Jeezing geeking and geezing myself again. Hating and humming. Worried and wishing. Don’t kiss the glass. I see you run to the DJ booth- I talk of old sadness and the lake where I draw my sadness. Sometimes I feel that the tap is dry. 

I live for her, love her, she’s gone. Silence and violence and chapped lips. Whisper rasping words on the wind. Carried haphazardly. Hap for chance. Not happy. Rolling dice on the cliff face. To read you’ve got to drop. And out of it we do. Out place, sphere of being and presence. Our perspective- the future playing back to us what we expect. Selfishness. Women. 

AndCuts only me. It’s only me. Ignored bored and sorted. Hardly organised. Old blood misgivings and unforgiving and the stir crazy midday drunkardness of lonely-sum people. Hooks in, beyond language “how nice it all is”…

Yes yes me- Ill, vom. No vim or vigorous. You touch me on the dance floor I’d never touch another person unless asked or told. Told by whom: we are after all impressionable beings. And my conflict lays and lies with me. Treacle into my ears.

Lost love I repeat. I loved you. I love you. I hate you I’ll never forgive. Both told, both felt and both forgiven feelings over time. Wouldn’t it be great to build up these emotions. While we all seem to create networks to fit in, operate and fuck. And that passes the time. Until we die. More and

More and

More. Abhorrence. Uncomfort. No

Love lost. Only questions of truth and love and something to make it all… Make it all bareable. 

And there they were, the words of stranger.
Outside my door, walking tours. Fem.
I know of her. And that’s OK.
Its OK. It is OK. I keep saying it.
About different things. In life there is only difference.
Distinguished. Playful, deference.
No gravity, its all lost. No suction or sound.
Captivated and lost in bright eyes.
I splash water in my eyes.
A passing truck. Trust me, too quick to blink.
and the cafe vibe at the end of the day when there is no outside world to come and take the rubbish away. I pay for my tea. Honey and Milk.
Two apples before, one in each hand. Plucking at the petals of a flower.
She… me. She… not.
And its all knots. And I lose interest or is it interested?
And it comes pouring out of me. Asking all these questions and HOBART.
and there he goes past the window.
and the taboos of it all, the exhaustion of a large group.
and the comic relief.
energy and the acceptance of death and the scattergory of musical chairs and wondering at how we can just sit there alone. And I wonder, sadly at how once upon a time I was stranded in my own uncomfortability. And I shared that with everyone. And I need to check in and and and and and andf and and fuck.

Cheers. Cheese Chewing gum.
All I need is an name, date, age and tombstone.
I’ll come up with their story.
The sweet relief of something real. I’ll come up with a story for them.
One that you will be sorry and happy to read.
And you ask me.
Ask aks sak ska. scare me.
How are you. And I look you in your beautiful eyes and I wonder.
“Can you hear the rain?”
Pouring is the wrong word.
Crashing on corrugated iron.
Upside down inverted bubble. As if giant fish swam upside down and exhaled tiny water balloons. It all comes crashing down to earth. House, dogs, cats, umbrellas, lovers, cars, grass – all washed clean.

The late invitation to dinner, is like an electric piano on your spine.
Teeth like white notes, gaps of black.
The fillings of that smile, animated.
And how you’re coming across- always taboo.
I feel wild, aware, thoughtful.
Yellow shirt yellow shirt. Yellow shirt.
And I look you in your painted eyes.
Still wet from artists description. Tears maybe.
You sneeze and the nights glitter puffs into the air.
A ghostly cloud glimmers.
Pup pup. is the sound of our minds disconnecting and powering down.
Like a tomb from the archive, dusted of by the strong blown wind.
Chest compressing, eyes squinting.
Wild marbles of the mind,
my corporate ball clicker.
And the reading starts again, and its my move.
Choices are all mine.
How do you feel about this loss?
Lets walk in the cold and wonder why our voices change when we get sick.
Is it the interplay of ears and mouth made tones or are our vocal chords actually influenced. It all leaks over and the stars of the city light up the night. The rain comes down and washes, refreshes everything.
you get it in summer but even in the winter there’s a need.
Don’t get pneumonia red-heads.
Read heady books under heavy sheets.
Hot hot waterbottles and slippers. Silk body next to mine.
Sexy body. Ravenous. Pulling nails from my hand with desire,
gravity boundless and the habitual change that comes over me.
People are afraid of change.
I’m scared, scared of so much. The grey hair, the loss, the choice the patience the squeezing, claustrophobia. Ick.
And rock climbing, exhiliration.
Bambi and the broken leg.
Throwing white roses in the air and worrying about the girl that lost her father the week before. Grace- I don’t know you that well.
But I feel your pain. But mine is numb like winter passed.
Like a brain as cold as the feet. My logic as cracked as my lips.
Parched. Un-patchable. Launching confrontationally into question after question. What could they possibly ask me that I don’t already know?
Useless interactions. Let me ask you a million questions. Don’t you dare gather yourself. If you want to play this game then prepare to lose.
You know me too much, enough. When we’re quiet in eachother’s company then we will know death. Mine and yours. A romantic coupling of stolen tongues.

