tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7794150314114777222024-03-13T08:35:19.631-07:00TALES TOLD BY AN IDIOT - Randall StephensPoetry without pretense. Occasionally with spell checking.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440407774572861373noreply@blogger.comBlogger555125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-779415031411477722.post-76681570235268736432018-06-18T19:48:00.001-07:002018-06-18T19:48:35.210-07:00My Likeness - 16/06/2018<p dir="ltr">.</p>
<p dir="ltr">You know, I like being a man.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I like having shoulders broad enough that I can pick up a set of shelves and walk up a few flights of stairs, when I've had to.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I like being able to do pushups and climb things and jump a few fences if I had/have to, or being able to sprint so I don't miss that train (or only just barely miss it, anyway).</p>
<p dir="ltr">I like feeling strong and that I can defend myself when I've had to.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I like having the genitals I have and the way they can make me feel, I like the impulses they give me, in enjoying the sight and smell and touch of other bodies.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I like the hair on my face and shaping it to look how it suits me. I like having big lungs and a big voice so people can hear me, when I want them to.</p>
<p dir="ltr">All of these things I like. It feels like I'm confessing but I have no shame about these things.</p>
<p dir="ltr">What I don't like about being a man is that somewhere between the time where I was more scared of women than they were of me, as an object, was learning all that shame.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I don't like how unsafe women feel in society. I don't like being the object of fear, potential danger, harassment, or even just annoyance.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I don't like thinking back on times, incidents, moments in my past where I have definitely done, said, allowed things like that to happen.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I don't like how I've interrupted, shouted down, ignored, competed with, and taken up more space than I needed, around others.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I don't like that it's taken me this long to get here, figuring it out.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I don't like having to connect all the things above that I like about me, my body and who I am, with all these other things that do not like about who I am.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I don't like how close to home this all is. Whether it's Brunswick or beneath the skin I live in.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I don't like trying to figure out, think through how much of this is my fault. Me. But I'm trying to.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I don't like making this about me, but it is, because I am a man, and because I am a man here with you, with other men and everybody else and we have to.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Enough good people have already been hurt and killed.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I do not like that.<br>
.<br>
.</p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440407774572861373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-779415031411477722.post-38756363804442307252017-08-03T03:16:00.001-07:002017-08-03T03:16:37.976-07:00Redeemable Qualities - 02/07/2017<p dir="ltr"> .</p>
<p dir="ltr">Sometimes it seems pointless</p>
<p dir="ltr">There was a point<br>
Where I was addicted<br>
To not being addicted<br>
To things<br>
Kicked that habbit</p>
<p dir="ltr">Gave up on giving up<br>
Because being a misanthrope<br>
Only works around people<br>
...other people</p>
<p dir="ltr">Truth is I rather like people<br>
When they're not around<br>
Don't tell them but</p>
<p dir="ltr">The most times<br>
I've masturbated in a single day<br>
Is six</p>
<p dir="ltr">After that<br>
I ran out of stuff to think about<br>
Also I was pretty sore</p>
<p dir="ltr">There was a point<br>
That I thought the things<br>
I really liked<br>
Were things I was addicted to<br>
Had to be gotten rid of<br>
I know better now</p>
<p dir="ltr">I know<br>
For example<br>
That I'm not<br>
My own harshest critic</p>
<p dir="ltr">Friend of my girlfriend once saw me<br>
Performing poetry<br>
He described me to her as having<br>
"no redeeming qualities"</p>
<p dir="ltr">I'm unclear if he said this<br>
Not knowing that we're going out<br>
Or because of that</p>
<p dir="ltr">Either way I'm almost certain<br>
She doesn't agree with him<br>
Even if I do, at times</p>
<p dir="ltr">She's the smartest person I know<br>
...except for the bit<br>
Where she's still going out with me<br>
She's also the kindest</p>
<p dir="ltr">Don't know what she sees in me<br>
I do know that-<br>
There are lots of stupid questions<br>
There are always wrong answers<br>
In every situation</p>
<p dir="ltr">You'd be amazed<br>
How often I think<br>
Of the wrong thing to say<br>
