I try to put away
time. For you-
In a place.
Neat. Tidy and
matching.
We’ve worn eachother out.

fill the void,
the holes keep getting bigger.
Drawn out. Rinsed.
Nothing smells fresh anymore.
Everything is tired,
threadbare.
Strands that kept us
together. The folds.
Rolls. Turned into eachother.

inside and out.
Moth eaten, fuzzy-wuzzies.
I don’t keep my money
there with you anymore.
we’ve been through
the washer
clean they said and we thought.
stretched and lost more like.
far away away apart.

Left to bake in the sun.
faded
crinkled
Unsaved drafts, prototypes.
We slip over the real thing.
Misshapen gloves.
Beneath layers.
Mouths gaping.
Bottoms sewn shut.

Not dates nor cheese.
Like we’re baking bread
no longer breaking.
Our holes are there for everyone to see.
Toes poking out.
Extra limbs,
strange attachments.
coloured and discoloured.
Trying on new styles.

We are after a fashion.
Pulled on
worn in
worn out
and cast aside or lost in the washing machine.
We are a couple
of sockettes.

-My Face-

It comes
out when I
Sweat.
Cheeks pulled.
The eyes

face it

my sickness of thought
shining out
its there

flattening
shining bare

Flat, gloves shining bare.

Noun
: restricted traffic lane exclusively reserved for the
use of vehicles with two or more occupants.

He stood holding out a sign.
“Carpool Service $10”
He wore a tie and
had short black hair.
He was picked up by lots
lots of different people.
All excessive.
An old man.
A beautiful woman with large
glasses. Polarized.
They shook and synchronized their:
“bye”
A muscled man.
A goldfish woman.
A lover of tattoos
A wild blonde that checked for pimples.
All over the city he went,
saving the time of others.
meeting folks, preventing fines on a fine day.
The police drove past-
watching and watching and watching him
On his return journey home,
sitting as the sun
set.
Fading into a glowing mood.
Darkness and the first bites of cold.
He walked, holding out his sign.
And was picked up by the beautiful woman again.
Pulling
into the curb.
She leant across
unlocking the passenger door.
His heart warmed.
She smiled up at him,
leaning back
into the drivers seat.
Revealing her
full figure.
His eyes took her in
He returned her smile.
Seating himself, they
pulled away
from the curb.
and swiped by a passing truck.

Sort two.
Woo two.
Who knew.
Too few.

There are two sorts of people in this world.
Those who laugh and those who cry.

Those tricky people that ask you a question that you must answer.
Those wasteful words, wanting answer. Sitting between us.
asking to share across the foggy void that laps at your eyes, ears and chest.
Your feet, your knees and pushes at the backs of your arms.
up up up.
Two sorts of people, yes.
One whom laughs.
The next, they cry.
Always and anyway. Its either one on the other.
I see you laughing, and I can see that you could choose to do the other.
I’d bring it up, but why would I want to turn the mood.
You’re laughing now, so i’m crying for you.
When I cry, you laugh.
I am a human see-saw.

For every laugh you make, another somewhere in the world is silence.
A cry breaks out. Somewhere else there is silence.
A cry breaks out. A laugh breaks out.
Somewhere else, two people share a silence.
What a beautiful moment to have witnessed.

Opposites attract.
I take upon myself both.
Stay away from me.
Stay away.
Let me negate all else.

/i/The place didn’t look bad

she had huge thighs
and a very good laugh
she laughed at everything
and the curtains were yellow
and I finished
rolled off
and before she went to the bathroom
she reached under the bed and
thew me a rag.
it was hard
it was stiff with other men’s
sperm.
I wiped off on the sheet.

when she came out
she bent over
and I saw all that behind
as she put Mozart
on.

Pofodo – The poet.
Pafodo – The patient
Pifodo – The lazy
Pefodo – The worker
Pufodo – The breather
Pyfodo – The fighter.
Phfodo – The thinker

Today I sat.
At a screen.
Sore back, glum.
Gloomy, down, sad.

Up and down.
Hot and cold.
Interchangeable words for.
Word for proper nouns.
For proper thoughts, thoughts.

Echoes echos echo.

