A riddle in four syllables.
At least, a riddle to her mind.
To everyone else it is pungent
It reeks of pale vomit and poisonous liquids,
In little vials arranged according to the laws of the anti-chance.

Her chemise tattered, in pieces around her.
Like a flailing Cinderella with tears that burn and choke her.

Humour exists,
In this.

Aunty John, et al.
Women with beards and fingers knitted tight and dry
Spilling over a page.
And her face in blue and red smudges.
Collect, collate, collage.
Write it all down, these lists.

She won’t remember in the morning,
This mourning of mine.

Something broke when she woke.
It wasn't the kettle,
Or her shoelace,
Or even an ant's back under her shoe, as she trod through the grass.
It was more subtle,
Invisible, almost, to the untrained eye.
It lay under her skin, all day
Like a rock formation submerged in the sea
That only just made the waves above it differ from their usual pattern.
A subtle, quiet swirling.
Just enough to disturb a boat.
To make a sailor go "oh!".
To make a bitter taste in the back of her throat.

The smell of new life and Bryce Courtney.
No chalk for the wicked: asthma, asmol;
No 'stomping.'

Molasses and peanut brittle.
To line his throat.
Like treasure in little piles
Next to The Remote.

No reception.
Everyone to their posts.
No disruptions unless it's an emergency...

(She sat on the ground of her bedroom with her lip bleeding:
A teller of lies, a holder of sticky tape,
Exactly what he had warned against.)

Never could tell whether the slow eyelids were deliberate,
Patronizing, her patron.
Pat, pat. Their affection shown
In awkward little movements like dolls.

And the mirror. The looking glass.
The object of ridicule.
"Yes, you still exist."
How could he stand to see such femininity, such frailty, such frivolty!

Soon her hands were tough and lacerated.
Silver hooks and bony mouths, gaping mechanically
As round and perfect as a pencil sharpener.

Let's go visit today.

It is twilight.

Through that window, just there, I stand and press my nose against the glass and create little clouds of fog- not my breath, but, the frost of another world.

It is snowing there, for them! And people are walking around with their fingers as stiff as pencils.

But then, then I inhale. The world, my world, is clear. I see bricks and weed and concrete, crawling up like a tumor to meet the sky- purple evaporating into blue, all governed by the master moon.

Tonight he is fat and stern and not to be eaten.
He is not for the cold people.

Preheat oven. Slice, chop, blink.
She turns and her apron whirls. What beauty lies in this kitchen sink!
Sitting motionless and humming in the shower
Is the product of her twelve hour labour.
Another one is also still, waiting patiently, blindly,
In a dark room.
And then the third; tiny, twirling
Her curls make a picture as she wraps herself arms around a Dadda's legs.
They are not so long.
He is deaf- drowning, frowning
In the pixels that rub and pat his head:
Loud!
So loud no one can hear the other little noises,
The little choices
That she is making in the kitchen.
Like, how much gas?
Or, what colour blankets should she shove under the door?
And, who will make the eggs tomorrow?

Knees and toes, knees and toes.
Ich. Ich. Ich.
My truth, your tooth.
Let's return to the rubric.
Catch up with Kubrick.
Then: Sleep this old sleep without a name.
You make me, make me, make me hungry again.

Deliver us.

We do the sabre dance, the sabre dance
The silver sticks, hot, like fried death
And us- doing the sabre dance with baited breath

Me and mine, amputated
Your face emancipated
All because of the sabre dance

Now everything’s coming apart! Witch! Witch!
We itch and cry-
But it’s so good to kick you, to kick you
Whilst the dance whirls on

Anzac day honour and people made of lists, so sick
Of spinning on tip toes and this- our day old homage
To the sabre

There’s glitter in your eyes but we can’t stop
There’s a fire in your bed but we can’t stop
There’s noise everywhere but we
Can’t stop for a fire, a noise, a glitter-glit glitter

Guilty litter
Surrounds us while we do the sabre dance, the sabre dance, the sabre dance.

Waking up from your sleep.

You have learnt to make no fuss.
You have learnt not to wake us.

Crumpet flesh and itchy tags
The heater filling up the room like sunrise
The sun cries, it hears
The gravity building up in your jaw.

And a kitty scan in the morning
Meow meow meow.

You told me it wont hurt
Your hair spilling around your neck
And down the sides of the machine:
Don’t move, don’t move.

Leftovers
Built up, like a…like a…

Chew, ma.
Tuts and tsks and nods and clicks
She is doing it right!
Jaw moves up and down in proper omnivorical fashion

Although:
No more dope, hard toffee or smokes
No intense laughter, no blow jobs

Say yes to subtlety, ambiguity
Our Mona Lisa smiles.

And soup.

Dreamt: 17.7.07

A series of boisterous events occurred that have presently escaped from my memory like water. I tried to grasp them, but they slipped and slid through my hands, as if they never really existed at all.

I pick everything up and find myself in a large factory, with no visible windows, but rather little pigeon-hole sized mail boxes.

My aunty runs up to me, excited, almost panting, and hands me a tiny dog. It is no larger than my two hands clasped together. It is black and white and lethargic. I am left standing in the factory with the animal and decide to place it in one of the pigeon holes, as the factory is in fact my house- and we are not allowed pets. I look into the hole and view the puppy, curled up in the corner of the dark box and only the white fur truly visible- it is in the shape of a tree, without leaves.

I decide to leave it there and walk away, but with each step I take my shoes make whining dog sounds, like death.

I look down and realise that I am not wearing shoes but two little dogs strapped to each foot.

