I’m awake. It was a dream; that body, that life. Love condensed, the sex, the abuse, murder and freedom. Coldly ending in the corner of a bathroom sink or a cement block by the beach. Snagged and rolling under the surf.

He had my blood on him, my everything. His straight brown hair, beautifully abused body. Oil and chisel, Lorax moustache and public curls. I felt as much as saw; looking at this someone you loved, and the monster they became, and the body of Geneviéve, cold. She’d done it, she was a feminist, that’s how we met. I felt her hate, loved, but never fully understood. Like me she missed something, but committed fully to her ideal, bolting down to a feeling and destroying anything-anyone. I think I loved her, I don’t know why she was there. Perhaps I’d invited her, she lay behind him, me in-front as he took me from behind, sand like silk beneath us, slapping, careless. Loveless, he pushed through me, done with effort. A maestro lover, fallen. Wayward ejaculations of energy, with fading care for a world that passed by too quickly.

Remember this feeling. Remember this feeling, remember this feeling, remember… this… feeling. Please try to REM–

Hi, It’s me.. This is my body. My consciousness, there’s the wall at my head. It’s early. Possum early. Screeching, scrambling guttural growls wake me. God I wish they were dead. All dead, remember? All?

How can this be preserved? My body was like a black ant’s. Carapace smooth, almost reflective. Suspended breasts, a socketed torso, lean and full of life with warm, supple concaves and rounds. A balance of hills and caves, peaks and troughs. One more life that wasn’t my own.


I’ve been gardening a lot recently. Watering the plants at least once a day, either in the early morning or late evening: it brings me great peace. The smell of dirt and greenery have a freshness; livelt; an organic nature that agree with my every sense. Peace, and the joy for my wellbeing in seeing things grow. Today I realised that something had devoured my plants in the night. The tick had soon become a tock. The swing of my emotional state. Fuming.

New Z

Packing it all in, we drove, ran climbed, descended, walked, flew and bussed. Hello Melba!

Zucchini in the wings; there was a last minute change that we had to stomach it.

Liftoff. Car, road, The Meg, Arrowhead ranchos. The distance diminishes as the mountains rise up around us.

Peek-a-boo bound. Cook’s mountain then camp Teka Po to soak up the stars.

A “full” day driving and eating fish and chips. Hello QT.

Late start. The old; jog, shop, pack routine. Look out for Kiwis!

Hike day and the marvels of mountains have warmed our souls. Waterfalls and tense crossings.

Hiking 1277

Hitched with some frenchies. Collin the cabbie and finding “the Key” to paradise.

Waiting at Caltex for the ride that never came. Breakdown in communication in an avalanche of wet.

Doubtful sounds, a day of sitting. Policing my impatience. Josh hitchhiker from Brighton and the bra fence!

#thatwanakatreat a swim and the stupidest late night run to date.

The peace of the lake, dahl-ing and puzzles. Wana stay in the sunshine.

Rainy day and trees down everywhere. We checked out of Gillespie’s beach and called it a day- hotel style.

Mathers “like” and icy-Bergs! The greatest little walk and a hot load of driving!

Checking into a Hokitika paradise. The lady’s a coffee roaster and bread baker. And there’s an

Outdoor bath.

They lent us some bikes and we went for a paddle. There was even a fire to burn all the brochures.

Heart warming.

Christchurch abound! What a shithole. Jorgia has a tummy ache.

I endure the beauty of the drive as she slumbers peacefully. What a


Melbourne and Hobart. Home at last.


People aren’t ready for the future.
They threw out that silicon cover 3 times – I fished it from the bin, washed it and left it to dry… but where does it hang? How do you dry it, leave a note?
Why did they throw that out, and not other things.

Two things are growing.
Our arses and my impatience.

To be

Be the flame, not the moth.

Global warming is so hot right now.

I like, like the idea of both.

Peaceful like the cow.

A fun lyric not from the philosopher


You say horrible things
I laugh because I love you
And when you touch my skin, I think
This isn’t boring

I ate a salad today
I ate one yesterday too
You told me I was precious, now I think
That I am too

My feelings are not my own

This feeling isn’t me. 6

Pubic hair, broken knee. 6

Splintered foot, bruised foot. 5

Through my awful groans. 5

Trusted pains all alone. 6

Fallen, cracked & chipped teeth 6

Where am I to start, the start? 7

This smiling being of my heart.7

Popping shuffling aches. 6

However might it end? 6

Gravel crossroads, we depend.7

Nails in arm in arm in arm. 7

Suffocating myself; helps. 7

Drowning grin of punish welts. 7

Stomach sick with bubbles. 6

Brained with tummy troubles. 6

Please fuck off

“Have you still got the shits” she said from the doorway.

With you, yes.

“Yes” I said.

Later I would think how awful that sounded. Why say it like that? Coupled with the clicky voice of Australians from the big city.

Ra-ra-ra, just awful- making me feel worse.

I was thinking about getting out of bed and feeling better too… oh well.

The worry, the fear

Driving on the wrong side of the road again. In the correct lane, worrying. I don’t want to die, not necessarily. Not at all really. Put the fender to bed, wake up feeling refreshed. Alone.

It’s just like she always said. Following up, looking for love, crying in the mornings. Physical activity to exhaustion. A caprice, ant like-not strong enough and smothered by the hive mind. I’m yearning for something different fearful of the same.

Competition strikes me as something dangerous and harmful- a sweet spot untasted or felt. Moving without moving, my eyes haze and I worry about all the things I’ve compressed. The vacuum, that shrinks my flesh around bones. Time will not tell you you’re fate until it’s dying hour. Words in whisper, thoughts from nowhere. Then hollowing suction that winks blindly at each victim. A moment, another moment, the straight red line. Buried, left pocket. Buried, right pocket. Both palms empty. Skeletal fingers and cracked teeth. My heart just isn’t in it.