When you come undone.

I was at preachers.
Some parents had let their kids alone to play their favourite game “dead in a coffin”.
the child at play, by my ear as I sat-
he offered me candy. I refused, but said “thanks”,
He kept playing, then put one of his green sherbert sugar candies in my lap.
I popped it in my mouth, laughing.
Still reading Bukowski’s postal efforts.
Drenched he was, struggling with brilliant syntax which I would mimmic all the next few days.

out of context but the words are here:

‘They slip down, down down they slip, down around the cheeks of your ass, a wet rim of a thing held up by the crotch of your pants.’

The story went on but now I asked the kid.
“what flavour is that candy, do you reckon?
“The young kid said mint” I was dubious and tried the higher path.
“Do you know mint is a plant?”
He said “yes”.

I sat with my legs kicked out, one up on a chair. One knee cocked with the foot planted flat. The kid reacted to my next question, which was banal and a “which” question. Probably, asking which was his preference of flavour.
he jumped down from his coffin, from just behind my head-
next to my ear, he jumped down. skirted around me, carefree.
I was forgotten. He touched my knee, jumped over my leg and walked to play with his sister.
Not another care my way.
A lolly, an answer and a denial of what we come to understand personal space to be.

It was nice.

Tonight I asked dad as he pissed in the front garden.
“How’s the new car?”
He replied “Its OK”
I pushed: “just OK?”
“yeah”, he said.

I wanted him to bring up that it wasn’t done, to talk while in a urinal.
I had planned to tell him the whole world was a urinal.
But it never works out.

And i’m told crows in Canada sound different to crows in Australia.
Imagine waking up to that. murder.

18th Feb, 2017. 19:53
Dates. Dates.
Laughter, dates.
older women, women the same age.
“tiny furry sharks”

Armani Code -Scent trials.

The name of the girl at Savoy Baths is : Yeeva? Eva?
One of the guys in the change room left his underpants.
I didn’t steal the dressing gown, even though the massage cost $100.

31st of Jan
Affecting mental activity, behavior, or perception, as a mood-altering drug.

As a drug: tranquilizer, sedative, or antidepressant.

Imagine the surrender before the moment of drowning.
The moment you suck in water. Hoping for air.
Bubbles float past your eyes.
as if from detergent.
you perceive rainbows.
You snort. sweet, salty, maybe bloody.
You vomit water, choke almost.
calmly you re-inhale.
Lungs spasm in.
eyes shutting.
nose honking in a fever
a new colour.
a haze, foreign pitch.
feelings of numbness.
teeth and toes forgotten.
heart, once racing, slows.
A calm.
The forgetfulness.
Passing over you.
over, over.
no more heaving.
just a ripple of memory.
a fallen spark in a big
dark pool.

-A sore sword placebo-

There I worked as a chef.
well, a cook.
Not a cook even.
A —
vegetable cutter.
In a sub–terranean
The fluorescent lights,
never stopped flickering

The halogen lights.
of “day”,(now) my office.
the neon lights (later)nights

colourful circus.

and the sea level’s rising.
Co2 levels rising.
ability to discuss, dropping.
love shopping
bags; dropping.

my erection over my own death is rising.

mouth, temples, wrists, smiling
noose gaping.

pills or gun?

a building.
dropping dropping plate.
dropping heart–rate.

-Honest report-

maybe this is too complicated.
or simple.
hate other writers you said.
Can’t share.
wont share.
thursday thursday personal thursday.
light hearted? grim, sorrow soul.
private posturing battles.
anxiety and neurosis.
poetry and people and my honesty.
damn my want to impress.
what will I get. nothing probably.
a pat on the head.
pat. Shit.
cows, cud, chewing, critics.
worry, lashing out.
over sharing, oversharing.
honest reactions.
the depths and the shallowness of the word.
my words.
banal, cold recycled coke cans.
references and code that nobody will understand.
like Shakespeare’s rambling use of metaphor.
over analysis.
traps to incite a feeling! or reaction.
the food in my belly is a storm and my caring,
my understanding.
my fear.
a smear of an idea.
not even rattling. The sound is new.
new and unintelligible.
People tell me they want to listen to my mind.
if I read my own work its nonsense.
not something anyone will ever get good at.
its just different.
How could I be confident.
the material is known.
Like the sponge I am.
Once squeezed,
expect red.

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