But then don't<br>
Mmm then again<br>
y'probably wouldn't</p>
<p dir="ltr">There was a point<br>
I gave up writing poetry<br>
Then I gave up on giving up</p>
<p dir="ltr">I still have some stories to tell<br>
When the kid asked me<br>
What it's like to work in prisons<br>
When someone asks<br>
what all that extra stuff on my bike is for<br>
When my teacher asked who Randall is...</p>
<p dir="ltr">For now<br>
Just throw my garbage over your fence<br>
Without separating out the recyclables<br>
In write</p>
<p dir="ltr">I write for an audience<br>
And any jackass that says they don't<br>
Is a fucking liar<br>
Who probably can jerk off seven times<br>
And even more<br>
Every day<br>
Without running out of ideas<br>
Or getting sore</p>
<p dir="ltr">Such people make for poor friends<br>
I mean not that I don't<br>
Just that I tend to categorise friends<br>
With addictions<br>
Except I like the things I'm addicted to</p>
<p dir="ltr">Which means poetry isn't one<br>
There was a point I thought it was<br>
All pointless</p>
<p dir="ltr">Too much of anything<br>
Makes you an addict<br>
Or just shit-boring<br>
Most of my friends shit me to tears<br>
So I'm fine</p>
<p dir="ltr">Except for<br>
The big fucking hole in my roof<br>
And it's going to rain tonight<br>
And this isn't a metaphor</p>
<p dir="ltr">Even if it is<br>
A perfect<br>
Fucking<br>
Metaphor</p>
<p dir="ltr">I'm still writing<br>
And masturbating<br>
Most days<br>
They are so similar</p>
<p dir="ltr">(6)</p>
<p dir="ltr">Despite my brain's best advice<br>
I have no immediate plans<br>
To quit anything<br>
Or anyone</p>
<p dir="ltr">It's far better trying<br>
To add things to your life<br>
Than trying to subtract</p>
<p dir="ltr">It's sometimes seems pointless<br>
It's not<br>
Really</p>
<p dir="ltr">I just have no points to make<br>
Right<br>
Now<br>
I'm<br>
Just<br>
Here</p>
<p dir="ltr">Halfway between <br>
A really fowl mood<br>
And a really minor panic attack<br>
Standing hands in pockets<br>
Trying to look like I know<br></p>
<p dir="ltr">What I'm doing here.<br>
.</p>
<p dir="ltr">___________________<br></p>
<p dir="ltr">.<br>
<b><i>-Peace.</i></b><br>
<b><i>.</i></b><br>
<b><i>.</i></b></p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440407774572861373noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-779415031411477722.post-40398649783158008252017-05-16T19:08:00.001-07:002017-05-16T19:08:41.477-07:00It catches up with you - 17/ 05/ 2017<p dir="ltr">.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Stole a four-pack of batteries from the supermarket tonight, then ate a big bag of potato chips, then ran through three maybe four sets of red lights getting home, because why not. There's no judgement under this moonlight. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Light running on third phase power, off the grid.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Listening to Trent Reznor's social network soundtrack. The ride home has lots of highs and lows. My fingertips are cold, my face is warm. Then it's the opposite, and back again. I love it out here.</p>
<p dir="ltr">My bike is perfect, it is the very height of human evolution and technology. My bike specifically. It is at the top of the ramp above Flemington Bridge Road, with me.</p>
<p dir="ltr">It's all downhill from here.<br>
.<br>
.<br>
____________</p>
<p dir="ltr"><b><i>-Peace </i></b><br>
.<br>
.</p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440407774572861373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-779415031411477722.post-39337732149103545682017-05-03T20:55:00.001-07:002017-05-03T20:55:18.253-07:00Large Flat White - 04/ 05/ 2017<p dir="ltr">.</p>
<p dir="ltr">somedays so uncomfortable inside this skin<br>
can barely get over my over-awkward enough around people<br>
to order a coffee from one of them</p>
<p dir="ltr">anywhere I look<br>
any place I try to stand<br>
especially anything I say<br>
feels like this big and embarrassingly obvious food stain<br>
splattered right down the front of me<br>
that won't be covered up<br>
no matter what I'm doing with my hands</p>
<p dir="ltr">yeah<br>
I must really, really like coffee</p>
<p dir="ltr">.<br>
.</p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440407774572861373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-779415031411477722.post-52966302273186774692017-05-02T06:43:00.001-07:002017-05-02T06:43:08.061-07:00yeah y'don't say -02 /05 /2017<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
.<br />
<br />
made things hard for myself over the years<br />
mouthwise<br />
<br />
yet despite all that solid state dumb<br />
that my lips lets fly<br />
I'm telling you tonight-<br />
<br />
there is a single star in the sky<br />
for each<br />
and every one<br />
of the countless<br />
Cuban missile crisis-level of narrowly avoided,<br />
oh-wow-I-almost-said-that<br />
stupidities<br />
<br />
each quickly breath-buried<br />
underneath this teeth marked tongue<br />
<br />
look up and wonder<br />
at all those stupid,<br />
and man<br />
I mean really fucking stupid<br />
things<br />
that I almost<br />
and barely<br />
didn't<br />
give breath too<br />
<br />
<br />