Ah. So.
Did you think it was an invitation to a primary school reunion?
A notification for a 6 year missing library book?
A letter of blackmail from an unsettled feud with a teacher?
No.
Just an exercise of my fascination with the postal system.
And really, I don’t have anything brilliant or exciting to tell you, except,
Welcome to my blog,
And well, I…um,
I love you.

Dreamt: 16.7.07

I was lying on the floor of my old bedroom, it was night. Glow in the dark stickers of planets and stars were illuminating the room like aurora borealis, I was feeling quiet and sinking.

Then i was under my bed.

The sheets puffed up, and suddenly I was terrified because it was actually World War II. I was not alone in the bedroom, many many people were also lying on the floor, although I couldnt make out their faces. The stickers that were so bright were not stickers but bombs exploding in some sort of battle, but it was dead silent in my room except for the sound of footsteps.

The door opened and let more light in, and I realised that I was the only alive person, all the others were dead. Then I became aware that the Fuhrer himself had entered my room, surveying the dead, his footsteps loud and unsettling. He walked over to the bed, where I was lying beneath and sat down, sighed, spoke German.

Then he opened the window and leapt out. I stood up, quietly, slowly and looked outside to where he had gone and was aware of some sort of carnival being held at the netball courts, many children were present. I couldnt see where Hitler had gone but felt like I should warn the people.

I climbed out the window but fell, because a great pit had been dug out just outside my house. I fell down about 2 metres, into the dirt cave and saw that a band was playing, teenage boys, a drummer, guitarists, singer.

I asked them if they had seen Hitler but they said "no."

She sat on the floor of the little shop, hands gnarled and twisted and aching, surrounded by smiling bouquets. Her eyes nodded and let the flowers stand to attention, seeping their perfume into her skin and clothes.

A curious rose broke out of an arrangment and curled over to where she lay sleeping. Winding it's stem around her arm, it began to stroke her neck with it's velvet head.

"Are you happy?" it whispered into her ear. It could see the little parts of her that she put into every bouquet she made, an eyelash, a fingerprint, a tone of voice. The rose could also see that no one had ever brought her flowers and laughed pretentiously, albeit nervously, at this irony.

It wound itself around her neck and chest now, angrily, bitter, passionately (roses cannot do anything without passion, you see) until it had entwined itself into her skin like a trashy tattoo.

There were too many people sitting on the bench.
But it was also a nice number.
All old, squashed, turning to each other and smiling, plastic shopping bags brushing against their paper-skinned legs.
Their voices rose and fell uneven like water, waiting...just waiting.

Waiting until they could be squashed somewhere else, in line with the tree roots.

Dreamt: 15.7.07

So. I was going to work, quite ordinarily. But instead of my usual daily requirements of stirring pots of risotto and shining glass, I was expected to walk neck-deep into these newly installed suspended mud pits.

Once I was inside the pit I realised I was not alone- several full grown pigs were in there too, obscured by the mud, but warm and wriggling and brushing against my flesh as gently as excited children might. My duty, I soon realised, was to supervise the pigs while they ate the salads from my work.

The whole time I was thinking that I liked doing this better than counting change out to pretentious bastards with dyed moustaches or making sandwiches for perfume-sopping women who only eat turkey, mayonaise and salt.

After the pigs had finished eating, I was lowered, and allowed to go home. I drove home, but seated myself in the passenger seat, for reasons quite unbeknownst to me. I got to my house and had a shower but it felt like it went on for about an hour, or more.

When I was finished I emerged and was standing in front of a giant mirror, taking up a whole wall, and I noticed an unusual water bubble had grown on my head.

I asked my mother, and she told me it was a 'brain bubble'.

Envying the turtle and the red beanie: recurring thoughts during a day of nothing.
Cyclical, cynical.
Even the food came back.

We were all just trying to feel something that day, I think.
My family has never been fond of Christmas cake.
Most of the bonbons failed to explode when we pulled them; perhaps it was for the best- Nanna believed it frightened her dogs.
Here sits Poppy- head of the table.
Although the beer isn't his.
He has enough poison inside without alcohol.
His lungs weep black and are so tight that not even god could squeak through.

We went to wooli and the water tasted like blood.



Everyone agreed that the amusement gained from viewing the face of this trailer for four hours was most likely the highlight of the whole holiday.

My mum doesn't like it when I hang the clothes out because I take too long.
I don't use enough pegs and it ends up all messy like flags in a circus.
When i was little I would wrap the wet sheets around my body and be a bird.

Today when I took this photo, the sky was endless, and a ghost in the breeze played with our purple sheets.

Narcisstic moth on bathroom mirror.

Because, if I were a moth I would stare at myself all day too.

Dreamt: 14.7.07

The child walked steadily, unamused. His hand in mine, he could have been a grown man. But then, we spied a river and trees that looked like pictures.

“Look!” he cried, and his hand slipped from mine. Tottering forward, I could merely watch as he drew closer to the swampy bank of the river, it’s foul smell rising like steam- I could almost see it.

The boy looked back at me over his shoulder, squishing up his cheeks like playdough.

I blinked, and he was gone.

The obsessive woman beside me stopped breathing and chanted “He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.”

But then he emerged, from the watery muck, pushing himself upwards like a ruddy little soldier. I went to him. He sat, distanced, unperturbed, on the edge of the river, his eyes as unstaring as a fishes’ and his skin waxy and grey.

Quite suddenly, and with unexexpected vigour, he leant over and stroked my hair, and said “I have no need of anyone anymore.” When he leant back I put my hand to my head and was not very surprised to find that I no longer had hair, but scales, lined up like little smooth jewels across my scalp.