White blood cells, wearing the skins of their victims.
Glands will tell you that they always rememeber.
Swollen egos and to original success of chemical warfare.
Your own sickness, illness, disiese ridden flesh is the successful warfare of race and weakness. Unaccustomed, promise. Perfect blackened eyes.
The whole world is made light of.
You don’t know what my laughter means.
Let me laugh at me, utter reaction.
You’re emotion is my laughter.
Stunning. Welcome and final.
How is the rain now?
Tears tear hearts. Acid drops burn, while bread-knives pulp the fiction of breastplate. Breakable broken china at a greek wedding means that you’ll take my talking hand for all of time and love me as your own. A child. A being of illicit sickness, desire and privilege. My anger, rage, danger of emotion: jealousy and self righteous frigidness. Ice Kind. Your kinglyness. Bow and Bow and Bow.
The onomatopoeia of brilliance. Like the fall of coins to deaf ears.
And we honour the dead with the miss-spelling of name and broken jokes.
I cope. An manage.
Readings readings.
Writing’s writing.
Tongues eye
Lips poise.
Cracked visage.
All that in a yellow shirt, yellow shirt. yellow shirt.
sex. sex. sex.
beer. beer. beer.
fuck me. fuck me. fuck me.

I’m a fish. You’re a fish. He’s not a fish.
we’re all fish. He’s my space cowboy.
I’m a lost fish.
“i’m going to go over here”
You’re a goldfish.
We’re having an after party. You should come.
He’s gone. I’m uncomfortable.

Its been two weeks since I wrote.
I’ve been recording things but I feel the reverse pull of time.
Exhausted by the future.
Drained by the cold.
Fearful of what’s coming.
Taken by my aging bones.
I want to be bold
and share some thoughts.
Wishing to be brilliant.
Wanting recognition. Waste and wine and anger boil and fizz in my hands and feet. Like pin pricks and the works of others. What can I take for better understanding of the current world. Take it all out of context.
“I was with someone”
“Your book is ready”
“Learning French/Look at flights”
“Hemorrhaging money”
“Rock climbing”
“Tight spaces”
“Adventure, ice skating, overland track, run, walk, chill”
timing, timing is everything.
And the marathon at the end of this month. Only a week away, scares me so.
and the timeline, the suffering and fear that I have now.
The loss of energy the worries. The writer in me that I want to focus on.
To write ecologically unsound, unsavory, afraid, worrying thoughts down.
Doing things in my spare time, that’s the worry.
Plenty of time for that young man.
What’s the fear? What’s the rush, why the crutch?
Don’t use your education that way – focus focus.

And the ship shuddered.
Like floating icecubes in a drink, jumbled and marching. The propeller it was said had broken off. So there we were. Set adrift.

And Wendi is here. I have only fear, to say hello and shake hands and make her felt welcome. But things are more complicated… Must they be? We say one thing and mean another. I desire the unrecompensable. I cannot ask for one element to be returned. I cannot write a letter than cannot be read.
And you’re lost to me. The changing of wood by fire. The burning of oil for light and fumes. The magic of white light and rainbows. The healing property. The majesty. We are so insignificant over this distance. The power of light over the capabilities of humans. What can you do? What can I do. What can we do? And we are not ‘We’ at all. And the chances to meet up grow slim. And the slippery surface that’s our icy reflection when next we skate is blue, dry lipped and ghostly. I don’t know how to go forward without the fear of falling right down. And all I think of in the morning is food, just to get me through. Sleeping in, worrying, fearing, hurting, angst.

And I wait for a girl. I spend time, but my heart might not be in it. I’m not happy where I am. So I am dangerously frail. Lost to the people that I might love. Lost to myself. Afraid of the first step from bed. Ice on the flat of my foot. Hands blotched. And MONA. the art of it all. To be anti-art. You are hailed by everything you know and do. You become the books you read, the things you do and I fear i’m doing nothing worthy. Not one thing.

