careful/careless

careful.careless the second

2010-09-12T13:07:00.003+10:00

careful careless as we know it is over.

retraining in the art of domestic goddess.

and we come to the main piece of news: peeping tom is gone.

by and large he is gone but he is still at large in the world, of course, somewhere.

may i introduce a new tom, a new romance, a beautiful creature by the name POPEYE.

i am olive oyl. i am deeply true. i am deeply tired. deeply careful, careless, caring.

deeply now.

who are you?

remembrance

2010-06-15T13:25:00.000+10:00

when will i ever learn?

last night after watching a 'moment lost, love lost' film, i became fractious and sore, telling tom:

'tom, i never want to be without you'

'thank you darling' said he

'can't you say it back' said i, and he did.

'i'm looking forward to sitting sidebyside with you on rocking chairs, on our verandah, on our farm.' tom then said.

'how old are we?' i retorted

'seventy?' he replied.

'do you mean that?' (me, running nose)

'of course i do' (tom)

my biggest problem is that i never remember. it's as though each new day needs its own declaration, its own reassurance.

pray that i should soon desist from forgetting, and disallow films from wreaking havoc with the conviction of my own life.

FGM

2010-06-14T12:10:00.000+10:00

if i can get this right, 135million women worldwide are living today with the consequences of female genital mutilation, not to mention the millions of little women enduring procedures in this very moment. a sapling hedonist, i cannot imagine life without a clitoris. cannot imagine having my rosebud sawn off with a razor blade in a dusty paddock, while my mother/sisters/aunties/grandmothers sit on me. can you?

the perpetrators consider that it can be a kind of chastity belt, insofar as to say that the girls are neutered and restitched such that the vaginal opening is taut to the size of a five cent piece (at most) ensuring that any premarital promiscuities are documented in the inevitable tearing of such a tiny orifice. stories abound that the new vagina is barely large enough to piddle through whereby the contents of the bladder sieve through the opening as though an ocean through a nostril.

a french OBGYN and sexual trauma councellor is now building a hospital in west africa to !reverse! the circumcision and resensitise the 'prosthetic' clitoris. the service is free (thank god as the fee would be equivilent to two years wage for some women). incredibly, if you want to help, you can by ADOPTING A CLITORIS!

visit www.clitoraid.org for more information.

tiffs

2010-06-13T17:00:00.001+10:00

having been sufficiently disemboweled by grotesque gutbug am now lying in bed compiling a list of the works in great erotic literary canon; listening to tom screw the linen cupboard (brand new screws); looking forward to celebrating the engagement of florence&walter, let us call them.

according to someone, i am having an emotional affair, but i am absolutely not. insofar as to say that i am not in the least bit interested in this person beyond their capacity to regale the intricacies of a romance-gone-wrong and provide something of an esteem boost at the same time. do not word flirt, do not provide overly intimate details of body, do not even sign off. beside the fact that i am deeply in it with tom, have definitely surpassed the allure of him by now, surely, and certainly don't intend to screw up what little chance i have of breaking fast with tiffy.

oops

2010-06-08T07:07:00.000+10:00

oops. so coming off the contraceptive pill for mental health reasons has turned out to be the best idea yet, the volition has gone, the anxiety has gone; (or perhaps that's lexapro talking). i no longer need to hurl a fan/mug/pot/phone/fist at tom, which believe you me, is darned relief, like an angel swooped down and wee'd over me. and then an evening of passion, an evening of lovely besheer-frock'd groping between tom and i, all the good kisses; and then tom goes and comes all over the womb. fuck.

'i know i shouldn't have, i'm sorry' he said moments after.

'its okay tom' said i 'but i'm going to have to have that pill in the morning, unless you want a child.'

