the hill and ride the bike as far into the city as I can.

I stop to rest at the weathered remains of an old church or convict prison in a park I've never played in. lampposts and a well kempt lawn beyond crumbling walls in the middle of the city. an audience surrounds the pillars and I'm left with no choice but to join their ranks as actors in period costume take the stage to tell an unfamiliar story. my bike glares back at us through the sandstone arch like a time machine, turquoise frame upstaging delicate frills and old english. the congregation is enthralled by the drama, though the dialogue screams a classic we all should have been made to read at school. by time the players take their bows for our applause I've forgotten why I came and my shirt is no longer enough to ward off the cold. 

the audience disperses and I take to the stage to retrieve my bike. and then you're there - smiling and as beautiful as forgetting something sad. you saw me on the beach and left alone to find me. I don't bother asking how you knew to reach me here. there's an urge to dig a hole and have you push me in to cover up forever. but you hold me and we dance and end up as we were before. I'm warm again and there's no sense to make but I still have dreams and maybe this is more than enough.

somewhere in the glass

every place I drag this sack of limbs and dreams becomes a waiting room. I watch the clock and count the patients as they pass. breathing and collecting dust on chairs just long enough to vacate warm for someone else. a lonely brain (or train of thinking) emptied at my old school. values abstractify to faint colours and hums with too much to watch on my phone. I can forget how to think and relinquish my grasp on the present as in sleep. passing sounds of footsteps. an automatic sliding door shares a glimpse of tomorrow and forever in the artificial light. somewhere in the glass passage between places. dormant in an empty screen. I keep my headphones on.

lamingtons

take the ladder to the grotto in the sky. read the memories and markings on the wall. epiphanies and nonsense. choose life and tomorrow and funeral food. etchings still concealed within the timber of the treehouse, as hard to reach as ever. my taxpayer funds build playgrounds at home and bomb schools on my phone. admire the porthole view and wonder how many children could be fed with the rubber turf alone. I picture myself falling from the rope on the journey up into broken bones and bed rest. no doubt I’ll slip up sometime soon. what am I if not forever caught between mistakes and mystic accidents?

at the pyre

the quiet city stirs to purge itself of nightmares in the cold. a street by the sea filled by people in their red and thousands. we follow the torches and the singing children with their costumes and fish down the asphalt veins in twilight. the traffic stops for our procession as we snake our way to freedom from regret for now. at the spot where the crowd meets the moon they fill a funeral pyre with our fears. a choir of mystics cast their spells to drum and trumpet as night falls over the mass of modern lepers and their phones. under neon red a crane gives flight to the effigy of an endangered species. we watch it glide on the breath of chants and expectation to crown the pyre as our sacrificial victim. another man in red climbs the ladder with a torch and a kaffiyeh. one flame to the wood of the frame is all it takes. clouds of red cough from the guts of the pyre into the wind before the fireworks make way for flames to cleanse our woes and warm our faces. razor orange tongues and the crackle of a hundred thousand fears. the quiet city stops and listens in the dark.

I look from the flames to the sparks of the ashes spinning out into the night. some of the fears fly away on the wings of the night to burn into the sky. they will all find their way back to us in time. til then at least we have the fire to keep us warm.

take a knee and scream

we follow the flames in the cans from the road to the open space behind the art school. they want to build a sports ground here. a little too much tax to spare. I watch each breath leave my mouth in clouds. fog on my lips and ice in my lungs. from the curb I follow the distant hum of a choir into the church of my subconscious. the hymn distils with my approach: a hundred shameless screams of strangers knelt before a neon altar in the dark. a national anthem we all know but never have the chance to sing. somewhat of a symphony; the sound of collective catharsis. a beautiful shriek of unsung demons exorcised before the moon. a chance to drop the mask and kick the boulder down the hill. I’ve dreamt of this - permission to scream into forever - since I first met myself. I curse my burning throat and wish that I could join the choir. would you want to do the same? would you ever scream for me?

a shopping list for later

spray the bathroom mirror clean to face myself again. I am a pendulum: always moving between something stronger than my frame and will. I don’t how to stop though if I did I doubt I would. the forces are much greater. they command my ears and sacrifice. I make note of their decrees like a shopping list for later.

my dreaming threatens a returning disobedience. whims are senseless while I sleep. sometimes the visions linger. a grip on my shoulder. prophetic proverbs or an ancient creed I still remember. I pray and do my best to rinse them all out in the shower. 

the rabbit hole to China

in this future we don’t have time machines. the skies are grey and our shoes don’t tie themselves.