“I bump my head when i’m angry”

Diane’s Funeral:
Down to the river to pray

(Alison Krause)
Father Along

(Ellen Mcilwaine)
Show some emotion

(Joan armatrading)

I rose early and went. Tasmanian beach; no waves roll in. Only a quiet lapping at the shores. Squeaky sand. Paddling out, thinking Harold Holst. The cold is like being squeezed between giant hands. I exhale pins and close my eyes. A few bubbles swirling from my nose, up and out. A fattening. My heart beat is sharp, pressuring tears. No toes to feel. My open eyes are below it all. The sun rises now. now light streams. Silver gloss. Thoughts chaining. Just sparks flittering. Above currents. Streaming, streaming. Below the surface, prickled eyes perceive flits of white. Circles hollowed out. Ashtray eyes. Flat light, disperse silk. Saturating skin. Sight as sense is static. White mixes with a wash of red and blue. 
Suddenly all of a sudden.

broken nails, pregnancy scares.
The enjoyment of he exhale over the inhale.

I told her:
Your hands are nothing,
compared to the ocean.

My heart is a mirror.
your heart is a mirror?
Narcissus looks into your heart for all of time.
My grubby fingers stain.
You put your hands in my mouth,
I taste salt
Salt and citrus.

MOGWAI = ANGUISH QUENCHED WITH ZENITH

While for others it was standing at the gate of hell.
in your monday worst.

And she, she.
She beat me at pool.
Didn’t like coup.
Love speed and sex and showers.

And she said one or two unique things:
I CAN ONLY CREATE ART AFTER MIDNIGHT.
“I’m sorry, i’m so emotional”
She was sick, is sick. Smoking, coughing. Quiet.
Quite, quit a stupid.

She didn’t eat enough, low on energy, back rolls.
Smiling, great teeth, nice hair and frame.
Out of bounds.
Trying me for a baby, not giving in.
And finally: She finished my sandwiches.

Utilizing an Ecocritical lens to identify social anxieties for Rick stemming from Shane’s “light-switch story”. The repetition that’s seen in the post-apocalyptic dystopia and return to nature, is foreshadowed as an idea in Shane’s quip over the consumption problems that face humanity because of women’s inability to turn off light switches. The Freudian association is made through the familial link that Shane makes relating to the reaction of women to this criticism: “You sound just like my father”. This view is entirely problematic and informed by patriarchy. Under the guise of a joke, which Freud again would suggest is an attempt at relieving anxieties about matters of “dire importance to the subject”. Shane’s little tale finishes with him saying “at least I tried” which underpins in its entirety his own failings. The first season of TWDthrough its narrative navigation of word and image that allows for a graphic reiteration of there being no safe place while emphasising humanity’s dependence on fossil fuels as problematic. The dire concern that “the world is run on fossil fuels” (TWD. TS-19) is reiterated in both texts and employs a regime of verisimilitude through which the reader is interpolated.

What are you thinking about I asked my sister?
“mind your own fucking business and have your own fucking thoughts” – My mind answered.

“Just planning out my day” She said. She was distant, vacant stare.
I poked her.
I told here that she was in possession of a human body and that whatever she decided to do would be the right decision. (Leaving out the part that whatever she decided would also be the wrong decision). Trade-offs.
Always everywhere.

X-Day today.
Xavier everything.
X for Christmas.
Death. Poison. Treasure.
I am getting a cold.
Been feeling cold.
I’ll go for a run, get the heart pounding.

Thinking of my brother and our friend Trav.
Thinking music, making plans.
Jorgia, walking.
Penny, talking.
Alex, taxing.

and we all fall down.

I might change my sheets.
Time is scarce, but I have so much of it.
So much scarcity in my world.
I need to print. I need to edit, write introduction and functions.
Riddle in some content.
Critical analysis, follow on, dream-states. Oedipus!

My mind’s running, my nose running, the tap running.
And we all fall down.
Teeth gritty, midday and only just awake.
No drive, need for early mornings.
Power naps, to fully lose a day.
and to be wrecked, over do it.
Done and done. Kilian, the sherrif in town.
Watermelon jokes.
Telling wild tales.
forgetting to buy the coffee pot.
forgetting and forgetting and memory.
lost and writing something for Jazmine,
Jazz’s birthday. and the use of apostrophe.
and Harvey. Bird Man. Attorney at Law.