'okay, maybe you should take it' said he 'i'll give you half the cost'

'no you won't' said i, 'you'll give me all of it, you idiot.'

ah tom, any day now.

swingers

2010-06-07T18:05:00.000+10:00

the peeper and i will go to a swingers club on saturday. we are interested in watching a couple make love. different to porn. unlike being the voyeur to one's auto-eroticising partner. unlike being the voyeur to one's self auto eroticising. watching. no touching. no talking. no breathing.

we are going to a place for couples. a full blown sex club. i very much doubt it will be of the calibre glimpsed in say anais's Clichy, however, the novelty of being a sex club virgin will surely make up for the venue's lack of class!

i think it is the beginning of something. the beginning of a beautiful friendship. believe you me, it is not the first time i have thought it. tom is vague, fey about it. i suspect he is either thrilled or disgusted, neither of which particularly bother me. but all i hope is that i'm not disgusted. tis the last thing i expect to be, and i expect to be many things.

until next time, i remain yours faithfully,

careless.x

2010-03-09T08:28:00.000+10:00

a new project is underway. please visit ilovejillaroo@blogspot.com to have a look. it will be fairly scant for sometimes, but with the right amount of patience, we are hopeful for a treat of gargantuan proportions.

yours truly,

careful x

2010-02-13T18:42:00.001+10:00

?lady chatterley's loverstory of okama sutramy secret life?

blogspot goes crazy in the style of late night sunday by the power to troppo di vino and troppo di return button. what ensues however is a something quite housebound, humourful, and potently fortified. thank you blogspot.

2010-02-12T17:34:00.001+10:00

lolita

2010-02-12T17:33:00.000+10:00

lady chatterley's lover

story of o

kama sutra

my secret life

2010-02-12T17:19:00.000+10:00

delta of venus

tropic of capricorn

tropic of cancer

fanny hill

story of the eye

120 days of sodom

torture garden

bride stripped bare

diary of a chambermaid

searching for the important canonical works, what i'm really finding is that, amazingly, they were a modest cohort, modestly immodest.

2010-02-04T22:31:00.000+10:00

the gols rosey complexion suggests immortality, and behaves thus. the gols ghost rose up as aforetomentioned, and peeper was repentant. gol forgave as gol always does, peeper renegged as peeper always does. Gol is now assuming habitat inside the lumpy stained nest of mrs m. hubbard, during the reprieve. What gol really wonders is what all the reasons were. the outline is vague, the colouring vaguer still. All that tends to happen is that gol more and more frequently falls from nest to nest. Gol misses peeper badly. It is the nature of gol's ghost, to mourne her reeper. It is nature.

2010-01-25T15:47:00.001+10:00

After the gol's souls exploded unto the dirt, her ghost rose up with a rosey complexion. Her ghost was such that the peeper thought her recovered. He put his hand out to her and said smuggly, i'm sorry gol, you can come back and make the nest again. Firstly, the gol had already dropped all of the good twigs, somewhere betwixt the perch and the fall, they had flang everywhich way. Secondly, doesn't a peeper know, that once you kick a gol off of the perch and explode all of her souls on the dirt that you can't put her back together again?

2010-01-21T17:34:00.001+10:00

one time there was a girl and one time there was a peeper. they met they wooed they loved they lilted. they leaned to and fro together as though they were two insects, to and fro. one day the gorl and the peeper decided to build a nest together. The girl went off to find the twigs, she found many many good twigs. It took her a lot of time and strength, she was only one girl, and she was very happy about the nest. the girl carried the twigs back to the peeper and was ready to make the nest. When she got there the peeper said sorry and kicked her off the perch and onto the ground where she exploded all her souls all over the dirt. Poor girl.

phoney gonna get er

2009-08-18T17:31:00.000+10:00

730 bouquiniste, 830 smart lady, 930 sweat. my smart lady has figured it all out, and i can't say i'm pleased. apparently i'm a phoney. i already knew. playing tricks on the ones who love me, making gifts for the ones who don't. apparently tom is one who don't. but i'm praying for us to evolve or for my smart lady to be wrong.

i have reduced to the level of jarred minced garlic. i can't stand the smell of secondhand garlic under fingernails next day,

two angels are at war, it aint very good.

sophia's gonna put her diamond on.

i'm gonna take a gift for tom's mother.

then i'm goinna put on this terribly over the top nighty.

snowballing

2009-08-17T20:31:00.000+10:00

hello world, alot has happened mind you. i have become a firefly in a jar, shooting off this gentle glare. tom has become cross with me because i use sex as a way to feel close with him. this confuses me and what i'm really wondering is, is that just? i know i use it, but the thing is, it's use it or lose it. there is no other way in times like these.

