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.