in this future we can go to work to save for dying somewhere nicer. daydreams come and go like groceries. we can pay the bills and watch our taxes rain in bombs on hospitals (and other hiding spots) from the comfort of our phones. you can swipe away to something else. post a photo of yourself. scroll the rabbit hole to China wishing you were someone else.

in this future you can order dinner from the couch and flatten buildings with a drone. make your dreams come true: fly to mars or build a house on the grave of someone else’s home. abduct peaceful cries for justice armed with medicine and food. stream the end of days in real time. sleep or watch the children burn.

excused

absent and excused from myself. cold fingers and calls for validation from the perpetual stream of faces on my phone. I read the news and watch the world burn and still come crawling back to the mirror. the knowing does nothing and we are all just the same. I wonder what it takes to make us care about something as much as ourselves.

ego is an armour I can't shake: claws tear deep under the skin into the doubts rushing through my veins to keep me running. nothing is enough. I breathe in validation and exhale a cry for more.

state funded murder

I take the tram into the city for a rally in the cold. the crowd gathers on the steps of parliament against a line of officers who drew the shorter straws. it's dinnertime and we're just as unhappy to see them. at least they have our taxes for their overtime. last week a couple of cops killed a man in the confectionary aisle of a supermarket. eyewitnesses claim he cried for his mother. the pigs scamper off scot-free because of the colour of his skin. the lady at the microphone tells us that not a single cop has been tried against the law for the six hundred Aboriginal deaths in custody since the royal commission. the irony is tangible: the enforcers are above the laws they write to hold control. an elder demands an external investigation and the immediate arrest of the two cops responsible. behind the line of signs I notice one officer chant along to cries for justice. I wonder how he feels about his job.

we pour down through the boulevard into the rain: enough of us to stop the trams, enough noise to open windows. the crowd pools around the police station to ask some questions. armed neon vests guard the doorstep. our shouting is dangerous and they are threatened by the writing on the wall. down the line a flag stops an intersection in the heart of the city. a couple of pigs lean against their car, not quite knowing what to do. the flag waves and shouts at silent streams of absent passersby. goosebumps for a moment. I take a photo with my phone.

the only escape

my veins run thick with warm wine and cinnamon. dreams tumble-spin in spirals wide enough to believe until you squint or stir to morning light. fragments surface in the shower; tinged indigo and heavy. I hang them to dry with the others I forget to water. if I really try to focus I can catch fleeting faces or glimpses of places we went while I slept.

a long walk up a white hill with a friend I want to make. you're going to meet us at the top. we gather round a pile of pebbles cone-shaped like the mounds of sticks that make the village fires. I want to hold your hand but the clouds are rolling in. we race the path through the grey plains to the city on our bikes. he's faster than us both. you try to peddle faster. I think of the part where you both fall in love. your laughs roll back to me on the wind. we must be on the cusp. 

a massacre at the movie night. the red of human insides paints every surface like the schools on my phone. final breaths and muffled screams for parents. mostly children left lifeless on the floor. instigators shield themselves with black masks and machetes. I run to the dorms to find the younger ones asleep, room washed soft blue from the light of the moon. quiet snores and dreams. the matron crosses her lips with a finger from the throne in the corner: let them sleep. I lock the door and slip back into the pool of spoiled futures, rising higher with every cry for mercy. swim down the bloody hall to find a window to escape. lose myself in familiar faces floating by my side. I see the end in empty eyes and know I can't be too far off. the only escape is waking up.

wisdom teeth

the path rolls up against the boulder leading nowhere. I run between obligations over tram tracks by the creek. sunshine and frozen fingers. mothers steer their prams around puddles of yesterday lingering in gaps of weathered asphalt. dogs stop to sniff and lap at the water. I charge past knowing better than to dwell and slip into pools of where I've been. discipline on occasion is still discipline. no doubt I'll fall back in tomorrow.

I read the news and nothing changes. the death trap closes for repairs and the kids are left to starve. government drones taunt the freedom fighters on the sea. America pisses down any hope of stopping the bombs. I stream it all on my phone with my friends. twiddle my thumbs with the heater on. rinse my guilty conscience with a repost and a shower. 

between feelings and sirens I play the same songs over like a metronome. listen close: they'll show you something different this time. watch me fall through paper-thin facades of self awareness into thinking about myself and the mirror. I've not been to the dentist in six years. they asked me to take x-rays and book again to have my wisdom teeth removed. the operation risks more the older you get. beyond the pricetag I've been too embarrassed to go back - years too late with crooked teeth and eating - though I know I gain nothing from holding onto my pathetic little pride. my smile is weak and I want to feel clean again. how much might that cost?

with the pearl earring

I dream of my grandfather. we’re at a summer house somewhere on the coast. you have to walk a day down a beach and over rocks and hills to find it. we sit in an alcove sheltered from the wind that makes mist of the sea on the horizon. the bell rings dinnertime: a stampede of cousins and their children (far too many to count) to the table. somebody says grace. it carries on for hours as I work on a deadline under the table and pretend to listen. repurposing a script for someone else. the favourite with the pearl earring catches on. she offers to help and I can’t deny her of the chance to feel useful. we have different ideas from the writer and make a mess of the story we can’t quite catch. I see the author’s grimace in my empty china and dread the wrath to come.