Tea and biscuits.
Food, regrets. Rest,
relaxation. Ability to recover and love one’s self.
And to think: come on over and let me have you.
Lets use eachother.
Relax, like cats.
Impatient, clawing.
Restless, resentful.

The world is full of flakes.

Let me put my dick in you.
Let me lick you and love your body.
not your mind, not your time.
let me wash.
I’ll wash, I’ll relax.
No yoga, meditate some other way.
Stress and mental battles.
Lying to oneself.
Aggregate, falling down.
Jumbling pillars.
Expectations. Failure and melting moments.
I am the butter that sinks the biscuit.
The animal, frailty.
Poison volunteer of a corrupt and hungry babe.
The teat; teased and bitten.
Suckled, dimpled.
Harsh, boils and fitful squirts.

My pessimistic alienation.
Forthright skeptic.
Too well fed for cynicism.
Able bodied.
Angry, jealous try-hard.
Of all things but many.
Many, many mistakes.
Fallen star.
Foot to foot,
to heel, and arse.
Laden and growing fat.
Tired eyes, angry ears and upbringing.
A little bump to the left.
Stuck, in behind my ear.
Could be cancer.
The browning more. Violent, asking and angry.
So, so much has been asked of me.
My stomach yields nothing.

Angry fitful yawns,
wretched and taxing.
No curtain can blot out the caliber.
Long rifled sheets.
Cheat us of our deaths.
The ritual act of love,
sacrificing our time for upbringing.
Our dissolution; reaching out with both hands patiently.
Pulling plastic over our shafted lives.
Capturing cities of our own righteousness.
Princely kings, kinds and all kinds.
Broken and resentful.
Arched backs, slick.
Painful, enjoyable waves.
Riding slick, shallows in greater depths.
Nothingness greets us.
Gaping, gasping holes.
Squinting pleasures.
Swallowing all,
choking breaths.
A phenomenon too uncommon now.
That edge, self talk.
Lying to myself again.

Come over.
Covet me.
Let me soak in a bath.
Warm. Reading. Relaxed.
Angry for want of a day, of tumbling fields without barriers.
It’d be nice.
Real nice to do this with more purpose.
Where has my scope gone.
Give me time, let me read.
So so much to read.
And music, and the fears of not connecting.
And to over think.
and be so fragile, and broken and emotional.
To be rentable.
Evicerated. Worried.
Afraid of connection.
Suffering from a stagnacy, a stuckness, not capturing moments as I should.
Missing the things I never regret and plowing into the skittles like a newborn.

Fuck me.
Fuck me-
Fuck me.
Your tones.
Your beeps.
The waiting.
The screwing-
around around.

Let me ask myself what I want.
what I need, and if i’m confident or happy to ask.
I feel flat and I don’t want to ask you about things that you weren’t willing to share. Like your wedding. Like your feelings.
You’re shallow. Like i’m shallow.
What I see in you I try to cut from myself.
And the hypocrisy and linkage kills me.
It bubbles and boils and sticks to me like the resin of the first rubber tree.
Like semen in a bath of cold water.
Brown sugar in the foil of a baked apple.
The party string. The vibe shifts and rifts and rents me.
I am mutilated.
Distant without possibility of recovery.
Bush shacks. Hard work, without pay.
Sitting, sitting, sitting.
Let me run away.
I said it again.
But I won’t. I’ll stay and stress about the common things.
This shit. Smearing over me. Burying me so that I may fossilize.
Reptilian blood coursing through a spring.
Cold eyes.
Mascara-less.
Sportless.
Wantless.
Careless.
Foilless.
Fuckless.
Travelless.
Pityful.
Re-endangered spirit of a cursed species.
No scope for its own world, no plausibility or sense for consistency.
We are bugged.
Broken in our melting form.
Rubber, sugar, oven and all.
we are bugged.
I am cursing.
Should I be?
Am I cursed.

I’ve got a few notes, i’m sorry i’ve been away.
Away so long-
Its just my heart hasn’t been in it.
You know what I mean babe.
It was broken.
Fractured. Wrenched.
Hit with lead pip.
Gouged out.
Torn up.

Sweated on.
Beaten down.
Stuffed with tar and oil and pain.
And now i’m back, back to writing again.
Jealousy, madness, sympathy and rage.
All experienced, foretold this sage.

