We all have secrets. Secrets from one another, things we don’t say, say to parents, friends, loved ones. Secrets- wanna hear mine? The word: Resilience. The word: Moron. They strike me. They remind me. They hurt me. Childhood. Games. Speaking it like I knew a thing or two. Hating others, bleeding them to prove points that never scored. Only opening rents in My own heart. Hostage to my memory. Attacking. Social violence. Ransoming off my soul for the saddest reason. At the core the colours of reddish love and passion pass through arteries into every cell, constricting, poisoning and passing blood. Tightly squeezed, head spins, hills become mountains, assailed children, and all the while you nurtured me. This goblin, yellow of fear, cherubian naïveté pink, green of sick and ivy. Purple in my majesty. Departing words ” you still have time”- working at me. LOOK AT THE STARS PAT, look at the stars. Moron, resilience. I’m struck, I’m sorry, I’m sick

Movement, experience. Trauma. Ability. Disability. Scared selfish. Help me hear about how I can run. Not busy, not hollow. Being there and choosing where “there is. Where do you want to be. Who do you wants to be there for and with. Doing what? Human Doing, not human being.

I think without words. I speak them but they are removed from reality. My writing isn’t writing, it’s a genesis, a creation outside of my control, an order or removed signs, letters, spelled and dispelled of meaning. Devoid – the void, employed to make change, in myself and others. The cause emotion on other. Relay ability, relating, relatability, the ‘bobbing your head, nodding, knowing, sharing, appreciating and sharing of a thought. Communicating- priscus, maniac in us, meniscus, knees tremble and we wrestle with the confounding reality of our ghosts. Our nothings, bitter sweet words we waste with want for understanding. In my shoes, shared thought, mind reading, a redescovery of a path, acknowledgement for truth. Context. “Thank you bus driver”. No one wants to take the high side, organic, whored thought, fie disguise my minds eye. Feeling, “a sense”, switch off, shave, save me. Enclaves of smitten roses two in their thorns. Spitting through bloodied cheeks, pouring blood-red, reading into one another. A mix, all petals, ants and aphids looking down. Falling plaster, cracks appearing. An earthquake. The wart of our earth mother, rolling her sore shoulders and we slip down between her bosoms. Spilling out, engulfed in gizzards. A sick spillage without tide. Rasputin holds a sickle moon over her- hawk for a head, feathers plucked, out of cage. Blisters, blood and loss of her, of world of meaning.

Drawing on, mainly maimed.

Mum and misstakes.

The female bumbling fool of addicting gone wrongs. Falling on the stairs and cracking skulls. Skill less attempts at mingling. Coffee

Induced broken powder received. Spend

Spend spend. Buy things that you need- tax back, jobs jobs. Red red. Write worry, stay stuck, grow, old bored, young trauma. Face scars eyes and crows and games and boredom and purposeless fucking talking to no end.

No aim? No

Need no want, just waste and waffle and spend and fear, that it will all amount to nothing. Taking notes, pour out

Time into my skin and my job and my direction isn’t south or east or west or north. Family friends. Troubled approaches. Alone alone alone. Along,

And “it’s a good film” what the fuck? How can this stuff be so easy. Crying mums. Standard. the fear the real ness of effort and breast milk. Mild suffering. Tailored hand bags. The world crumbles- shit actors, tragic wasted want for stretching clothes. Dealing with, good child. Patience, payment, waffle, waiting, effort, walking, running, balls. Slapping, ordeal. Shame of the shackles. Test beeping- pointed pointless time with others. Happily wasted hours talking and tempting fate. Crush me with a truck if you have the fucking need. Expensive weekends- what’s the fucking point? Who pays for what? Who foots the bill? Dream and splurge. I want a computer for work, dry skin, tone, eye contact, manners, sleep, back, apples, hunger, fingers, language, time

Direction winter, sleep, slipping, leave me alone. Spend phone, keys typing, mumble jungle hopeless, share plan, spoil, coldness, vitamin, UV anytime, lunch jawline, clones, coffin nail, sipping, costly, run away, day off, direction, dabbling, hospice, familiarity, foul, foul fidget, figs, fiddle, stranger, the real danger, the warrior, the worrier, the waste, the luck of running into the wrong person, saying the wrong thing, hurting other, killers, hide away. Ovid, read, reckless. Babble, like like like like like like blah, waffle, go grim. Bang tidy, escape, loss, failure, try trial and error, pins, friendship, flake, chocolate, spittle, skittish, cold dangerous, eyes, eats skin, peeling foolish, apple cider, growing pains, lanes change exchange, job, training, positive. Save sipping, slipping, away feedback, loan

Loan, payments, behind territory espionage, well essay, wheel, westward, iceberg, torment, the loaded lever. Lisping cracks of dropped spoons, wattle, spillage, save, snuck, stupid, race. Theft and hitting. Faces frame broken bones and crushed killing steps I wish I wasn’t always stuck. DARK TEAM etc.