my friend saint charles says my friend sophia would make a cute skeleton, and i can see her point. we were nude together yesterday, rubbing vanilla and orange blossom oil onto eachothers backs and butts. 'butt time' we called it. we love eachother, and it is true.

a lady that i admire/think is beautiful has written a book. it is more enigmatic than i could ever imagine. i can't believe it. i want to ask her for dinner, but i'm nervous. she is the kind of lady who you love from across the street/room. but it is flexible.

on the weekend i snowballed tom. he came in my mouth and then i french kissed him and we shared the jus. he didn't like it. he looked stricken, so i let him give it back to me after a while and then i drank it. he didn't like it. somehow i thought it would be terribly intimate, but all it was was wrong.

i have to wonder sometimes whether the whole thing isn't wrong.

martian enough

2009-05-24T21:51:00.000+10:00

it is hard to know what to say in these times. i am, dare i say it, lonely; terribly lonely. today after making love quite tenderly indeed, i said 'hey...i love you' to tom. 'i love you too' he said. and i said thank you afterward, which i regret. but i was grateful.

i've realized that i can't possibly believe any declaration of love unless it is unceasing, tireless. i've realized that it is like rote learning. repeating lines over and over until they cannot be forgot.

my martian is cross with me. i am cross with my martian. i love her. and yet she doesn't permit me to behave thus. when i punched tom, i was desperate for someone to love me enough, to say 'that was naughty' and so i thought, i should love my martian enough, to say, what you're doing is naughty'. she didnt think so.

i don't know what is enough really, it never is enough, and then it is too much.

tired/true of heart

2009-05-23T19:19:00.000+10:00

thank goodness, for a moment all was lost. i am feeling new things with tom. obviously fear, neglect, lust, fear. since i punched him i have been petrified. of my self. it is all new now, it is all new from here. it is all new post rebirth. since i haven't the faintest what i could do, i haven' t the faintest what i am like.

we are still going to the island. i am petrified of that also. i was mopey today, i said take me to bed tom. i was crying. i said i want to feel close to you tom. he said it was the wrong reason, but i didnt think so. i took off all my clothes, and then he yelled at me. i started; mortified. quickly i scooped up my clothes and ran to the bathroom. he knocked, can you let me in. go away i said. he wouldnt let me leave. he's strange how he does that, snaps, and then quite literally fills with remorse. i suppose it means he has a temper too. at least we are both wild fires. it helps i suppose, wild fires, and tired, true of heart as dave eggers might say.

broke my camel's back

2009-05-16T20:01:00.000+10:00

so i did it. i snapped. tom was too foreign, and i couldn't bare it, i hit him quite roughly, slapped him across the face quite hard, fell to the floor, kicking his legs. afterwards i couldn't believe it, had begged his forgiveness, i'm so terribly sorry, oh your face, your beautiful face, what happened i lost my mind... that sort of thing.

now he has gone, presumably to get dinner, but it has been a long time. perhaps he's doing a runner. but i'm in his home, so it seems unlikely.

if i could only get better. if i could only try to trust myself, i'm desperately afraid of my memory.

i finally did it, broke my camel's back. and i have never been so ashamed.

love in love

2009-05-10T18:16:00.001+10:00

he's taking me to an island. i feel fictional, a poof of a girl, a whisp of a thing. incidentally, i couldn't stand it if someone did me a character assassination. yet i assassinate all the while. tom. i assassinated him last night. i was lurid/hyper with grief. he doesn't want me around. it's heartbreaking, but i just had to know it, i asked him, don't you love me at all? i mean don't you ever look at me and think 'oo, i love her'? yes, he said. i said: tom, its possible i'm not in love with you either, but i do love you very much. i think if you love me at all you should tell me. the telling is imperative.

i love you. he whispered. i really do.

again; a poof of a girl, literally a whisp, literally a ghost. a moment of pure just heaven.
thank you so much i whispered. thank you so much. i kept saying it. thank you so much. and obviously, i love you too.

frenzy/slut folder

2009-04-30T12:29:00.000+10:00

what's interesting is that i am either all things or none. ecstatic or murderous. i'm not too worried. tom bought me seven tiny coloured presents, tiny tiny knickers. what i'm really wondering is how he can't see how actually horrid they look on me. i mean they aren't proportional at all. but he was very swollen, so i just let him have it.

