untitled (our skin)

we are true of heart, my honey
we are true (timid)
we are tired
tired of being
(together apart)
(today tomorrow)
you are tomorrow
you are always and never
always a measure of madness
a measure of madness
(my love your love)
(our love)
the face of our love,
it is smooth,
how it is smooth,
like a ghost face
the skin below your eyes,
the skin below your eyes,
the skin
(your skin)
(my skin)
our skin?

limp delicious

tom called early this morning, i was awake, but my voice was a new-born, quivering, wretched. to tell the truth i am centred, if hollow. i suppose it is easier to find a centre in an empty space, the space being that small bit more percievable in the context of its nothingness. so i am centred and hollow; a kind of frigid; a kind of existential funky. i find myself with many more edges. when peeping tom puts a hand on my belly, a nail on my nipple, a tongue in my ear, i feel i am this three-d prism, four-d even, five-d; i have million edges. i can't tell if he's joking when he says 'you're very beautiful'. but for the most part i feel him like an armour.

i am barren, essentially, barren and beat. but i don't care. it's a perfect measure of calm and chaos. i am limp. he is limp. and he is hard. we are limp together. limp delicious.

rapunzel and plumber's crack

p.t (that's peeping tom) is going to climb up my three metre exterior wall, into the window, or he'll throw pebbles, or i'll throw down a rope made of hair, or i'll listen for his whisper. the other day p.t put a chocolate biscuit in my nostril, i put one in his plumber's crack and then i ate it. i'm no longer his pet, we are both pets. i've got to work on growing up, save for wrestling and sweet teeth.

there were some friends in a room yesterday, a collective of timid souls, eating fritters and jam. one friend was high as kite, one friend was giddy.

i've narrowed down my list of great loves to four. it seems modest. peeping tom is on the list, but i won't mention the others.

exuent omnes

sencha and incense from hometown japan,
scan of dry flower
our duet hair-bag (black and yellow)
two buck chair with bum grease
chocolate paddlepop vs chocolate billabong
baggy eyes
wedgie on purpose
sweet sweat, the king of my jungle
sleep in the nude
cucoon mango
impaled mango

exeunt omnes?

bigger hurt smaller hurt

the sailboat is becoming real. it's a timid little raft, it's timid on my wrist. i need it badly. i think i want to make a bigger hurt to diminish a smaller hurt. i think it will hurt. but i think i will cry, i will faint, tumble in rapture.

sperm + egg

on the deck, yesterday, with wine and the boys, with the girl next door (who i have this beady-eyed crush on) and mosquitos. i got this strange scarification on my back, little squares. while i was boiling water the boys and girl-next-door speculated; 'is from rough sex' 'is from crocheted blankey'. girl-next-door made me feel like the sexy woman for an instant when she said 'oh your beautiful bits, i like your cleavage.'

how delicious when the girl you're crushing on likes your cleavage.

when all is said and done i can't think of anything i'd rather do than be covered; in kisses, in chocolate, in blanket, in shivers, in body. covered.

when all is said and done one leaves one's prose for the sake of one's brooches. mine are rice-filled felt pods with yellow dinosaur spikes. they are sperms and eggs that say 'i am sperm + egg'. maybe it's trivial, but it keeps me amused in the jewellery studio.

ode to peeping tom

how the skin beneath your eyes is humble, honey, how it is hopeful, and yet hard.

i should call this page 'ode to peeping tom'.

sometimes tom crunches down on my neck, on my collar bones, on my face. we have been crying all weekend, crying together and apart. he crunched my neck a little, and he kissed all of my sailboats. i carved them in my arm yesterday, in a frenzy. and i picked his nose and pulled his armpits, and wrestled with his small self.

oh tom.

balance/imbalance

yesterday i made tom cry for half an hour or more. he was gunky, claggy, i was transfixed by the sorrow on his face, i sucked his beads again. i marvelled at myself; at my stillness. i was so still. it was because finally i found out what i had always suspected; unrequitedness. not so extreme, i should say, not so extreme. perhaps i should say an imbalance, a balance, an imbalance, yes.

he said he couldn't bare to lose me, and i said he wasn't losing me, but he had to let me be little bit sad for a while. i'm sure the imbalance can be weathered. love is narcissistic afterall. i'm sure i can love him purely, in a single direction; for some time at least.

meanwhile, i have this big bow on my head. i think it's because i've made of myself a gift. i've given myself to myself or to tom, or something, i've let myself be perfectly natural. i've lain it all on the line, and in the end, it is much less gross than i had imagined. i'm all bare, but gosh it's peaceful. it's peaceful, and i can see it lasting, and that's all you can really want for isn't it, for something to last...