I miss mum. She was always there. I wonder what she’d say to me now. I have a few guesses. I’ve been thinking of her, it still makes me turn away, like a brand to the side of the face, my neck twists my head away, strangling away the pulse of my sad heart. Cutting tears in half, squeezing a separation of head and heart. Grief wells below my shoulder line, not atop it like so many, unaccounted Atlas’. My teeth may grit and grind. Loss and death upon my mind. But lessons learned are hard to burn. Farewell mum, forgive this turn. ‘Zooom’ made me think of: Kiit & Baat.

He pinned me down. “Better to ask forgiveness than permission right?” Laughing. I looked at the collar of his ghi, he was stronger than me but I didn’t give up like the rest. I pumped upwards with my hips, created room between us and turned my hips, he clamped down on me again like a mouse trap. But now my arm was free, over and behind his head. He was gagging and tapping before I could wrap my legs around him and try to pull his head off. He sniffed indignantly, like a bull- red eyed and bewildered. We rolled apart and I nodded, almost cheerfully. He straightened up, as I sat back on the mats, soaking up the moment. Victorious. “Nice one”. And that was it.

Pins had followed me everywhere, so far in my short little existence. Diapers, hair, ribbons, tailoring, decorating, fundraising, waking up, sitting down, sewing, broken arms, describing legs and now Judo. The world is pins. All held on a cork board, unaligned agony that needles at us, inside and out. I was in a grade 4 class when Tomas got a pin in his eye, one of the tough kids from sat in his chest and pushed it through the lid of one closed eye. The other rolled about- I remember the noise and the finality of it all. Tomas had joked that the guy couldn’t read. 9year olds can be cruel, even if they don’t know what they’re doing. Tomas took up Judo after that I suppose, after the failed surgery to fix his eye. He looks like a pirate now with his black patch. All he needs now is a parrot and a peg leg. We train sometime at the local gym-

I don’t like how often I wake up with a dead arm, once when I was a teenager I lay on my arm until I got pins and needles, and then i beat off into a sock. Looking back at that sort of stuff is honest and repulsive. I feel like an animal with rolling eyes, I suppose there’s a time and a place. Bedrooms are weird like that.

I’m 30 this year, I have a daughter that I’m scared of because she’s so serious. I used to think that serious people were just malnourished or lost a loved one recently. She’s had none of that, no excuses. “Hi honey, how are you today?” I ask. “Fine father, why do you ask?” She’s 2, why is she questioning me. I look after her, feed and love her but she scares me. She’ll probably move out when she’s 9 and become a prostitute or something. I am afraid of her. Her name is April but I call her Apricot because i like the fruit more than the month. I was born in April, “what happens 9 months before that?” -July I guess…

She used to be here. She used be just here. Let me bathe in that feeling. Not idle: raw, saturating, honest reflecting.

Bitter biting feelings wash over me. The tears of every pram a growth towards accident or dissolution. Unresolved- tragic spew. Speeding agony, pinned. Heart, heavy as shoulders and smile turn tragically down. A comedy, a joke played on me and my own. Ask about names, use your definitions.

“You’re alive and well?”

“I’m alive..”

“Same thing” there’s space for complaints, but it’s all bundled together, sick weird feelings. The taste, organic fizzling vomit rises in a turgid swell.

He was tall and thin. Delicate like a wine glass. Too much Chinese. Hot and hot and slapped and fat. We left it all in the bathroom. No tea, no time. Class creations. Mattress borrowing- the queen is bless.

Like the industry flood. Memory of the forgotten. Don’t worry. Don’t worry, repeat after me. Smearing teardrops into belly button like holes. It’s out, wringing dry.

Our marriage over, cord severed, placated hopeless. Katherine? Sounds like the name of the one we lost. No University will teach this- sort through the pens.

‘It’s 2018’ – I find myself and others using this expression in an exasperated tone to justify just about anything relating to technology and common sense.

Nothing more to report. JFGI