speechless.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
__________________<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>-Peace</i></b><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440407774572861373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-779415031411477722.post-57017489130937347782017-05-01T05:52:00.001-07:002017-05-01T05:55:55.825-07:00And the silver spoon -01/05/2017<p dir="ltr">.</p>
<p dir="ltr">the young kid<br>
in front of me</p>
<p dir="ltr">with his<br>
smugly-Brunswick-going-bald-in-a-faded-political protest t-shirt<br>
father</p>
<p dir="ltr">who has made him come here<br>
into the police station lobby<br>
to hand in the $150 cash<br>
he found just before<br>
in an alley up the road,</p>
<p dir="ltr">now silently<br>
thinking to himself-</p>
<p dir="ltr">   ...yeah fuckit</p>
<p dir="ltr">this is the last time<br>
I'm honestly telling Dad</p>
<p dir="ltr">-<i>anything-</i></p>
<p dir="ltr"><i>.</i><br>
__________</p>
<p dir="ltr">.<br>
<b><i>-Peace </i></b><br>
.<br>
.</p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440407774572861373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-779415031411477722.post-89321993202818927642017-04-29T18:29:00.001-07:002017-08-03T03:16:59.576-07:00As a Rule - 26/03/2017<p dir="ltr">.</p>
<p dir="ltr"> <i>There is no five second rule in the dirt</i><br></p>
<p dir="ltr"><i>.</i><br>
</p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440407774572861373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-779415031411477722.post-9403903590217461152017-04-28T19:06:00.001-07:002017-04-28T19:08:48.910-07:00Friday Night Limping to the Pizza Place - 28/04/2017<p dir="ltr"><br>
my street this evening<br>
quieter than a guilty man<br>
who still hasn't been caught<br>
for something</p>
<p dir="ltr">by way of confession<br>
I like</p>
<p dir="ltr">these rainy nights</p>
<p dir="ltr">.<br>
.<br>
__________<br></p>
<p dir="ltr"><b><i>-Peace.</i></b><br>
.<br>
.<br>
</p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440407774572861373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-779415031411477722.post-12967036618167011262017-04-16T01:11:00.000-07:002017-04-16T03:17:47.819-07:00Some Things in the Basement - 16/04/2017<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
.<br />
<br />
been thinking about writing again<br />
If I knew even roughly what about<br />
I probably wouldn't feel the urge, to<br />
<br />
not about what you people elected<br />
not about salubrious privilege<br />
nor all my licentious rage<br />
or penning more hate mail<br />
to my love life<br />
don't want to broadcast-intimacy<br />
that's been covered<br />
<br />
it's love letters left unwritten<br />
to whatever this is<br />
waking me up nights<br />
things left in the basement<br />
when I was busy kicking out everybody<br />
<br />
outfits that don't fit and never did<br />
another person's shoes without a full lap<br />
ever done in<br />
footnotes to self reference<br />
sweat stains left on attitudes unassuming<br />
expired medication<br />
a complete collection of mistakes<br />
in their original packaging<br />
<br />
unfinished model kits of ships I missed<br />
star vehicles<br />
scaled-down in swapped out boxes<br />
abandoned mid assembly<br />
thinking I needed more company<br />
<br />
want to write hate mail<br />
to these piles of blank paper left<br />
amongst all the neatly metaphors<br />
over-stacked<br />
ink by the barrel in weaker moments<br />
now congealed<br />
<br />
kept enough strength however<br />
to twist open these pots of paint<br />
find some other colours besides<br />
the ones others have already covered<br />
<br />
fucking mess down-<br />
there's lots of bad debt<br />
I don't care<br />
to collect on<br />
discord conducted along mic cords<br />
happily given away<br />
conversations I cannot hear<br />
between those who believe<br />
the Earth speaks to them<br />
plainly<br />
<br />
it doesn't speak to me<br />
goes without saying<br />
there's a lot to be said<br />
for keeping your mouth shut<br />
when you don't have much<br />
to add to all their negativity<br />
<br />
nevertheless I've been thinking<br />
about writing again<br />
knowing that if I knew why I wanted to<br />
I probably wouldn't need to<br />
<br />
this isn't a promise<br />
and though you may take it that way<br />
not a threat either<br />
never threatened anybody<br />
just embarrassed them good'n'proper<br />
<br />
a little embarrassed myself right now<br />
which isn't a bad way to start<br />
<br />
<br />
that is ...if that is, what this is.<br />
<br />
.<br />
________________________<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>- Peace</i></b><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440407774572861373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-779415031411477722.post-56468006934367853312017-02-02T16:00:00.001-08:002017-02-02T17:49:30.899-08:00Island - 03/02/2017<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr">
.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
there is an ocean of bad decisions</div>
<div dir="ltr">
I swam across to get to her<br />