I plan my escape and prepare to disappear. my grandfather meets me in the kitchen washing dishes in the sink. he takes my hands and holds me like a child until I wake.

through the floor

the space I crave is too much when it comes. I reach for ways to fill the vessel: distractions grow on trees but are too often inorganic. clear your inbox. ask for tasks and put them off. disinfect the kitchen bench. open the fridge and count the cartons. run into the rain: round the convict shopping complex to the river and back over the creek. look both ways. laugh at heckles you can’t hear from passing cars. wipe your feet at the door. disappear into the shower and a song. dry your hair. check the news to see if anything has changed. it hasn’t and it won’t and yet you ought to check again.

I read an essay by a robot about films I’ve never seen. the arguments are clear and the language can’t be faulted. who knew an equation could learn to write so well? how long until the brain explodes? perhaps I should be scared. I know I will be when I think too much about it (which I should). to care is to lose energy and I am still asleep at the best of times. let the robots write. I’ll catch up when I can.

my phone transcribes a voicemail from an unnamed caller: press one for English, press two for Chinese - you need to learn. we can always hide from phone calls. who can argue with the truth? I close my eyes and listen to the heating through the floor.

on the silver horse

left alone on the road without warning. the streets flood with children and taxis and I try to steer the silver car from the backseat. my hands can't reach around the headrest for the steering wheel. I part the current of oncoming traffic spinning into unsuspecting families and homes. symphony of screeching tires and horns. cinematic mushroom smoke in every mirror. the car is made of death: we speed ahead and crumple everything that passes between where we are and where we're going. screams and burns and I can't hit the brakes. the horse won't stop: accelerator floored by some phantom brick or ghost. we gallop towards an unfamiliar tunnel. my fingertips slip from the wheel and I prepare to make a coffin of someone else's car. 

when I wake up I check my wallet for my licence. it's always there. I never see the tunnel through but I can drive a car.

duct tape

remembering to bring an extra layer. opening what remains of the shell into a vessel for somebody else. whatever they want is wonderful. conceal and compromise forever. try to fill my skin and understand if I crave pity or affection and which one I need more. I stray from the chants through the city to watch a woman press her sign against the Gucci window: what did you do during the genocide in Gaza? confused shoppers turn away from the question that mustn’t be for them. I take a photo with my phone.

between now and the end time can still be filled. I read prophecies down sidewalks and the backs of strangers: wish, last, help me, I am in hell, happiness in slavery, gave up. realism is made in heaven. interpret and apply meaning liberally. scour the city for duct tape to cover over everything like armour or light. I am as fragile as maybe and Plato’s ‘republic’ with the picture books. on my knees limping for peace in the cathedral and my head. whispers under slipping rubber soles. light up sneakers hopscotch down the aisle on mosaic tiles. my prayer asks for too much and will be returned to sender. they thank me for my visit and I exit through the gift shop.

sick enough

the first documented case of the disease was a few hundred years ago in England. the teenage son of a preacher. they didn't have a name for it back then, and though you can pay for therapy now we still don't know how to talk about it. he was sixteen. they tried to cure him with all sorts of medicines, both natural and artificial. disappointed by his unchanging condition, the doctor prescribed a milk diet and horse-riding in the country air. his records detail the boy recovered his health 'in a great measure', despite not being 'perfectly freed' from his condition.

some of the best research on the disease was unethical and could never be greenlit today. I read about a study in Minnesota from the wartime. a group of scientists with the goal of understanding the impact of starvation on the body. in the findings I cut my fingers on glimpses of myself like shards of broken mirror. cold hands and feet. obsessive pre-occupation with the act. increased apathy and feelings of hopelessness. a loss of ambition and drive to connect. dizziness. most of the men involved in the study managed to find their feet and fill their clothes again. there's an irony in being asked to search for hope from such morally murky waters. 

the doctor asks what I think of the word. I don't know how to answer and hate to be wasting his time. this money could do much more for somebody else. how many starving children might it feed? he leaves me with homework and an invoice for his time. I close the tab and turn to emails but his question lingers like a scar. I close my eyes to listen as its orbit coils the confines of my skull. does anyone ever think they're sick enough?

