abstinence

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

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

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?

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.