swells tossed around by wave after wave</div>
<div dir="ltr">
of oversharing</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I'm a lousy swimmer too</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
...or have I mentioned that before?</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I mean I already told you</div>
<div dir="ltr">
fucking people everything else</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
she takes me by the mouth<br />
and I don't have anything felt<br />
to say, to anyone else</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
shallow, deep, you sea</div>
<div dir="ltr">
I have ground now underneath these feet</div>
<div dir="ltr">
and could not stand</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
to tell you</div>
<div dir="ltr">
anymore than that</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
when it comes to love.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
_________________</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
- <i><b>Peace</b></i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i><b><br /></b></i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i><b><br /></b></i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i><b><br /></b></i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i><b><br /></b></i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i><b><br /></b></i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i><b><br /></b></i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i><b>.</b></i></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440407774572861373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-779415031411477722.post-16137465620188348692016-08-28T03:34:00.001-07:002016-08-28T03:39:08.480-07:00Hospitality -26/08/2016<p dir="ltr">.</p>
<p dir="ltr">will not invite you into my grief<br>
with all the formalities of a good host</p>
<p dir="ltr">haven't tidied up in here<br>
in as long as it takes<br>
to tell long, long stories<br>
I know you'd feel compelled to help<br>
me with all this mess<br>
I'd refuse, you'd feel awkward<br>
would want to sit down<br>
I'd tell you to watch where y'step<br>
eggs shells and frayed nerves<br>
stain the carpet<br>
don't entertain there, often<br>
don't speak softly here</p>
<p dir="ltr">will not invite you into my grief<br>
with all due formality,<br>
but I know from the outside<br>
it's a long way around it</p>
<p dir="ltr">come in already<br>
don't get comfy though</p>
<p dir="ltr">and for fucks sake close the door behind you.</p>
<p dir="ltr">_____________________<br>
.<br>
<i><b>-Peace</b></i><br>
<i><b>.</b></i></p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440407774572861373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-779415031411477722.post-23773667693918455932016-01-26T22:17:00.000-08:002016-01-26T22:17:01.977-08:00Survival Day And Some Stories That Are Not Mine To Tell - 27/01/2016<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
.<br />
There are stories of Indigenous Australian people I've worked with, that are not mine to tell. But we'll get to that...<br />
<br />
Growing up in the nineties in suburban Australia, I was very influenced by Hip Hop culture, and became very interested in the American history of racial struggle. From Chuck D to Muhammad Ali, to Malcolm X and so on. Because for a teenager- in comparison to Australia the USA has always been cool, with a great soundtrack, and it's always been very, very far away.<br />
<br />
So, looking back on it now, even if I didn't want to inherit cultural shame from my forebears, I have plenty to be embarrassed about personally. Though Australia's history is every bit as rich, brutal, dreadful and absurd as American history, I never took much interest in it until I started thinking about see more of the country.<br />
<br />
I don't think I'm alone. I think a lot of Australians don't know a lot about Australian history. I think that a lot of times when white Australians meet First Australians, it's under bad circumstances. Like the dudes in the caravan park in Ceduna SA last year, who kept me up all night having drunken fights outside my tent and tried to steal my stuff in the morning. Men and women surviving as best they can within a society that shuns them, ridicules their heritage, interferes with their families, steals their money, their land and property. A society that threatens and often their lives.<br />
<br />
No, didn't much like those people I met that time in Ceduna. I was scared of them, wanted them and all their worldly problems and misery to piss off so I could just maybe get some sleep. That's where I was at.<br />
<br />
- - -<br />
<br />
Six months later I'm back home in Melbourne, doing outreach social work, trying to help people being released from prison to reintegrate back into society, and avoid re-offending. I'm driving around Thornbury, trying to find one of my clients, an Indigenous man who’s disappeared off our radar weeks ago. This isn't all that unusual, a lot of people slip through the cracks and disappear after incarceration.<br />
<br />
