Wednesday, April 29, 2009
I begin to blend,
In between the tweed fibers,
Trench coatings zone two tickets,
Black knee high boots and bleeding earphoned music,
Melbourne is mapping my-self out.
The shoulders of four million –near,
Rub off on me,
Trying to clear my throat not daring to cough up conversation,
(ahem), excuse me,
Moving one square space to the next,
These boxes a bus,
A carriage, a car, house, oven, television, toilet,
Somebody’s idea of the right angles.
And I’m cornered.
Crisp air neatly folds me into no-eye contact,
Four million mannerisms make no mention,
Stuck-up for conversation,
Man I used to have something to say,
A few days,
Now my story says scribble but just don’t smile at me,
Singing no praise,
Waiting here to get home,
–but that’s what I’ve been trying to do,
Get back home,
But maybe a little brighter,
Light up like having something to show and tell,
I have to tell you both something before I forget,
Tell you before I start editing out the bits where I can still sing out loud,
Before I forget the times where I would smile at strangers,
Before I don’t mention the parts about helping parents get prams off the bus,
Without having to mumble away looks of praise from other passengers,
Awkwardly saying ~ it shouldn’t be a big deal,
Before I take my hat off to you,
Before I feel like its all worth apologizing to,
Before I recognise my face again,
Before I look like the mirror,
–of everyone’s doing,
Before I have to wait for the smoke-oh,
That for so many reasons,
I do not need,
Before I walk through stores looking at row after row of shit,
I do not want,
And I cannot figure out why I ever did,
Before I stop accumulating lists of numbers in my phone,
Having no idea what to do with them,
Before impersonating a person with my old personae,
Becomes impersonal, and I’ll ingest indifference,
A diet of delicacies to dine as delicately as I dare,
Doubting my gold fish memories swim,
Are my five seconds,
Your best recollection,
Just narrates a year in a shrug,
Same old same old,
Like to you it could have all been clouds,
The thunder under sunset shores of the Arabian sea,
Or full-fat milk swirling ballet-beautiful into black coffee cups,
Somehow, I’m assured laughing that this is the reality,
Account numbers and dates due,
It could have been the best blow-jobs in Kathmandu,
Instead I stand time tests,
And it really is… all the same, to you.
Tell you I want to see that tropical lightning still,
Same way I saw it back that day,
See it -on the horizon,
And take you back there,
I want this dream to wake up.
Wake up to ...what the fuck,
Fuck the mirror,
Fuck the men,
Fuck the black,
Fuck the stars right back up into the heavens,
Because I soon won’t know what to say back to them,
Been so long it’s been awkward leaving off apologies like,
Please drive through this window now,
So sorry your order took so long, but here’s the coke and fries,
I told the star-child these are not my skies,
But I already knew,
That not her, not no-one was listening now.
Before it happens to be,
That I can’t see the more extended-cut directed special edition version,
Before Melbourne really happens again,
I have to write,
I have to dance my mercurial-all on their mechanisms,
I have to start conversations that lead away from our nowhere,
I have to carve my cravenness into combinations,
I have to be more than the sum of parts,
My part to play, whole.
I have to whisper hugs to myself,
My own jokes will laugh themselves silly at your bad timing,
My smiles trying simply to say,
And not because,
It would take too long to explain,
Not because it’s an in-joke, and it’s on-you,
Never mind man,
Not because my sense of humour,
Will rarely be humoured,
Not because the more things stay the same,
But never mind,
Because I’ll still hold my arms out wide around a sense of wonder,
Holding tight, I’m holding firm,
For dear life in fact,
That wonders, as I wonder-
Maybe I never left,
Maybe I’m never coming back,
Just like old times,
Only now you talk in thumbs,
Your nationality is air conditioned,
Never mind then,
You can mind your own business busily,
You can think each week-ends,
With better luck next time,
Reading you online,
Fervor dreams of another electric sheep,
And rather than living the night un-dead,
Going straight to work with no sleep,
It seems that if I’m not careful,
I could instead go straight to sleep, with no work,
I could go straight off working on anything worthy,
I could just, go straight,
Another freestyle effort, I always read these the next day and cringe. If I was smart I'd sit on this a day or two and edit, but I'm scared that maybe I'd be missing my own point then. So enjoy the flaws. :-)
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
I wouldn't lie to you.
But I used to find the time in lines well spent, used to balance books with new leafs turned, used to keep the lights up excusing mysterious bruises on the ego you woke up with.
Staring at your toes made the time go red in the face once you lost pens and papers and had to going get tough chicken wing it, wrestle time down to this desk so I could freestyle for you for the first time in a long while.
That being said I gotta back logged-out cowboy who rode off almost literally into sunsets carrying the weight of Annie's load the fuck away before I'd even learned the words to my own songs.
Let me break down the break down for your broke arse, down here I gotta bad day or two in black rocks trying to get the joke that is still on me, not young Annaleise, I gotta get over it before it gets understated and laughed off in a hellova story, I gotta make it a double back and front up to the monkeys eating bad dates in Cairo on my back. I gotta give a shit but fuck knows where I get it from.