apathy

they herd the starving in their thousands into fences like cattle to wait for the food they’ve been neglected for months. if not from the targeted dropping of taxpayers’ bombs on shelters and hospitals, they’ve been dying from starvation in the streets. there’s footage of the swarm rushing across the sand to the distribution point. I watch them spill into the queues like crushed tins of sardines and wonder how many of them have eaten this week. the soldiers oversee the operation: the same men who shoot these children in their homes and dress up in their victims’ clothes for fun. once more we see the masses left at the whim of the murderers of their parents and children and homeland. waiting under gunpoint and unforgiving sun for crumbs that never come. the men start shooting - bored or threatened by the thought of feeding starving children - and once more I’m streaming slaughter on my phone. it’s less surprising every time, and easier to shut off and carry on with myself the more I read and see online.

when I sleep I do so knowing I’ll wake to news of more lives lost to weapons I’ve paid for. no blood on my pillow: I’ve been sleeping fine. there’s a parasite growing in my body, sucking blood from vital organs. my heart starts to shrink a little too quickly. I fear the apathy that feeds on every absent swipe away.

hit or miss

I walk through the rain to the store after seeing the doctor. the seat of my bike is damp and I steer her cross the tram lines like a dog I can control. at the supermarket I buy markers and pasta for craft. steal some string from the drawer in the lounge and thread beads between tiny tubes of macaroni. I wear my necklace on the tram alone and present the sad boy with his a moment before he’s due onstage. he’s surprised by the gift and thanks me with a promise to play the song. I cradle the glass against my collarbone and whisper along to the words of the poems he plays on my phone to keep me safe at night. for a moment I forget the body and the world I inhabit and there is nothing but the feeling between reaching the pillow and dreaming. he jokes about selling records and tees before sending us back to sleep. I pocket the napkin runes with his scribbles from the stage the moment he descends into past tense and the crowd.

between sets at the old bar

‘we’ll watch this gig. go home. donate to a charity. watch the last of us. what a great night! if you’re bored you can leave. it’s okay.’

now I watch

wake to scenes of another school up in flames. children sleeping in the classrooms (their homes already flattened by the siege). the blaze surrounds the silhouette of a girl trying to find her way out of the building through the window. you can watch the footage on your phone. the video ends and we don't know if she escapes. I wonder if she has parents to return to or if the bombs have left her orphaned.

the morning is a seat at the desk and an empty head. I tend to inboxes and tiptoe through documents unaffected by the news I read and the lifeless faces I see on my phone. at some point I'll think about my capacity to carry on and crawl back into my wrinkled routine of mundanity and self-obsession no matter what I hear or know about the world outside. maybe I will start to question how desensitised I've become to the suffering of others and what this says about the size of my heart and capacity to channel the compassion I once took such pride in. sometimes I stop and scare myself at how little I manage to care, how much my openness has closed in the face of disillusionment with the world and what I can't control. kindness was a weakness once. I used to care too much. now I watch children burn alive while brushing my teeth.

I hang my clothes to dry with questions I can never ask. listen out for birds that never come. maybe time to try again soon.

claws

the cat scratches his reflection in the mirror. twitching bell and claws against the glass, all too early for the sun. the frozen city still asleep. he wants attention or food. I give him both and run myself a bath. in the basin the water covers the skin with warmth in ways the blankets never could. I hold my nose and dip my head under like I did as a child in the same body. open ears listen to nothing but the underside of momentary ripples from the plunge against the edges. eyes closed. nose and bones rinsed free of the cold that rattled them awake. beautiful darkness and something close to silence. a stillness I forget between the dreaming and the laundry. what else should I be looking for?

in the screen forever

sharing the room with a cat. he meows at the window. I wonder what he’d think about the bombs and listen to the laundry whir in the machine next door. scratches and jump to the top of the castle to watch over his kingdom and the television. there is nothing playing and he will sit and look at his reflection in the screen forever. black expanse of nothing and some faces if the light is right. you can check your hair before you leave.

too many vases on the mantel. bouquet of flowers left to wilt in waiting on the dining table. misplaced or unwanted affections or maybe just a case of not enough space or time. two guitars against the fireplace and a film I’d like to watch. my cousin wants to bake and make a soup. I want to fall into the crevasse of the couch. the cat watches the screen and nothing happens til it does.

