Here I am. Here.
I am doubling up. Writing my old writing.
Travel Writing – first person prose accounts of adventure undertaken.
‘boat turn backs, unwillingness to settle’.
Travel -> danger etmology travail, french. Hard grind work.
It is a sad fact that most travell writing is limp, regurgitated pap. Awful phrases from the travel writer’s book of cliches.
‘Contravenes our human rights, the broad understanding that we should be able to seek asylum – not ingrained in international law’.
This is not a question of Justice. deterrance.
Michel Butor – Because travel is to read, to write is also to travel.
“How will you go about finding that thing in Nature of which is totall unknown to you” – Plato the Meno.
Nathan Englander – Don’t write what you know.
The Albatross – Bruce Chatwin.
Philanthropical – Parataxis Listing, Poetic.
The appropriation of these faces in a crowd petals faceless on a black bough.
Marooned. Respond – to this man. The legitimatizing what should only be endured.
The premise of Australia’s policy. Deterrence.
The Problem we should be faced.
The channels for asylum. Precarious VISAS.
Legal avenues. Primary decision makers.
Endorse. door. Access. Hope. Manus. Turn backs- procrastination.
Cum cum cum. Black blood, sweat and tears of sudden sunscreen.
real risks. Academic outsider risk of hope and health. Flesh broken ridden hopeless. functional tragedy. Srilanka. Defunct process. Customs vessel.
Some of those people.
harm harm harm. Flee to elsewhere. Recognition. 1951 conventions.
On board these naval ships wouldn’t be particularly thorough.
run run run.
Bastard. Long term regional response. Turnbacks.
The Blackthorn Door //
Economical use of facts.
Visions of reality.
sovereignty – supreme power and authority to govern oneself (one’s state).
It was a leap year. Sel’s birthday. He was stretched out on the bed. Idle and thinking if he had the energy to give anything. Sarcastic lines ebbed towards his lips.
It was so so hot. Electricity pulsed in the streets, if anything caught fire – it would all go up he thought. He was convinced, to stay to keep her close something had to be done. He felt thrown over, laid out on the bed. Overwhelming, he was seeking something. There would be cost for this way of thinking. In one financial year, maintaining this onshore detention of his feelings was equivalent to his headache.
All the balancing, the flatness of his heartbeat. Deathly links, liking his isolated sweats. A flood of sweat like many many people.
If only she were here, like a buoy we would cling to her. Holding fast, salt stricken.. Oh he wanted to hear from her. Clinging like cats to one another like they so often did. Nails, flesh ripped. Please don’t let me go, please don’t let me go, please don’t let me go.
He crawled under his blanket. Tampering with movement, stirred the room. The heat of the sunlight seemed to have noise. Dust in the sun rays blinked from behind the kicked curtain. Weakness flooded in, mistakes reeled from the night before – he was lobbied by his sensibilities. The night before, now gone. A few thousand faces. Peering, peeking. Eyes arriving on his skin as he swung on the high beam. Slippery wrists, writ on his face the platonic freedom, the right to fall or fight. Somersaulting head over heel up and down cobbled streets.
His regional collaboration, bursting heart. He was delirous. where was she?
Shifting Sel thought of explorations of the unknown. How do you think that! Where are our current problems located in our bodies? I need a just distribution – I need to stay in bed. Flatten out. Like pizza bread.
A break. A hole in his stomach rumbled. Like thunder though his body, he was empty – the line was drawn through him. The principle of his being, wrung dry. Grasping like dried bands. An apricot or rubber band.
Where was the current state of public opinion on his issue, the matter at hand.
And where was she?
He couldn’t move around in this daylight. The principle becomes meaningliss. He needed the weather to be responsive to how he felt. Popular public opinion – informed. Western Vagina. Habitually meeting the gaze or glance of others. He’d sicken himself with resources, the wrap up. time. thoughts. piano. That was Associate Klaus. Boundaries, papspear. Papsmear. Smart, smeared. episodes. Chat. game. lost benefits.
