Mettle may warp
Teeth may blunt
Backs may bend and
handle may break.
Hearts remember. Dianne Margaret Foley.
Holding hands when we cross the road.
Dancing in the rain at the shack.
Avocado or garlic. Cheese and tomato. Vegemite – All for toast.
Race horses; the hand-rolled cigarette.
Chocolate money & Mangoes in our stockings.
Bubble stuff, paw-paw and sparklers.
Television and goon.
Late night low heat cooked bacon.
Sleeping on the couch.
Games of cards, pool, board games.
Terrible painting and sad simple poetry.
Writing and reading.
Shopping for the paper, tally-hos, milk and bread.
4th of May 1960 –> 17th December 2016
He was a sad young man. Clinging to each moment as is it should be his last.
Why was he so alone? What had cemented this feeling of isolation.
Afraid to reach out, should the strangers about him all possess daggers to open further wounds. The woods of his mind, hardened blocks of understanding, ran rings around his eyes. Deep dark, heavy set and somber looks asked of others and themselves: why does it hurt? What did I do to feel so trodden. Sandy eyed, with wrinkles and folden skin. In this trial I feel of one point of a triangle. Not knowing which type. Aware, viewing the past point and another far off but not holding assured the distance and difference between either.
366 days of suicide.
It was a leap year. Tinsel’s birthdday, he’d joke that he was only a quarter of his age and always rounded doewn.
In that case he was probably something. stretching out in bed he smoke lovingly, sarcastic lines of sombody else to the girl he liked. They’d laugh and canoodle into the afternoons. The expectaion he placed on himself were unbrideled by her company.
His convictions to stay to keep her. They he;d, chatting and lying to one another each and in return. No telemarketer, issue or act of good could interrupt the coupling.
A week of ths, they held fast together.
Clining like cats sometimes, or a dog on a rock in the storm. Each the others rock. Scraching and finding painful grips at times. But still they held firm. It felt like bliss. A birthday or christmas come easrly for the timelless Tinsel.
Travelling was a pass-time, of reading and writing. A priviliege blessedeexploration into the unknown. Lasting not perhaps. Definitely not, like it or not he’d move about in the daylight, head held high – happy- habitually meeting the gaze of glace of others (I amm all of you) he’d thinkkk.
He’d sicken himself over intellectualization. Moingering fears birthed of the foresight and the the furhure Banal, beige, grey scaled reality. Instead he’d hold his breath. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. Mish his fications of future towards the ‘read- death’. The moment. IOlivia my love. A vein would pop up, his blood pressue shot a pulse in his eyes. Connceting – he’d call it. UP to date uptakeen, updated life intinerary, betther than books of plans. This’d make him smile. Some would notice, other would speak; of hthis he’d be careful. Csreful times to share. To shar wa naiieve to give freely was starrirring ino the sun. Blindingly bright. The mouth would taste of steak. Honest blessing to other’s of similar intent. Language spokn from Iris and pupil each.
To study one’s inner, to share a primative closeness of exchange always trumped any words he’d sometimes think. But still he’d smole. A knowing smile. Smile’s sharing bbecauase he could see the spark, evil and good alike in the greedy gremlin folks. He’d wander past, lost in the looks. Past loves and the company of footfals clapping him on his way. Pinching his attention a woman of indian persuasion jumped. I mean jumped, into his pathand put a fins silver chain over his neck.
He said nothing. only bowing and owing her, a nothing, a solitary smile nodding sultry to her. Heads didn’t touch in the real. Central to the binding, shing chain was a diamond perhaps. Encrusedd shapely mirror. But dark, as if of Onyx. He looked up at her, as his head was tilted down. On par with her, levelling as he’d usually stand aover. But from this he was unobtrusive, furtive he stepped around here.
A car from the late 90’s with its front body torn up and off; looking mangling inaninto disrepaied putted past. A fresh coat of mud and dustt covering its surviving bodywork.
Sel walked on a few steps and then checked. He turned on his heels and retraced his steps. Finding the woman sittinga small alcove. A half pitched tent. Dishevelled and luxxurious wwas the upkeeps simplicity of goods. He patted her lighly on the upper most part of her west arm/ She looked up and he placed carefully and knowlingly a note into her palm/ Then squeezing gently her index finger which she had outstetched at him. Fixing her with his largwe odd, doeful eyes. Strangely he his baelful disposition, was washed away as he bent and kissed her wrinkeled gypsy cheel. Regaining his heels and sighing out his nose he turned onsighinoug out his nose he turned once again. Both ther cultures had given in. Submitting to the performative nautre.
Sel was giddy and light headed
A light head is a dumb heart his mother had quated him once. She was an old battle axe of a woman. Matron of the mobile heart, in her company it was seatbelts of death.
Write drunk – Edit Sober.
The birds knew logic, maths, the stars geometry science, poetrry and design. Their work preeminated Home’s illiad. They had an innate sense of direction and justice. Stronger links to nature and judgement of the truth of simple nother than any homing pigeoon. They had a fine sense of aart. Through and through, education, done and done that’s what they had had. The’d been the sort that other birds sought out, and what they had had in exchange was to be teased. Got got by others was the problem of coming clean. Fine sensibilites of being a bird indeed. Drawing, carving, jokes. performance, cartoons and creativity were just a part of the enless forte of achievement. They were boundlessly creative the did it all; before the simpsons did it. Homer Simpson was a character created by the birds first.
They woke me up. I don’t know why I’m supposed to host I suppos. to eto entertain .I have so much going on and its just anxiety but. maybe i’ll become less bleak if I sleep in, sleep it off. Haven’t I done enoughThere’s something in language when I ask something;:would you be kind enough to gem me a glass of water please
‘How rude’ I thought.
That sort of thinkg. Accidental cheapshots, haircuts, tattoos minor annoyances. Eyecontact. Is it truly that you come all the way here without a goal of aim? WHY ARE YOU HERE.
Rest, relax sleep in, see the city. Let me study, leave me alone, doo youer own thing, contribute buildy p.
You say I look like this, you say I look like that. High beam. objeectificed surface level. WHY ARE YOU EHRE?
Have a cold, I wat to introduce you to people and show you things, but you restrict and restrain me.
WHY ARE YOU HERE.
Blue beared lover.
Truth is madness.
Bills book of FISH.
John Barthes “fun House”
honours wise, apply the roe
asl difficult quesitons
Even if youstart,
mid year we are usually-
dancing with the stars.
That’s a cool idead, grounding reality blurred.
Claristy and consisousness
Fime image in our heads.
Nothing essmed contrived.
Spirited away: no face
passage that drags onNed explanation
coping with explanation
the layered reading
Read on face value
Vampire & warewold
Hinting at a vamp,
I have a dawing- not good.
Wendigo – Native.
Vague cannibal thing.
Transformation, pass it on.
I don’t need to know.
Monnster guessing games.
Kelly link supernatureal.
I don’t write funny/
READERS ARE DUCKLINGS
THE PARICK COINCIDENCE
CONVENTIONS OF IMPRINTING
THAT BASTARD PUNK!
WANTS TO TRY OUT OR MY ZOO?!
NOT TODAY YOU BANAL CACTUS.
The notion of putting your head inhand in the air. DIVINE IDEAS EUREKA
The pleasure of having your hand up.
Erect. I want a clear mirror.
I don’t want to read the ripples.
Who are these characters? –
We arre weeds in theis story/
We need to be belded. Drawing drinking, growing, cultivated and shown.
Or else out needs and desires will become overgrown. we will become stranger.
You get to tell,
your own story. Colours. Importance. The scientist. Political.