the other night after dinner i wanted a naughty dessert pour le corps (my corps), he said no i have things to do and i said okay, eventually. it was fine. i'm not crazy like i was. but i found a folder accidentally on his computer called 'sluts'. images of women with truly hideous jewel boxes, and truly hideous faces. all the images filed on the night of the dinner. i mean everyone looks at porn, i mean i do it all the time. but he cuts me. i've got things to do, i've got to go compile a file of whore pictures.

he cuts me. but i'm not crazy like i was. i'm on the pills. the anti crazy. the neutralizers. the nothing makers.

bi polar

2009-04-02T18:51:00.000+10:00

hello all i am little bit bi polar. i am very unreasonable. push people to end of tether. breaking point. camel's back. i push people to camel's back. it is compulsive though you wouldn't know it. i write 'i'm sorry forgive me' love from handful. that's my nickname; handful.

peeping tom has the most divine penis. we have become very fond of each other. at least i hope it's mutual, of course it is. he is so tough sometimes. but he is awake which is a miracle.

tom has made some rules, which scare the willies out of me, it all ends with rules, it all begins to end with rules. i hate it. i hate him sometimes. the opposite of love is indifference. the opposite of love is indifference. the opposite of love is laying in this bed reading this book that i have read three other times and waiting until i can't stand him any longer.

oh lord. don't let me be misunderstood. i'm just a soul who's intentions are good...but am i? i am little bit bi polar after all.

abstinence

2009-02-23T11:06:00.001+10:00

the word of the week is abstinence. it's difficult. keeping clear of loved ones, lovers, luxuries, and lunacy, hopefully. after a long hike yesterday i came home to two-fruits for dinner, alain de botton for the bedtime lullaby, four extra pillows for comfort. in the name of what? weakness to be sure. kicking the habit of necessity.
after all is said and done however, the morning after goes thus: naughty french toast with butterscotch sauce. alone in the home for some hours before some pigeon wees on my shoulder, payback for the toast i think. i don't know what i ever did.
tom is tetchy/taut/transparent. all i hope for is to end up like alice, miraculously cured somehow of the need to devote. miraculously cured somehow of the lovesickness.
i'll begin the collectathon, little vials of sperm, little vials of insect. it'll prove worthy somehow.
let it all be as it should. for no longer i long for the unlikely. i haven't the strength for it any longer.

val's day

2009-02-16T07:51:00.000+10:00

valentines day. i gave to my love (tom) a blue stegosaurus and a magnet(boy and girl riding big hare). i put this collar on dinosaur reading 'be my valentine?', the purpose of its brevity no less to inspire ease than to feign my own easy nonchalance. tom's gift was traditional, flowers in melbourne, flowers in brisbane, cheeky black nighties, his card read 'my dearest, come home soon, miss you'. he didn say love you, as expected etc, as promised, he didnt say it. he said other beauties, but the absence of the declaration ultimate is exacerbated isnt it, on this putrid awkward day.
we made love (fucked to be sure) i cant come easily these days because i'm absolutely dying of thirst, and i can hardly walk to fetch a drink.

regardless, valentines day aside (the fucker), i am renewed, spritely and saucy as it were, i'm starving too. its all starvation in a way isn't it.

(not) seamless

2009-01-15T21:32:00.000+10:00

king of my heart
(my honey)
if it is possible
you are more golden
you are more golden than possibility
you are the possibility of gold
you are forever young
forever new, forever.
it is like piecing together a gist of you
only to find a new gist every time
we are harmonious siblings i should say,
we are fair harmonious.
keepers of the nigh,
my nigh your nigh.
but the scarf around my neck?
i know what you mean,
but its just to cover the seam,
i am not seamless,
thought i like to pretend i am,
(not) seamless
seem seamless.

catastrophe?