I think about myself

I think about myself and pick out grey hairs in the mirror while a generation starves to death. for the most part they're left without food or parents by now. I watch them seek shelter in the remains of schools reduced to rubble. the cities are empty shells, demolished by bombs manufactured with the science and material funded by the taxes from my payslip. I think about myself and check my phone while the amputees wait for death on rags in what's left of hospital hallways. there are no more supplies to treat them or any of the massacre survivors. children broadcast the scenes from their phones. doctors can do nothing but starve with those they lack the tools to care for. I think about myself and desperately want more while I witness a holocaust from the comfort of the couch. the people shout for sanctions and the men in suits use big words. screams of children flee another village up in flames. rattle of empty pots against the fence. not enough rice for even half a bowl to feed a family. I think about myself and wonder what it takes to wake me up. the news is bad and my fridge is full but I still ride to the shops for something to do.

something from the fridge

at the witching hour I break through the back door of the last house I called home. creep into the kitchen to steal something from the fridge. my shelf overflows with exotic food I could never buy or justify and I remember I don't live here anymore. a crow cries from the neighbour's roof. I take something from the highest shelf (I can't remember what) and close the door too loud. another opens down the hall just beyond the room I used to pay for. footsteps and my grip on the snack I've stolen and the handle outside won't loosen. I am caught in the act of trespass and robbery from the house I used to live in by a stranger I shared walls with. she yawns at the sight of me, as though I'd been marked in her calendar and broke in later than expected. there's a hug and questions about where I've been and what I need from the house. the hospitality makes as much sense as her response to burglary. escape into the cold, words choked by my embarrassment. I run in bare feet down the pavement through the yard. familiar cat fences fold onto a path sliding down into the garden where my parents raised me, now filled and flowing with water like an ocean. I dive to touch the lawn where they buried the cat and swim round the lemon tree. an assortment of acquaintances call out from the balcony as the water rises. I think I'll reach them and the shed will be a submarine soon but the Russian doll sings and I wake to the cold and more news of bombs dropped on children again.

and the pier

on the bridge we pass the people waving flags for the other side. they shout against our chanting and wave signs that don't make much sense to me or the new friend I've made along the way. I carry my own I drew on each side of the cardboard from the cupboard with the pens my brother stole. 'wake up' and 'stop killing children'. the words are fickle fronts and do little for the anger that boils beneath the mask I bring into the crowd on the streets. the opposition calls us terrorists as we pass them in our thousands. we dwarf them without trying though it doesn't matter: they have the fat men with the weapons and the money on their side. the march leads our chants beyond my map of the city I've seen so far, through the arts precinct, down the boulevard of diplomatic consulates on the tram tracks into the afternoon. residents of apartments we pass take to their balconies and open windows to cheer, hanging flags and banners. others curse the crowd and slam their windows closed. we're too loud and should keep our cries off the streets.

at the end of the road we spill out onto the lawn rolling down to the sand. afternoon sun falls on nets of thousands of kites cast between trees on the breeze. a coloured sheet folded for every child killed with our taxes. we disperse and make our way back to our shells for another week of playing life with our jobs and phones and shopping lists. I bide my time and take the boardwalk round the bay, past children running with their kites still soaring high and the pier we said we'd visit. now I've seen it without trying, silhouettes of strangers walking out into the sea and through the windows in the clouds on the horizon. gentle moving blurs of grey that could be us or anyone. the clouds hang low and I leave them alone. even so far out that's enough magic for me. and it's really nice.

turning rocks

not a thought for anything more than the next step with the music playing. only sprint or try to pick up the pace when sharing the path: the run only matters with someone there to watch me move and maybe overtake. if a tree falls and nobody is there to see etc. I pass the creek on the track between showers. the stream moves slow and nervous, if at all. there are reflections and thoughts to draw from turning rocks. I run through the urge to stop without even taking a picture. the people are watching and I’m making good time. I wish I’d listened to the stones and wonder what they might have said.

days will fall into weeks and soften memory’s edge to sounds more vague and less harsh on the heart. when the sun sets and the clouds roll in nothing is much more than time spent and space filled for a moment. I see you on my phone and in my dreams and monuments are made of nothing more than this: a disordered assortment of moments that have come to pass. they’re always building statues somewhere.

or a platform

it’s all the same in the silence when I wake to more tomorrow. dreams laid to rest inside my head on pillows in an empty bed.

I am where I was

and cannot reach beyond

the space between

belonging

a gap to mind

tomorrow

or a platform I can’t leave

by the edge of the world

in my head

out of touch

far from any track or train

waiting in the clouds for rain

or natural selection

sitting on the boulder

past the point

of resurrection.

beyond/beneath

beyond thinking or beneath? time between sleep lost to white noise and laundry. dreams blur too quick, spoiled by the sun and her demands. you were so much closer til I woke. would our cards be different had I told you something else?

the face of change

reluctant sleeper listens to the shower past his bedtime. from the next room he envies the water running free through the pipes in the wall. no ties or expectation in the face of change forever. no choice but to surrender to the whim of tomorrow in the stream that never stops. you smile outside my window in a dream. I want to see the moment through your eyes and make you breakfast in the morning. we wake alone and out of touch until the rain comes back again.