Nuts and bolts I said.
I wasn’t wearing any underpants.
Flonk flonk flonk.
I bought an old cologne.
We spoke of Agriculture.
We talked of music.
Speaking of things that you enjoy.
Music, friends, the elixir.
Concoctions, like acid potion.
What’s your poison.
And coffee (white).
Introductions and chatter.
Entering competitions.
Exhilaration, better get back to work.
So so so many distractions.
Buy wrapping paper.

Flights flights FRIDAY.
Bookings and all that extra information.
Stress.

Emotionality = caring.
Revulsion revolution.

Idea
NOT idea.

Naked me, showing an ordinary penis to the people that asked.
Class. Comfortablilty in their uncomfort.
SUREDE SUEDE SUEDE.
bali. BHAAL. BAAHL.
Diablo, yo go ho ho ho/

YELTOUR. ROUTLEY.

WALLEY YELLAW.
W
WAL
WALDO ODLAW.

BOTS AND NUTS.

I rose early and went. Tasmanian beach; no waves roll in. Only a quiet lapping at the shores. Squeaky sand. Paddling out, thinking Harold Holst. The cold is like being squeezed between giant hands. I exhale and close my eyes. A few bubbles swirling from my nose, up and out. A fattening. My heart beat is sharp pins in neck and the tear ducts. No toes. My open eyes below the surface. The sun is rises now, now. Gloss of light streams. Thoughts flow. Just sparks. Above, it all would be streaming, streaming. Below the surface, prickled eyes perceive flits of white. Circles hollowed out. Flat lights, dispersed silk. Saturating my skin. Sight and all senses are static. White mixes with a wash of red and blue. 

Don’t micromanage me young man. Was the last thing she said as she left. He sat there smugly. Sated from all the events that had lead up to the convergence and the moments just passed.

Genevieve and Sharmi drove their small blue fiat along the coast into town. Passing the fish and chip shops, hotels and the university. Stopping at the first set of lights, Gen put on the radio to Jazz. A proper English accent purred the next track title and they were off again.
“More marching band music?” Sharm questioned.
“Why not”.

The drove for five and then five more minutes, to find a parking space.

Genevieve had a sore throat from the night before and wondered what the best solution would be. She’d been seeing a guy for a week. Her love life was no frills and had its ups and down. Shar and her shared a flat down in the south east, along the coast for a little bit, where it was mostly quiet unless they invited over guest.

Sha suggested that they get some soothers or icecream. But Geneviev only shook her head and winced like a frog swallows. They were catching a cruise and had to park in long-term. The trip had been mostly paid for by work, they worked for themselves. Genevie pulled out her phone and wrote a quick text on a whim then slung her handbag over her shoulder.

The two of them walked up the uncomfortable ramp – its gradient lending itself towards the steeper climbs of its berth. Sh silently mused over the kill count of such a gangway while Genevi removed her camera lens deftly and took a photo of the water and the land, then the cruise ship with the sun in the background. They made a queer couple as the strolled abroad, but you could tell. It was an air. Maybe in their gait, jawline or posture. Both with shoulders pulled back, very clean hair. Edges where edges should be. Round only at the scarves and straps.

The book that Genev read that night was of little interest, she usually followed the tales with the fifty pages rule because
“life my darling is too short”.
“How do you know?”

S had a meeting with one of the patrons aboard and in the cabin across that night. It went well, she talked to them and set up a price for their service. They wanted a little bit more, like everyone seems to, but for a little bit less. Gene had echoed this for the years they’d known each other. It wasn’t OK there was a fee for everything, even international waters.

“Why did I get a book on pirates?” Gen moaned.
“Yes, indeed”
Why not Titanic or Peter Pan. She thought of her business and how nothing lasts. Ge sighed and pulled out her camera. The faux-wedding photography that she’d done for some friends snapped into sharp focus. She was removed, always, but this distance was her own tailored aesthetic. Numb to the wanton of others. Her lips were dry but years of lipstick wearing made her resist the urge.

Wondering if there were any animals aboard. G squeamishly turned off her camera and hugged herself. The radar blipped, once in the captains quarters. Technology had come a long way, but the green circle remained. Like space invaders, like pac-man or pokemon it was a refferential to something that unless you were there, looking, it was just a blip. And then it was gone.

The two women. Both of them, were gone.