a gentle, epiphany

my love, i have made a discovery,
while i was sleeping, it was,
it was a gentle, epiphany, while i was
stuck in a dream.
i can remember you, softly, your soft eyes, your prickles,
your soft wrist, your hard lips, cracked, beautiful.
and when i opened my eyes, there was a swan,
and when i opened the swan, there was a crow,
and when i opened the crow, there was a river,
and when i opened the river, there was a pebble, still.
and when i opened the pebble, there was i, and when i opened i,
there was you.
I found inside of i, inside of a pebble, inside of a river, inside of a crow,
inside of a swan, a you.
it's sad because when i opened the you, i didn't find a me.
i found the swan again.

mother of pearl 2

my life is very much like a river. i'm like the rocks, i think; the pebbles. i'm just resting on the river bed, maybe i wriggle abit with the tide, or if a crab comes under me, but i'm pretty much stationery and the water just swooshes on past. the water is life and i'm the pebbles; i just sit in the middle of life and let it all swoosh past. it's sad sometimes.

i can remember myself as a young girl, i used to long for the day when i was grown and could rent my own porn from the video shop. it was a reason to live back then. i should add it to my current (frugal) list of reasons to live, being that i still haven't rented my own porn from the video shop. only 'rude' arthouse films.

mother of pearl 2.

resignation

i have been writing my letter of resignation to peeping tom; it's a putrid activity. my ear is sore, it might be blood coming out, but since i can't see round there, i can't say for sure. it's reminding me of ivor cutler, and he's reminding me of the boy down the street (who likes politics) (who i used to love).

when i ate the pawpaw earlier, and i was scraping out the seeds, i thought they were like little sperm. or massive ball-shaped sperm. they were really pleasant inside my mouth.

to be sure, i won't give tom the resignation. but to be sure, drafting a resignation is as good as resigning.

resigning from romance. it's putrid. i'd rather sieve my own vomit.

i figure tom just likes to fall in love with my ghost. he talks to my ghost. he told me. he talks to my ghost and he doesn't talk to me. he seems to think we can live off of the idea of eachother. he's an idiot.

i had breakfast with my lesbian aunt and she said she's mourning the loss of the penis. i told her she could have a penis too. she said she might give boys another try.

mother of pearl.

the criminal

i think tom's going to africa. i think he says it to hurt me. he might be ashamed of himself if he had any real emotive capabilities except greed/sloth/lust. my love is something i cannot easily contain. it was anais who said it. but it is true. i wrote all of this on a grid, wanting to make of the grid a jail and put tom in there to repent.

to make of love a euphemism. it makes of you a pet. my pet. you can do anything you want. including crimes. it strikes me that your self worth might depend on the annihilation of others.

do you see how vulnerable i am? do you see how careful you must be tom?

your neglect makes me write cruel things. i hate you for that.

on another note, as soon as i get the sand between my buttocks i'll be home, it'll be like reincarnation.

crane orgy

while i am gone, i suspect that the cranes are making love on the kitchen bench. they're all in a deep bowl, a deep bowl of crane orgy, but i don't know how they manage, insofar as they are all made from paper, and all sexless.

bless'd beads (courtesy peeping tom)

the upholsterer's pin was rather a premonition, alarmingly, though it wasn't me. peeping tom is vulnerable now, and so am i. it's quite delicious/terrifying.

i used to have this friend name of norman. he was a real old fellow and when he felt his time was coming he all of a sudden needed piano lessons, so i gave them him. we put some postits on the keys but often he was too frail to play. and in the end he died, but he was playing hands together by then, bless him. when i tell this to peeping tom he cries and i suck the beads off of his cheeks. i could suck peeping tom's beads all day.

i sincerely hope he isn't plotting my assassination. there's always that fear isn't there.

the fucker (i love)

damn. bold? damn. today i have broken all of the rules; threw tantrum, ate choc-coated maccas, did no homework, said too many apologies.

in my mind i am stronger than this. peeping tom didn't notice how sound a sibling i was. all he did was eat two-minute noodles in front of the anime. i just want the opportunity to say 'flick off' to peeping tom, 'flick off, you fucker'.

if i had an upholsterer's pin i'd pierce his forskin.

despite all his redundancy i actually love him.

the trouble is that there's a black hole in my heart. it's full of tar or caffeine or squid ink or pen ink or black sauce. it's essentially toxic, the hole. it's right where my gearbox is. i wish peeping tom was mechanic, while he fixes my black hole/mental illness, i'd pinch his screwdrivers, the fucker. or i'd pinch his toosh.