He’d sicken himself overintellectualisation mongering fears birthed of fore sight and the vista future. Banal. be anal. annals of time. cucumber. peeled. smooth. righteous. eous. yes. yes yes yes. Fuck me. Em. empty. emily gay. gym guy. grey golden god of gumtree. sell me sel that pussy. fuck me, tight hold me tightly. cold lips and hot cats. I was sweating, fevered. only waking to the moment when it was finally happening. I was thinking baout work. I was thinking baout all the things I could say, but swining from moment to moment was sick sad danger. Lust pissed hottly from my flesh. She tore at me. I sucked her neck; trying to pull the arteries from her neck and into my mouth. Undermined, pushed to the wall – deep. Shuddering push push pushing grinding rapid flexible back. 1991, never felt so good. Buy all of me. Take it all the love shudder. love the moment in time, effecting me. Upset, my eyes roll, legs would buckle.
fuuuuh fuckkk. yes—
And it held fast. a pleasure.
Saturday paper piece. dripping with semen. I hurt her. She stole all of me. I think it was love. My heart slowed. My dick dipped, ‘do not droop’.
I wanted to go again. Has the economics changed>? Are you on your period?
Bigger and spread out, i provided it all.
the bedroom infrastructure, international standards.
She wasn’t a prostitute, I think its relevant. She wasn’t a minority, she was small. petite (not french). I was alleviated. So stressed before. The quake, all the popualtion errupting from my physique. Popualtion 2.4z kicked back, she turned and kissed me with her cold lips. I fell back, starting to drift. She dripped on me. My own juices, hot. foaming texture. Listing sexual cliches, I stayed quiet. Finally absent from the moment again.
I thought of testers at the weekened market. I was flat. rolling-pinned. She perched prone over me, my bird. Eating small portions, wanting, waiting watching. Wraith of ghost licorice. She was sweet and natural. no process expertly fucking me to death. My crotch inflated. The higher prices, oh wahat policy we must overlook. I was hard.
Turning over in my mind, eyes smiling. I exhaled. Stomach flattening. Finding my qualifying angle. This angel, feasting on me. My energy. Blood rushing, body blowing, bowling, sick ruckless. reedling, turmoil, birds on the street screeching. Mezcal- leaking from me hottly foaming again. What a short lived built. My butt sank as if in sand. the beach without water, i was dry. Nothing left to supply.
I held my breath mix my fixations of future towards the real-death. The moment it really happened. A vein would pop up; as would his blood pressure. Connecting – he’d call it. Up to date, uptaken, updated life itinerry better than books or plans. This’d make him smile. Some would notice, others would speak of this he’d be careful.
To share was neievee, to give freely was starring into the sun. Blindlingly bright. New housing? Girl fuck me to death – please. my house, my style. Where are you? Bliss. Bills you prick. Bills. Fuck you.
Better than books of plans, this’d make him smile. Some would notice, others would spea; of this he’d be careful.
To share to share….
Honest blessing to other’s of similar intent INDEED. Language spoken from iris and pupil each. To study ones inner, to share a primative closeness of exchange always trumped any words he’d sometimes think. But still he’d smile.
Knowing smils, sharingg because e could see the spark, evil and good alike into the greedy gremiln folks. He’d wander past (beaurocratics) lost in their looks.
Past loves and the companyof footfalls, clapping him on his way. Pinching his attention. A woman of Italian decent. Commuting into his head and heart. His body a physical manifestation of the sould. Negative. Negative negative. He took another bump of greed. Gearing himself up. Shuddering, another orgasm of a different kind. The sweats took over, a flood of being alone in colour. Senses overloaded. Bliss jumping and crawling like a spider covered in hair. Abdomen drawn gently over him. Clambering hotness. His lips were clipping. He fell into slumber, less clear than ever. Such was the downward assertion of pressure. A hawk of the 1980’s, swooping. His patch.