2008-12-27T10:07:00.000+10:00

my sophia says there's an orange cat that sits in the mouth of our street, guarding the way, keeping watch, the night poster, graveyard shifter. it's so that he can let in neptune warriors. it's a pretty garden beyond the orange cat, so that's why he's so discerning. it is a pretty garden. it's a rainforest full of moss, turkey mounds, tea party, and you can sometimes see a boys and girls swimming nude in cement pond. the pond has red lights under the water, and believe me its eerie when you're nude in there and there's a red tinge to everything, it's like swimming in a pond of blood. tom and i swam in the blood pond, it was a fantasy of ours.
what else can i say? i'm weak as water, weak and wondrous, cantankerous, anxious, tearful, careless. its catastrophic. but the thing about the future is that its a totally empty space. i'm at least curious about what might happen.

silly scrumptious

2008-12-24T17:19:00.000+10:00

today i read this truly wicked thing, on a wicked van. it said 'i certainly don't trust something that bleeds for five days straight and doesn't die'. it's about women isn't it, about menstruation? about that blood. but it's dirty blood isn't it, it's a home burnt down, a tsunami gone right through a nearly-nest. this kind of cramp is like having all your organs pushed inside your bladder, its like putting fergus in a baggie, and having to wait until he pops the seams before you can close it.

second person again... interesting.

i have a crush on an older woman.
but i also have a crush on an older man.

i tasted my own pussy/vagina the other day. sorry every one. but its true. there comes a point where you're just not squeemish any longer, you're brazen, nearly vulgar. you tell ex boyfriends about anal sex when they ask you. i should say: i tell them. i tell them about it. i'm vulgar.

but its okay. my fernlike friend said yesterday 'there's this side of anon that is just a little bit slutty, i've discovered that she's just a little bit slutty.' and i said 'you know i think everyone is if they let themselves be.' and i do think so. i think i'm slutty deep down. and i think you slutty.

so it's christmas eve and i'm about to visit peeping tom. we aren't going to get spicey i suspect but i mean, i could be wrong.

loose/lacquered

2008-11-26T10:51:00.000+10:00

to dear peep. there is this place i've made for you; it's a treehouse, this big treehouse in missouri, and i want you to go there in a dream sometime. i've put these streamers on the banisters, i've put this pot on the stove, its a lacquered bowl, do you love that? the lacquered bowl? it was only a dollar, but i hope you won't sell it for a profit because lacquered bowls are hard to come by. somebody's keen for a lacquered bowl, someone somewhere. but anyway, it's your treehouse, and it's your bowl.

i've just noticed that you just like me to keep you company while you run your errands. play your games, wash your briefs, your bowls. it's true that i can't be pleased. and i can't be helped. but i can't be quiet either. you're a naughty man in many ways, and i'm only glad i've seen it now.

and to make matters worse i just lied to the happy hippies on the bridge. i did a fist in the air and hoorayed about a big lie i told. i don't know myself. peep calls me loose. and certainly it is not the kind one might think. he calls me loose insofar as to say he calls me flimsy; indulgent; irresponsible. and i suppose i am. and firstly he probably doesn't understand, but secondly i really don't need him to.

peeping paradox

2008-11-25T14:15:00.000+10:00

the thing is, when you sneak into a boy's bed (i should say a man's bed), when it is dark and there is no toilet paper but he's got chocolate, even when you have a key and a drawer and a toothbrush and personal cereal, you start to feel like an intruder; a crim; a burgler (spelling alert). and then when the boy/man comes home, and you're in bed and he comes over with all this whiskey on his breath, but he smells like a druglord at the neck and he grabs you like he might break you (because he's randy and drunk), you start to feel like a whore.

i don't really ever write like this; in this semi- this-equals-this manner; in this second-person voice. but i think it's because i'm writing about a stranger. i'm writing about you, who is me, but who is you.

it strikes me that i am potentially frightened of peeping tom; not of his temper but of his frost. even though we made love this morning, i feel foreign to him. he calls 'love-making' 'fucking' and i usually like it; usually.

i've been collecting dead creatures and bagging them. they're specimens, but sometime i'm going to make them larger than they should be. there's yellow moth, hairy moth, and queen ant. there's also giant body-less butterfly, and hard beetle.

peeping tom is a hard beetle. he's like a boiled egg and this pathetic wriggling sperm too. he's the ultimate paradox. we are all the paradox. the boiled egg and the pathetic sperm.

noble sperm and egg

2008-11-06T22:22:00.000+10:00

this is where it's at. i'm not wearing a bra. i want to put poo in a cake. to be more specific i want to put dry dog poo in a cupcake (pink). i had dinner with my stepmother. we talked about menopause.

to say it plainly, i think i am insatiable. also, i am incapable.