And in my experience.
I become the cynic.
Cyanide, ebbs in my putrid lake.
My fettered choices, another mistake.
And i’m dubious, i’m careful of feelings-
feeling it thoughtful, thinking of time.

Because we’re not getting any younger.
And we’re all gonna age.
We aren’t getting any younger babe-
Hearts, submerged for sharks, but for being locked away in a cage.

We could look like a rolling stone,
This could all be a snowball effect.
We could look like Jagger does now.
And that’s my heart; don’t nag, don’t frown.

I think she’s hot.
I think she’s great.
I like her.
So I don’t care what you say.
I don’t even mind her bottom.
Big and round you say?
I say, We aren’t getting any younger Dad.
So while you’ve got it-
rock it.

Some horrible people out there.
Yeah…
And they never get what they deserve.
Bad people in the world.
And they never get what’s coming to them.

We use bad people to define ourselves.
bad people play a role.
Your understanding of bad is ONLY and JUST-
Where you are at currently in your life.
You will change.
All things change.
You’re happy today, sad tomorrow.
And then you’re happy again, or sad, or dead.

Let there be horrible people.
But rejoice in not being them,
Don’t even acknowledge them.
Draw only the good out of people, if you can.
If you can do that.
Can you?

What’s the point of life?
-Living.
How do you do that?
-You work it out.

Find examples of books like Horten Heard a who.
Human beings have no scope.
Size of our beings, the shapes and function of the universe.
I can barely factor everything worthwhile together.
The tools of language for thoughts and linkages that make sense.

That seem logical. That can be perceived and experienced.
This universal thought, extrapolated, fed into, cogitated and masticated upon constantly. Formed and re-formed and shaped and said in all different ways.
The cell. The size, of us, of germs, of the atom, of the forces at work.
Of the many many small decisions, and multitudinal changes. Ongoing.
Mindblowing, minute variables. Unique, beautiful. Other times ghastly and sickening.
The unequatable sum of our tiny eyes, peering, prying, wondering and applying.

Its beyond our just “adding up”.
We try out bestest. We practice and form models and shapes.
We look at nature, we create wonders of our own.
We entertain.
We are virus. We are planet.
Suffering gravity, thoughtless of this most of the time.
Not metaphor or simile; SIM-I-LIE.
We are all.
This goes beyond-
internal to external, minute the massive.
Lost in the space between finger and thumb.
The handle of a door and the hand.
Turn it over some more, all those similar thoughts.
So much samey, samey thinking.
What a common idea that we scratch at.
A twinkle in the eye, respite at the thought blossoms.

Osmosis Jones.
Horton Hears a who.
Perspective and scope.

Though its darker than December.
Longitude and latitude dictate the amount of light we get. Seasonally, December could be either. But it’s darker than both options we assume.
Where are you?

And its raining.
And i’m looking for someone, through friends of friends.
And i’m pent up.
Sore, tightly bound and wound in swound, lapping at me like the ocean waves.
The current, I am in, makes me anxious.
thoughtful and forgetful. Ready and impatient.
Worrysome and other people irksome.

I should practice writing on a topic perhaps.
Have some lineage. Have some discipline.
More functional, more fitness.

Father wakes up early.
He’s gone, out the door before 8.
I worry about his left leg, his limp isn’t getting any better.

The rain on the iron roof makes me think of exes.
My mosquito bites itch.
I feel an overwhelming desire to wash all of my sheets.

The coffee was savory. Citrus toward bitter.
The green tea is earthy, hints of bamboo, silty.
I watched a female comedian yesterday. She was good.

I forget people’s names.
I make dinner while I eat breakfast, I say yes to friends.
Asking friends if they are busy later.

My brother turns 30.
I felt the stress of wanting to buy him a gift.
Something personal, and yet I couldn’t possible dig a well within myself.

Instead I ate lots of food and rested.
A real worry for a young man like me.
And here I am wondering at my shallowness- so many things to do.

And more to say.
More and more and more.
It should never stop.

But a considered approach is warranted.
Comedy is like semen.
I offer it to you guys freely.

If I put it in the right place, something will grow inside you.
I’m only here to make the women laugh apparently.
[aside] I’m single – nobody loves me.