scenes from a death cafe

the death cafe is hidden through a passage behind the children's corner. I find my way by looking lost enough for library staff to ask if I need help. the room is artificial like an office, decorated with strangers huddled over cups of tea. we sit around grey tables and introduce ourselves. more than half of us have never been before. the man to my left had seen the same flyer on the town hall noticeboard that I kept passing and thinking about. two of the others at our table work in the death industry. on the ride home I wonder how much this impacted our conversation: were we starting with an unfair advantage, or were our thoughts and questions contained by the tools and tricks of those paid to make others make sense of death and dying?

we talk about fear. most of the table is scared of dying. all of us harbour fears of losing people we love. a mother recounts the feeling of tending to her own mother's estate and realising that nobody is left and she is next in line. an analogy of an escalator going nowhere, with nobody left in front. there is talk of losing control before death as our bodies and brains start to let us down (if, of course, we enjoy the privilege of growing old). in my head I connect this loss of control to the way I was born: completely dependent on the care and concern of my parents. we play with the idea of beginning and closing our lives without control until control is written off as an illusion by a death industry expert. I agree with her instantly and laugh at the coiling snake I'd drawn to make sense of a mess we all make without explanation.

questions about rituals and plans. some of us have written wills. others have settled advanced care plans to lighten the load at the end of their life. dependents become responsible for the parents they once depended on. it makes sense to plan ahead and make less work for everyone. the doula doesn't want to be cremated but might be convinced if her ashes could be scattered over all of her favourite places. she should leave behind a treasure map for her children. another lady has written instructions to have her ashes turned into a diamond. we ask what she wants to be done with the diamond. she says it doesn't matter. she won't be around to care.

the cafe closes and we disperse into the dark. I help the doula stack the chairs to prolong going home. she thanks me with a smile that knows I need her faith in the belief that I am kind and care for others. I see my pathetic reflection in the eyes of a stranger: squirming on my knees for validation from the death midwife herself. enough to get me off and out the door into the cold. I catch my breath in the glow of the streetlight and retreat towards the salad in the fridge.

an orange candle

between improvised meetings and emails I pay a stranger to ask about my habits and health. an hour of his time could feed a village of the children starving through the famine on my phone. I watch these demons I feed freely leach away at figures that could do much more for someone else. embarrassed and controlled by strings I’d tied and read as choice. I think of the man on the street wrapped in old jackets. the city ebbs and washes over as he sleeps beside an orange candle in the cold. 

the drivers change at Mitchell St, with one heading home as the other clocks on for the night. an exchange of keys and words I can’t hear beyond the house of cards. the incoming driver is smiling as she boards and locks herself in at the front of the tram. we’re moving again and I hide from the reflection in the window: a stranger to the city and myself. 

between reaching for blankets

between reaching for blankets I stop and try to hear myself. the silence isolates me from the certain refuge of distraction, and it takes a while to hear anything at all. the voice inside is quiet, and doesn't have a lot to say. I want to apologise for hiding and keeping my distance for so long. we both know that to learn and grow we have to come home to each other, though the thought itself is enough to keep me running. I am a stranger to the heart that keeps me moving. is it out of resentment that I neglect myself? perhaps I fear the questions I'll ask if I listen close enough. to reach for more is second nature now. at this point, I'll chase anything to drown out the uncertain loneliness of my own company. I wonder if we still speak the same language. will I ever do the work? I read the news and laugh at the war in my head from the sofa. how much can really matter to a world that doesn't want to know itself?

into scales

something more than words but not enough to write them off. waking from a dream enjoyed but never quite believed in. coil and cave into myself. I hide from the war I thought less about with you, like everything I lack and loath. the snake finds its tail and teeth sink into scales. we end where we begin to wake and do the same again. will we hold a candle to the way this feels tomorrow?

in the fresco

the absurd is a hug waiting on the platform at the end of the line. 'welcome home'. I take his hand to close the openness I can't deny enjoying with your help. his fingers are cold and familiar in a way yours could never be, though I can't say I wanted more than what you offered out of momentary intrigue. was it kindness in the end? when the sanctity of night retracted its claws, and the crows stirred, and the early rays of day colonised the delicate darkness of your room, and you woke to find me wrapped and fragile by your side, did you know you had to run? had you noticed the cracks in the fresco up close as I slept? did the spell break all at once? I start to think in past tense, though you were just around the corner. maybe if we used our words you still could be. maybe if I use my words you are.

