catastrophe?

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

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

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

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

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)

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.

untitled/creamy sailboat

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

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

full and empty

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)

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.