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.