I’m probably unlovable.
Semen. Such a happy word, I reckon.
Put in the right place, the laughter will grow.

Pretty jovial thought. If you put it somewhere wrong.
Like on your clothes, it’ll annoy you.
Eat away at both of us, make you feel sick.

Eat away at you, sounds like I have acid jizz.
Imagine that. Put behind bars? No problem, these walls cannot hold me!
Get Sherlock Holmes on the line.

Massages are all booked!
Sons of guns. Remedial, bollocks.
Knots and relaxation. No freedom. No therapy.

Today i’ll be selling cheese in the rain.
Today I might see Claire and some others for a social beer in the park.
I’ll pay my way first though.

So stiff, so cold. Tired eyes.
In-need of a reset. A pamper. A self loving afternoon.
Rest and recovery.

The porridge of our daily lives.
Something to protect. Immune system, boosted.
The complex inner workings of our lives.

The narrative that rolls and folds upon itself,
like a fresh loaf of bread. Kneaded and pressed.
Baked, arise. Renewed. Tanned a golden brown.

Flaked with goodness of oats and seeds.
The smell of warmth, an invitation.
Like childbirth and its strange cravings.

Tomato juice, causes red hair.
No, no no no no. Nonsense.
One is not conditional of the other. Ad Hoc.

Creation. The creation story.
A snide remark here, an added hominem.
Homonym. Double meanings.

-Toilet-

Not sure if i’ve been over doing it.
I’ve been having toast for breakfast most mornings.
Yoga before that, and again in the afternoon. Just tried a “long, slow, deep” class last night. It was wonderful and felt authentic. Really quite enjoyable.
The new woman taking classes. “Kelly” I think she calls herself is a little bit too nasal. Chipper, and chummy. A fair dinkum chump. A touch too loud. Does not put me at ease. I don’t relax around her. I don’t rest.
Fare. Food. Fair. Nice. Okay. Deep.
ambiguous words!

Associatives in words.
Contraction – pregnancy.
Consenting – sex
Subtle gearing. Undertones and ripple.
Light shining on my face, eyes closed, lids red.

Negative Alternatives.
I’m sore but i’m not broken.
I’m stiff because i’m cold. I’ve been working, late nights.
Thinking of J and not G.

Your family could be gone; you the only one left.
You could have been born without a leg, or other limb of a kind.
Fallen from a cliff.
Been poisoned.
Not been born (a blessing)? – No. Not for tears, but for want of laughter and meaning.
You could have been brought up in a different time.
Oppressed even.
Malnourished.
You could have been caught stealing;
Had your hand remove.
Been impotent (be) – let’s hope.
Lived a shorter life.
Had a lover that died in your arms.
These, these other stories. Some may be true.
They may just have happened to you.
But if they have not, feel blessed.
And if, if they have: I, and many others like me are here for you.
You have experienced early.
Done what others have not, not yet or will never.
Store that. The thoughts, memories.
Not one thing you have done has been done before.
Temporally, physically, mentally. Unique in one’s tragedy.
In life. You are experienced. Own up to this.
You can, from this insight bless and help others, and in likeness they may help you.
I will listen, as will they.
To suggest and help where we can.
Open your mind to the possibilities and the happiness in your position.
Free yourself from torment.
Don’t punish yourself with suffering
and thoughts of deserving or undeserving.
Focus only on the one thing.
One.
Pretend you are sick.
Think of yourself with a lack of energy.
Now imagine you have only two breaths left to live.
Find peace.
Rest. Be slow to this comfort.
With each breath you find another the gives life. Where each is the last before your last.
Embrace the ritual. The magnitude and seriousness of your life.
Don’t furrow your brow or let air get caught in your long neck.
Rest in the slow elongated laneway to your lungs.
Treat them as one.
Ride your chests rising and falling.
Puff up as if to float, surfing a wave in, to the shore.
Find simple resolve in yourself.
Free from soreness.
your stiffness becomes liquid-
Join with your senses.
Find warmth, meander through your thoughts as they come.
To you. Break from anger.
Restrain nothing.
Seek what you want.
Allow what you have found, only you.
Yourself, not distraction.
A gift of breath, flesh and muscle.
Present.
Walk in your mind, move now- in joy.
Blissfully, say nothing. For that is your want and mine.
I am with you.
Smile and give only that.
Sit with your cognitions now.
Stare out, with gentle focus-
a bountiful aura of enjoyment. Can you?
Walk on-
and mind not the price of visiting upon yourself nourishment.
Water with herbs, or honey, milk or spice.
Walnuts.
Baguette and the oil of olive.
Figs and cheese.
Choose with cherubian glee.
Eat one something, you enjoy. But in small portion, make your body utilize each tiny fragments for sustenance.
Sip water patiently.
Guzzling is to rush through life’s needs and mistake one’s wants.
Count to a high number, as is your want
Laugh after eating.
Feel jolly and patient, recognising your impatientness-
maybe tired, itchy or unaccustomed to your surroundings.
breath into your surroundings. From your calm internal craft an external you wish to be at peace with.
Rock from side to side. A gentle sway.
Find a writing tool.
Draw circles until you are tired, or the tool runs dry.
Stretch up your arms.
Bend your back, back.
Forwards. Now rotate your chest.
blink strongly.
Feel the reverberations in your ears.
Smile.
Breathe in and make any sort of sound.
Lick your lips.
Swallow.
Smell
You are ready.