also. i have this terrible fear.
also. i want to take a vacation in tom's underarm.
also. i want to ignore tom.
also. i want to starve.

to say it plainly. i'm a mess. but to say it plainly also, it already knew it.
where is tom?
the fucker.
i nearly fainted the other day. tom had just crunched my neck.
i actually have a friend called tom. he's a pet or angel. either way, i think he'd be alarmed to know that i use his name as a psuedonym for my lover.

i am just a sperm and an egg. it pays to remember it. i'm just a sperm and egg. noble sperm, noble egg. doing their job. loving eachother. noble sperm and egg.

untitled (our skin)

2008-10-27T10:47:00.000+10:00

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?

2008-10-27T10:44:00.000+10:00

limp delicious

2008-10-24T10:06:00.000+10:00

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

2008-10-21T11:52:00.000+10:00

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

2008-10-17T11:11:00.000+10:00

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

2008-10-16T12:56:00.000+10:00

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

2008-10-14T09:50:00.000+10:00

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

2008-10-13T08:22:00.000+10:00

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

2008-10-10T11:40:00.000+10:00

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

2008-10-09T10:18:00.000+10:00

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

2008-10-08T08:58:00.000+10:00

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

2008-10-07T13:33:00.000+10:00

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

2008-10-06T09:16:00.000+10:00

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

2008-10-05T13:32:00.000+10:00

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)

2008-10-05T10:14:00.000+10:00

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)

2008-10-03T13:47:00.000+10:00

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.

untitled/creamy sailboat

2008-09-28T18:01:00.000+10:00

handkerchief. i am just looking at mine. it needs a wash, urgently. it invites a blow dryly though it is marked with old blows. i feel a kind of perversion in making the white lace discoloured. i've got a pair of lace knickers in my bag, they're not marked. infact they are so clean they smell like glue. they're creamy, my friend once called me that; creamy. i guess i'm quite creamy.

i've drawn myself a stencil of a tattoo on the innerside of my wrist, its a sail boat, simple shapes; halfcircle, stick, triangle. it means 'freedom', toward the light, and death. or so i've heard. its for peeping tom, if i ever get it. because he released me, in many ways, and i should remember it.

so my girl slash martian came today. we ate sugar, sitting on a sun-bleached rug by the river. i've told her some dirty secrets, and she's told me some. but she's essentially caked in sadness, i long to de-cake her.

number one reason to live: the possiblity of unending sex and chocolate. i've got to learn more about sex first.

symmetry

2008-09-27T17:38:00.000+10:00

oh jesus hell, if there is something that gets you flushed its sex with peeping tom at midday.

full and empty

2008-09-26T07:40:00.000+10:00

i've been thirsty. there doesn't seem a reason for it, but i have. my mouth is always gooey, overcompensating. such is life i suppose, an over compensating gooey mouth.

but that is neither here nor there.

peeping tom is here and there, cold and hot, coming and going. he is and he's not, it seems. he's special and ordinary. the other day i told him i was full and empty. he said that it couldnt be, little does he know that he is just the same, full and empty.

in the interest of saving time, i've got the sun coming at me through a bitumen. it is only a mesh curtain in reality, but i can still feel my forhead singing.

i have been watching 'last tango in paris'. i think i'm developing rather a crush on bertolucci.

this is superbly cathartic. i'm going for some poach'ds now.

untitled (for marion)

2008-09-23T17:23:00.000+10:00

i don't know what this is like. i just had a frosty fruit because it feels like summer in the start of spring, and there's a wet dog smell. the jar i bought has got some dried stuff in, like quandongs (actually fifty bucks per kilo, but free where only i know where) and a dry moth, a couple of berries from the coffee/chocolate bush, some dried babybreath, and an origami star that says 'cunt' in pink pen.

the other thing is i have this friend who might be a lover/girl/mouse/martian, but maybe she'll see my terrible prose and feel compelled to contribute her terrific prose. it delights, like wagging school, or my lover's black underarm hair, or thinking about breakfast.

it's my most devious pleasure at the moment to wear really long skirts and no knickers. probably because the breeze is nice. but more probably because i'm waiting for my peeping tom.

i've got to go and be with peeping tom. i'm tom's fool, and it's something of a delight.

ps: marion i love you.