In this case, there's no community corrections/parole officer keeping tabs on him, there was no stable/private housing arranged for him post-release, he has ongoing medical and mental health problems, he's trying to quit heroine and had trouble keeping appointments because his phone was constantly getting lost or stolen. We had organised a series of free driving lessons for him, he was more interested in where he was going to sleep each night. He doesn't tell me too much because he thinks I'll tell the cops everything he's up to. As I said before, his story is not mine to tell.<br />
<br />
I go back to his last known address, purportedly where he'd stayed a few nights with a cousin. I'd been there before. Quiet street, dead car in the driveway, with a friendly cat that always came strutting out from under it, neat lawn, all curtains and blinds closed. Pretty sure someone watching me the whole time I'm there but no one answers the door.<br />
<br />
This time though I can just make out through the thick security screen, that the front door is actually open. I call out his name and mine the way I usually do, but add that I'm just here to help, and ask is anyone else there.<br />
<br />
A woman comes to the door, arms folded, she looks defensive, apprehensive and scared. Maybe the way I looked inside my tent that night, many months and a whole lifetime ago. She says he hadn't been here in months, she doesn't know where he went, where he is, how I can contact him, nothing. Basically she just wants me to fuck off. Because no matter what I say or how it's dressed up, I'm still part of the system, ultimately we do report to Corrections Victoria.<br />
<br />
Want to tell you how horrible it felt, knowing what I know and standing on this lady's doorstep, painfully aware of what and who I was representing. White man trying to hunt down a blackfella, because it's my job. And I did, I do really want to help. I just didn't know how.<br />
<br />
There's got to be more you can do than reshare Facebook posts and watch the First Australians doco (but that, incidentally, would be a good start if you haven't yet).<br />
<br />
- - -<br />
<br />
Seven years ago I was working in youth activity programs, one of which in the Koori Cultural Secondary school in Glenroy. It was a tough gig. A small and incredibly culturally diverse school, but also a dumping ground for troubled kids not fitting into to regular schools in the area.<br />
<br />
I was there in February 2008, when the Australian Prime Minister made a formal apology in Federal Parliament to the stolen generations. I switched my schedule around so I could be at the school that day and watch the speech live in the library with the kids and the staff.<br />
<br />
For forty-three minutes this collection of sixty-odd rowdy kids, who would usually never let you get a whole sentence out, whom I could never get to focus on any task for more than minutes at a time, sat in utter silence, listening to Kevin Rudd. We were all watching together in solidarity, for the first and only time in my life that I felt like the government over me actually represented the moral authority I believed in. Australia was actually doing something... right.<br />
<br />
Some teachers started crying, then some more, then I did, all that pain, all that systematic structural brutality finally being fucking named. Even as I'm writing this now it's choking me up. Anyone who is cynical about what good formal or gestural acts like that apology make wasn't at that school that morning.<br />
<br />
In the present, I don't know what's happened to the young man I was last trying to find in Thornbury.<br />
<br />
I don't know that sharing and resharing rhetoric online really helps us. I don't know if I should be telling you about these things I've seen, the school, the people in Ceduna, the missing man. Truly these are not my stories to tell.<br />
<br />
I don't know what we do with all that virulent racism, occidental fear and deflected responsibility, attitudes of exclusion and inflated pride that days like Australia day expose.<br />
<br />
I only know that, back in 2008 we had one day, a single day that one could rightfully feel proud to be an Australian.<br />
<br />
<br />
Maybe we can still build on that.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
- Randall Stephens / Steven Taylor, January 26th, 2016<br />
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____________________________<br />
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<br />
<b><i> - Peace</i></b><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440407774572861373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-779415031411477722.post-64754564095985594592015-09-28T01:08:00.001-07:002015-09-28T01:13:52.422-07:00Now would be good - 28/09/2015<p dir="ltr">.</p>
<p dir="ltr">never get enough bread<br>
with my soup<br>
or sleep</p>
<p dir="ltr">always feel<br>
just a little too fat<br>
to fit into my afternoon</p>
<p dir="ltr">want to reheat the thing<br>
I just said<br>
again</p>
<p dir="ltr">could get way more stuff done<br>
if I wasn't already busy<br>
doing stuff</p>
<p dir="ltr">have a very good idea<br>
of what will make me happy<br>
it's whatever is over there<br>