the end of days alone

they drop bombs on a school of sleeping children who have lost their homes and parents. I follow along with the headlines (when I want to) between emails. from my desk I listen to the rain fall to soak my washing on the line. watch a little war on my phone to remember nothing matters in a world that won’t wake up. they target four cities at once and I can tune in from the comfort of my phone. I stream the end of days alone and hope you’ll try to reach me soon.

at your door

what was there was always more than enough. there’s no path to knowing what is truly meant by the choice of words we wield to frame the way we feel. make a guessing game of an open book and spiral into doubt. lying on the sand a question sprouts to close a door I never knew had opened. it’s then I see the way you’ve drawn me: a broken toy at once both fragile and desperate for more. he’s pathetic and I am rattled into feeling embarrassed like a child; told off for doing something wrong, going somewhere that I shouldn’t. I laugh in shock at misperception as we watch the clouds roll in. clear skies all confused now, not knowing I know better than to play with hope or want.

left embarrassed by rejection for a prize I never played for. I try to pull some sense from words that won’t align with how we’ve played it out til now. you wait for me to change and watch the skyline of the city from the grass. I wonder what you mean and if I’ll ever take your picture again. we leave things where I could almost swear we’d left the risk of hope or expectation (at your door). a place in a city where we’ve been no matter what’s to come.

finding the stones

follow the lines into the city left behind (for more?) familiar turns and street signs flash at passing headlights. I come crawling back much sooner than I should. clouds close into dark til tomorrow. wrapping myself in the embrace of armour stolen from my brother’s wardrobe I read and think of mystics and the people I admire. the artists talk about knowing themselves. I wonder how they feel about the war. the bus is pulling in now and I’m back where I was: as far from finding the stones as before. grip the moon round my neck and smile into windows between want and all the beds I need to make.

invisible ink

trace the roads on the map with fingers down veins into your hands. listen to the strangers sob down your neck, closer than the horse hanging over shoulders in the blue light of the nightmare at the end of the world. an ankle on an ankle through act ii and we talk without words in the dark. everything is fluid: I reach in the stream and nothing can be held but you are here today and there is always more to come.

a fly in my eye

static hum forever. every empty moment filled with someone else’s will and whim. dreams of drowning and not knowing what to buy for dinner. catch a fly in my eye on the way to the lake round the mall they made out of the jail. my Dad used to lay mousetraps in the cells and round the grounds to pay the bills. now I can buy coffee or a luxury apartment within the same stone walls. does anyone know what happened to the mice?

expectations slide: a report left unread and now we need to wait some more. I open the fridge to news I never asked for. listen to the time drain through the sink until the rain returns. it’s nice to hear your voice again.

then the laundry

eyes open to tomorrow; then the laundry. I throw my clothes in and would join them if only I could fit. dream of a machine to rinse me free of filth and thought. no doubt someone else has wanted this before. patterns on and on and then some more. what a shame we’re all the same beneath the skin.

I clean the kitchen of the house I’m breaking into. press buttons and the machines sing and talk more than the people using them to cook and store the meals they never finish. labels on every other surface and instructions ask too much. a foreign logic in this place to laugh about with someone else. we don’t always need a home: a roof and a bed is more than enough. there is milk in the fridge and dreams wait on clean sheets.

hope is a pill I knew much better than to reach for. regret is the consoling hug that never leaves me waiting. clouds come and roll regardless. I dry teacups and think about you.

the bill and a smile

morbid premonitions of tomorrow til it comes. untrusted others read my memoir and I am hunted down for answers. pitchforks and punches in the side to stir eyes open. another day to sweat through. lady tripping on tram line finds her feet in time to see another Saturday. three hours of men in suits shooting windows and each other. nod off into phantom headrest and the empty spaces. questions for you I cover in old sheets in the attic. the light won’t get in anymore. clear the dishes and nudge me off with the bill and a smile. I free the chair for someone else.

just like that

anticipation sours. I occupy familiar shapes in dread or doubt. read someone else’s nonsense to escape my own. every sentence blurred or muffled by offensive thought or feeling. eyes closed pen on paper and a fragment of a dream: plead the angry man away from the last safe place. neighbour turning pages on the pillow over. dusk birds chirp to the rattle of cutlery in the sink and every sound that isn’t yours. I want to seal the space between with glass. trap the words before they go and play back over everything. timid rain against windows and someone washing dishes in the kitchen. master of none decrees nothing at all now (forever).

current affairs

Tuesday night spits me back into the rhythm of a city I haven't made the time to get to know. the driver and I can't find each other and I'm chasing his directions through the multi-storey carpark. when I find the car he's waiting at the spot where I first called him. apologies and we both blame the maps on our phones. back on the doorstep of the rental in a matter of minutes. no surprises in the kitchen or the letterbox. everything untouched since I left. it feels a little like a break in til the bags are emptied. catch myself slipping into the fractures in the corner of the bathroom mirror. saved by a familiar knock at the door.

the waiting room is a zoo of foreign voices and misguided glares. the receptionist can't hear me answering her questions through the plastic shield. cling to notes for reassured faith in the facts of the story so far, relayed to someone new again. sympathies and cautious promises that she can help me get to where I want to be. injections of rehearsed gratitude on the way out the door to fund her expert validation. alpacas on the television underscored by economists predicting America's collapse and the weather. spell my surname once more for the front desk.