Memory place. Thought centre. Centre. SENT A. Cent hey. Scent her.
And her scent today, this morning was lapping over my comfortable walls.
Stalwart. Stoic. Red eyed. Dripping.
Yoga this morning, human puddle.
Emotional tyranny.
Tyrannosauraus resc-you. Ressuscitate me.
Men in arms, don’t feel that much.
Cohen- speak to me and i’ll react. Tinny stage performance.
I wait for the battery to.
Flat flat flat, beat. Click your fingers.
Wash your clothes. Your aching back, a late start.
The holy voice of the choir.
The songs almost without word, but full of meaning.
The message, its feeling. Affects me so.
Like a running tide, to evaporate and shower.

I’m impatient. I want to trawl deep withing myself for words and soulful sounds.
Reflections of value.
I thought of asking a person a “complec” a complex question today.
“Stop me if this is too much, but what do you attribute value too in your life”
And they would say, “OK”. And that would be it.
Because they would stop me, but that wouldn’t stop anything truly. If a question is asked the effects follow. The thoughts tangent. The reaction cannot be stoppered!
So then give it time, and they will answer.
They will give a delayed response, maybe not even to you.
Its queer.
I feel like that’s going on now with Wil.
The sidetracked things I say, the pot that I stir in him and others.
The entertainment. The value, the seriousness. The mistakes, the friendships born of sharing to be burdened by violence, disagreement and anger.
POP! And the bubble bursts.
The bubble burts!. Bert. And you’ve earned yourself a mono-brow of plastic that covers your nose. Breathe if you can.
Pink and purple, grey white, flavourless.

I think i’ll go to the beach.

I put on clothes. They have a past, they have meaning.
Gifts from family members. Dear to my heart.
I look for connections between things;
things out there, actions, reactions, specimens, examples.
In the ether, the cosmos. The shapes of words.
Their beginning letter, the function of them towards meaning.
Nothing has meaning.
Human kindness and interactions! Surely.
Sure enough. Surely surely.
But we are limited by form. By the existence of forms.
I find myself prickling at the need, yet my loss for invention.
My eyes, peering over.
Peering at.
Peering.
Looking at a distance. A stretch of space I could measure out if I had the will for it.
The want.
W.
Meaning.
Shareable.
Relateable
Real.
Repeatable.

“I’m over insided”. That’s what she said.
She, the girl, woman, person that I don’t really know.
I asked, after telling her I was “OK”, that I didn’t know what that meant.
She’d “been inside all day”.
I spoke of how I wanted to go to the beach.

I bumped into some people I knew later that day. I lied. I exaggerated.
I’d done it before. Its just, that conversations of the nature where you can embellish, well- I suppose I choose to detract from their meaning.
Its a narration of the thought, its a sick twist, underlining the matter.