I gotta say, let it be said, I gotta shrug and do it like you can dance to it, forty five over the limit, times limitations like another set of clothes the emperor bites his lips in mirrors for thinking this'll make his gut stick out. You should have stuck with that, stick shift, shit man, you should have trusted your last suicide Tuesday and had something better to say back to the three ay-em ceiling that studied you. I didn't hear ... nuthin'.
But you did, and I won't tell them where you were when it happened but don't expect me to lie for you no more, or anymore than this omission. I need a mission... like extreme prejudice. In Exodus, tigers on or off the fucking boat, and in the tank. Sense in the sense that I'm not making it, just using up all five of them, just so I could feel anything for you, anything at all.
This is what happened, in my own words.
So to speak. So, to speak, them, I had to ogle at your idle days behind shades of hidden double meanings wrapped in obfuscation and re-relevancy. Looking squarely at the dark, I had to shadow box with the best of them. I had to have you over the shoulder to stand in for the subconscious that I simply do-not-have, no more.
No more being down with the king or even close, down with homework, up with miniskirts and up in smoke. So that cigarette smoke looks as good as I feel, tastes like I look, but it looks as if, if I was to drop this fart I'm holding onto, I would be the one to catch the queer looks from the straight guy sitting next to me, trying to play human chimney and kill me softly which each breath he passively aggressively puffs out at me. You suck, fag. You stink too. I do. Not. But my clothes just might. Though you'll be dead by then or so the packet says. How many atheists are there left in the emphysema ward these days anywayz? Ah never mind, my clothes would probably as soon anyway smell all the same, and I'm just white washing those facts with my own dirty laundry.
Truth is, my own midnight will come ticking over like some lop sided poll rigged election re-count charity drive marathon crossing red lips for the kids back home last Easter.
That's the drift of the service I'm trying to draft you into, and dodging that I'm saying Yeah, I know where Vietnam is, it's on TV. 'cause that's what the greatest said, like no Vietcong ever called me a poet, and so I had no reason to return in kind. My injuries are my insult. I'm off the deep end diving into developing this picture of the deeply wounded trying for nobilities never known and missspelled if it wasn't for this push-button I can check. Check it out. I'll spell it out, like, I was there for that too, but where the fuck where you?
Where are getting off, what is your stop? What'the ticket cost you and who you gonna call? Ghost writing a wrong with another wrong, a favorite old song of mine, lost in blotches of seventeen year old ink and canvasses.
Itch you can't quite scratch, like, I'll be back. I'll be front and centre too, I'll be right, before I get left again, before I get to cry foul and slip into something even more comfortable. Desperation is supposed to be quiet and stay there, desolation is supposed to be magnificent and hang above a cloudy sky I can't share with the sun. But it's not, it's made of cheese, hollow as a bright side of an eggshell I'm supposed to walk on, for you. Reminding me I'm under the wrong set of skies.
Shelling out, walking on egged on by you, as if I knew kung fu. I do. Not. Not a hacker nor a martial artist, not a chance just a cliche slumped who said leave the bottle to the bartender in the mahogany setting seated right beside himself trying not to laugh at his on joke... and succeeding, easily.
Hey man you gotta make this look hard, but that's the easy part. The hard part is picking up the tab and taking the hints. The hard part is the figure you get that comes with a lot of zeroes attached, and a detached disenchantment with straight talk and her curving trajectories.
I've seen the future, from the point of view of yesterday, I've seen the past, it has all the storage space you and your mates need to stow all your cynicisms and criticisms, but its full of holes and we are taking on water. So I got my eye on the future in a rising tide, and that is what it looked like to me.
In the future in the end in the long run in the way it was told to me , the screams and moans are still muffled enough, the glass here thick and frosted sufficiently, the lighting bad and dim enough, the hour late enough and the outside streets empty enough, that the janitors will be able to take care of everything that's gone and went wrong, and you, trust me, don't need to worry about anything now.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
I forgot my lines,
I lost that declaration,
Practiced amidst the glow of yellow streets,
And puddles on the asphalt,
I forgot everything that I had rehearsed with them earlier,
That I was going to say, to you.
The words are all gone,
And I recognise the hole in my head,
Left behind there in a head of beer,
The slant not right,
Into the glass,
I talked around a circumnavigations circumspection,
I had a word for every step,
To walk me into the centre.
It was going to strip back paint,
Get the tough stains out,
Flood valleys from the safe lookout,
Of raised eyebrows,
Was going to melt ice butter lead,
Leave some precious little unsaid.
Oh, I had some words for you,
I made them, tailored to your fit,
So you could clothe yourself,
In my conversation,
And we could dance,
Inside a dialogue.
I had this whole speech to give you,
Now I forgot it.
My lines were going to capture you,
Wrap you up in rhyming rhetorical rhythms,
And a few reasons, too.
Yeah I had you all in few phrases,
Carefully chosen as moments,
Your likeness was going to be described,
Like I had photographed you,
In the best-est light,
At just the right moment,
These were the lines that I had in mind then,
Ready to go,
But when I reached into my memory to find them,
All it brought back up,
Was just a few mumbles into my chest,
Spilling into an empty cup,
And I forget the rest.
It was a lot, that everything, that I was going to say,
Remember almost nothing now of it,
Only a bit about it,
That it was going to be...
As I remember it,
It was going to be worth hearing.