just out of reach<br>
in another colour<br>
yeah like the one they have</p>
<p dir="ltr">I'm pretty satisfied<br>
with my level of dissatisfaction<br>
at the moment<br>
mostly<br>
for now<br></p>
<p dir="ltr">I guess.</p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440407774572861373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-779415031411477722.post-23622921306321423902015-07-28T19:02:00.001-07:002015-07-28T19:02:08.952-07:00Some Loose Change - 29/07/2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
.<br />
<br /></div>
busker over there is so bad<br />
think he owes me a few dollars out of his hat<br />
<br />
last night owes me three hours more sleep<br />
smokers on the lawn here owe me cleaner air<br />
cars owe me a whole lane to myself<br />
plus a few less opened-door fractures on my ribs<br />
X girlfriend owes me like a year and a half back<br />
poetry in Melbourne owes me at least five more<br />
social work another ten on top of that<br />
and a hairline intact<br />
Tony Abbott owes me a whole fucking country<br />
owe my sanity to a bicycle<br />
and myself a bit more self respect<br />
no one is going to collect on those debts<br />
<br />
as for that woman coming up to me crying<br />
homeless over my Bento box, well...<br />
<br />
‘spose I owed her at least a brief listen to her story<br />
stuck together cluster of excuses that it was<br />
it was also all true, that<br />
you get no centrelink for up to six months<br />
in some cases<br />
and no support without a fixed address to check<br />
doesn't mesh so well with being homeless<br />
these are called poverty traps<br />
amongst fucks to give I know this is all relative<br />
<br />
besides buying the odd Big Issue<br />
I don't give money to beggars<br />
any more than I feel the need to feed these birds<br />
<br />
but today just this once<br />
reach into my pocket<br />
drop a few gold coins<br />
into her scaly hand<br />
<br />
not because anybody is owed anything<br />
just because I think<br />
it's where that money should be<br />
this afternoon<br />
<br />
<br />
don't care what the fuck she spends it on<br />
'long as it doesn't go to that busker over there<br />
<br />
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__________________________________________<br />
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<b><i>-Peace</i></b><br />
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.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440407774572861373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-779415031411477722.post-45883004380683158162015-07-19T19:28:00.000-07:002015-07-19T19:28:54.614-07:00Rouge Rider - 19/07/2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
.<br />
<br />
<i>I'm looking out the window at this shiny red woman's bike, locked to a hoop on Sydney road with a matching red helmet. I'm madly in love with this bike and it's imaginary owner.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Really I should go out there and wait next to it with a single red rose, and when she shows up I'll simply explain that I have have a red bike too, and that this makes us soul mates. This will all be very cute, she will not be quite convinced of course, but charmed.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Then I should stammer that my bike isn't actually red, but I've accessorized it that way. Of course she will be impressed with my use of the word 'accessorize' and she will not find any of this creepy. Because I'm not like a creep or nothing, yeah. She'll see through my awkwardness for sincere spirit and strength, and then look at me like a sunrise in the mountains. I will hand her the rose without the slightest shake in my hand.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>She will pause a moment, swallow some decision with a shadow across her face, drop her handbag (not red because that would just be silly) into the bike's front basket before kissing me playfully. I kiss her back. Somehow the brims of our hats won't get in the way at all. Onlookers disappear, the traffic is gone, the rain falls silent. Re-materializing in my house we then have a night of passionate loving intense enough to strip religion off church walls.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>She will have forgotten all about her bike, just as I forgot about my stuff at the Laundromat. Don't ask me what happened to the rose.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>In the morning we will walk back here with dumb looks on our faces, back here to her shiny red bike and unlock it, together...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i>...or, I'll just sit here instead eating with my mouth open, not noticing that dollop of sauce dropped into my crotch as I was scoffing down these withered lukewarm french fries, with BBQ sauce. Tangy and salty.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>An unimaginative choice.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
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<i><br /></i>