Some of the people I message. Jasper, Julia – didn’t respond.
Jasperation I called him.
Ju-Ju, I called her.
I asked about yoga, their lack of response suggests that I “find my own path”.
What a selfish crowd. It makes my ducts flood.
My neck withers and wilts, must I look up to save face. Give a moment for the thoughts to drain down the back. Over the waterfall, the sink of my neck. Emptying into the eddies of my trunk and limbs.

I’m searching still. Sitting, staring, peering, looking.
Using all that i’ve observed, heard and felt. I’m swirling it all together in my pot of a mind. Black thoughts, trying- piecing.
Thinking of ways to reduce mystery to simplicity and pierce into the fabric of natural order. Using these tools! These tools of words.
Thinking in order. Associating one object to another.
Similes!
Metaphors.
Simplifying, and reducing where I can, bringing together things that aren’t the same and seeing them as one. As they are or might be on another scale.
I have no scale!
This Horten Heard A Who.
This physic.
“UNDERSTANDING MODELS” will be the book title.
All things, unique, grande and small are one and the same.
Sometimes, something, somehow, somewhat, somewhat is someother.
And that other is all.
And I will live to see and feel some of it true.
But not all.
So much is lost, and the cold sets in.
I stretch and grow old, without the possibility of regeneration.
Plant a potato on my grave. Scatter my ashes as you want.
To the wind or as a fertilizer.
I will have will for nothing more.
We should keep track of ourselves, maybe that will change how we evolve for better.
Epicurean.
Cheese knives.
Chess.
Games.
Models. Systems, plans, rules, organisations.
Emotions, feelings, reactions, words, sight, smell, hearing, feeling, taste, altered, normalized.
Think how you will, the distance unmeasured in the kitchen.
The flowers from the funeral growing old themselves, go un-smelt by me.
They wither, I look at the ceiling. Trying to comprehend a black hole.
Is it cancer?
Are we men and women two parts of a virus? No, we’re not like a virus. We are alive.
Are cells in their basic forms like viruses? What does bacteria do? If I kiss you with an open mouth am I trying to kill you? Do we react so badly to one-another?

What would happen if I spent 4 days in water. Does water eventually erode you? When would the sore appear? Would I die? Just a tank, up to my neck. What would my skin do? How would I feel?
Basic human needs. Eat, drink, defecate, urinate, word-ate.
Share.
And how you view all things, what you’ve heard, what you’re willing to share at the dinner table, what you wear on your sleeve.
Like sleet. I’d rather sleep.
Hollow breaths. Tired mind, swirling mind.
Self talk, at a loss to the patterns that emerge. In gravity. The helix, the symmetry, the natural forces, the mathematics, the shape of a circle is unnatural. The center, the centre: it doesn’t exist.
Its not graphable, its not the model, its not real.
Its a construct. Very imaginative. Points on a board.
Bored I am, without invention and discovery we are just entertaining ourselves.
Our identities, our sex, our money.
Masturbation, self love, loathsome pass times, sickness, disease, loss.
We are lost, waiting for others to give us discovery.
eternal youth, problem solving minds for the wanton entertainment driven.
I sweat.
I swear to myself over a scalding black coffee.
The heat disperses itself. Sweat wipes down my body.
Whipping myself for my hypocrisy.
Drink driving talk kills me.
Mistakes, gambles, accidents, fear, death and the human plague.
Our polluted minds of good and evil-
The reaction to all sorts of torture.
Everything. To have been born, to wait out the some.
The sum of this whole.
The hole, void of emotion.
Black words, on black background spill forth from our dilated pupils.
No resentment, just wide eyes fascination at a feeling that is our thoughts without words.
Natural and pre-dating shapes, symbols or models for shared understanding.
Lost blackness, runs down my back.
Pools for eyes.
Vision for I.
Unshareable.
Unbearable.
Penny for my thoughts? I dream of death.
Call the boatsman, on his curious flotsam.
This rabble racket, dropping and dripping in my mind.
Do you mind, slowing down, hurrying up.
Paddle as you may, you never learn to swim.
Soon the water erodes, and its not the key to eternal life.
Its not beauty, its not fair or just.
Its just the end.
Something you cannot fend.
It happens, it happened.
She’s gone, nothing’s wrong or wronged.
This trident in this tyrant its pronged-
piercing me.
Us, us three.