I wait for a friend on the bench in the shadow of Saint George and the dragon at the feet of his horse. phone floods with footage of the flames of another school bombed far away enough to be forgotten with a swipe for something less confronting. another birthday and proposal. someone else's dreams. musical messiah dances for the masses on a table in the square. I've walked through that park between important paintings and the subway to a friend I miss. nostalgia heralds a welcome release from the confines of doubt. your name hangs over my fingertips and I resist while I can. have you listened yet? I want to ask what you think of the song and wonder if you'd dance along when it plays. maybe you'll be out dancing tonight. I envy every eye that gets to see you move. what bliss to want again.

strangers and their languages

Dad takes down the fence in the front yard to use for firewood. he managed the whole thing whilst I was out tying new strings to friends I can’t hold on to. the fence has been there since before they bought the house and most likely predates me. I don’t know what made him want do take it down or how much time he gave the thought, though the sticks and planks never really looked good or did much to keep the rabbits out. I listen to the crackle and crumble of fence posts to coal in the lounge room under absentminded conversation. the pope dies and someone wins the football. Mum’s happy til she hears the news. he used his final sermon to plead for an end to the slaughter of children. I wait for the kettle to boil and heap another spoon of powdered chai.

my bag is packed with clothes I think I’ll want to wear through winter. I dress for the cold and end up shedding layers in the queue. always overwhelmed at the departure gate. it’s the same no matter where I’m going. maybe it’s the way I end up thinking when I’m here. there’s a certain shade or feeling that only seems to surface through my vision when I’m leaving; a filter or bug on the front of the lens that I can’t quite remove or see through. some confused, diluted solution of longing or dread for nothing in particular. with enough thinking I’d find the surface of answers and icebergs I’d rather leave melting for now. no doubt they’ll find me next time. children cry from too long waiting for the hostess to tag their bags. I watch the clock and listen to strangers and their languages I can’t even name.

Picasso etc.

I drive through the cloud to the gallery first thing to beat the traffic. make a beeline down the stairs for the closing show before I’m called back home. follow former footsteps down the asphalt, life size replica of liberty’s armpit where the waterfall once spat out headlines. there are gold plated plastic chairs and paintings of sleeping naked figures and Jesus dining in an inner-Melbourne pub. shelves of misshapen vases with hard to read faces made priceless by their potter’s name. I walk round a deflated military tank I’ve seen in photos and a gallery in Sydney. the leather sculpture is to scale and I wonder what it takes to move something so big and precious. visitors talk and take photos to share with the people on their phones. I buy a postcard from the gift shop to send to somebody on mine. back in the car through the cloud in the blink of a light.

forever in a cup

the owner of my favourite thai place remembers my name and order for the table. she’s fed me there since I was twelve and never fails to make my parents laugh. we demolish the dishes between us with room enough for ice cream on the waterfront: a family ritual unweathered by years of growing pains and independence. same flavour as forever in a cup.

I embrace the familiar with open arms and seek comfort in what could be claustrophobic. infant thoughts and feelings are cradled safely in the blankets on my childhood mattress. take time to introduce my bedroom walls and ceiling to my case of new delusions. I take what I can from fleeting allusions to meaning in dreams I can’t control. sometimes I remember and sometimes it’s all passing water in my hands. the stories mean less every time I try to tell them. I wish we could talk a little more without words.

just sprinkles

in therapy we use metaphors to draw some sense from my confusion. we talk about the body. ‘our main functions’ she explains between analogies ‘are to breathe and reproduce. everything else is just sprinkles.’ it makes enough sense to provoke a spike in nervous thought. ‘the body conserves its resources for these functions, and will do what it must to keep them going.’ I want to ask about long term consequences but can’t stand the thought of answers I don’t want to hear. 

everybody needs their own reason to move. maybe I needed to face what I want and can’t have from the depths of the well that I’ve dug. maybe just a thought of how we could have worked is all I need. it doesn’t matter what you’re doing or if you ever think of me. you’ve done the most already just by being known beyond a cause to check my phone. I wonder what you’re doing without needing confirmation. it’s enough to want to know between the static and the sprinkles.