<i>________________________________________</i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0Rirz_kpm4Q/VaxcU8JTImI/AAAAAAAABnI/4M9o2pDTEqM/s1600/red%2Bbike%2Bblues.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0Rirz_kpm4Q/VaxcU8JTImI/AAAAAAAABnI/4M9o2pDTEqM/s400/red%2Bbike%2Bblues.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b><i> -Peace</i></b><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i>.</i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440407774572861373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-779415031411477722.post-16513394341237591372015-07-03T00:38:00.000-07:002015-07-03T01:00:40.749-07:00Still Haven’t Ever Gone Fishing Yet - 03/07/2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
.<br />
<br />
as a writer<br />
I’m better with prose<br />
than with poetry<br />
though I’m a better poet<br />
than I am a social worker<br />
but a better social worker<br />
than I was last time round<br />
<br />
as employee, I’m an honest man<br />
and as an honest man I’m better<br />
... not saying anything else<br />
<br />
better with telling the story<br />
rather than listening<br />
wonderful lover, lousy partner<br />
better at making friends<br />
than keeping them<br />
better with burning bridges<br />
than just saying no<br />
better at talking my way in<br />
than talking my way out<br />
<br />
never really been good at much<br />
except covering<br />
or compensating for<br />
what I’m not good at<br />
<br />
started doing poetry<br />
because I looked around<br />
didn’t see hardly anyone<br />
doing it right<br />
<br />
stops writing poetry<br />
every time I look around<br />
and see<br />
the same damn thing<br />
<br />
worst thing I can say<br />
about others’ writing<br />
is the same as the best thing<br />
I can say<br />
<br />
<i> ...you fuckers make me want to write</i><br />
<br />
there is great admiration<br />
and pride for the self-contained<br />
<br />
it’s a discipline, a strength<br />
that from the minute I discovered<br />
self expression<br />
I’ve never been able to develop<br />
<br />
bombs go off inside our brains<br />
all the time<br />
sometimes it’s beautiful<br />
most of the time<br />
it just leaves bodies<br />
<br />
the self contained types<br />
bury them<br />
instead I take photos<br />
share a few around<br />
asking if anyone can identify<br />
<br />
the victims<br />
<br />
don’t want to die here<br />
alone<br />
in my head<br />
don’t want to die, period<br />
<br />
I will of course<br />
but before I go<br />
I’ll keep trying to do better<br />
with the things I do<br />
<br />
because I have to<br />
or else<br />
find more things<br />
to be better at<br />
<br />
<br />
than writing about it<br />
<br />
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______________________<br />
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<b><i> -Peace</i></b><br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440407774572861373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-779415031411477722.post-76169603791679615202015-07-01T19:11:00.000-07:002015-07-01T19:11:11.267-07:00Tom Morello's "Pacific Rim" theme on repeat, since you asked. And no it's not Helping - 01/07/2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br /></div>
.<br />
<br />
I don't feel like the whole World's against me<br />
<br />
more that the whole World's got it's headphones in<br />
and listens to crap music really loud<br />
while standing close, far too close to me<br />
<br />
some days<br />
my own music insufficient to drown it out<br />
<br />
<br />
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_______________________________<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<b><i>-Peace</i></b><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440407774572861373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-779415031411477722.post-28801206894419215842015-06-30T20:13:00.001-07:002015-06-30T20:13:52.546-07:00Back-up - 30/06/2015<p dir="ltr">.</p>
<p dir="ltr">The PC repair man thanked me for not crying in front of him, because apparently he has that happen a lot. </p>
<p dir="ltr">See, calling it a first world problem wouldn't have helped, but telling me about a mother whose computer he worked on, had lost all her baby photos, yeah that did.</p>
<p dir="ltr">He wasn't able to recover much from her PC, but one of the few folders he retrieved turned out to have some naked photos of herself. That's embarrassing.</p>
<p dir="ltr">She cried, I didn't. I wanted to though, only reason I didn't is that I generally can't in front of other people. It's like urination stage fright, or performance anxiety.</p>
<p dir="ltr">So, I've lost over six weeks work on sorting out photos for the book I'm putting together, what I've been working on since early May.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I'd been saving into an external hard drive that I accidentally pulled off the desk via the power cables at the back, while rearranging a plant and a lamp. It landed with an almighty whack and it now refuses to open. Dozens and dozens of hours work. All gone, because I wasn't watching my feet properly.</p>
<p dir="ltr">He was the arch -IT/tech looking guy. Obese, shabbily dressed, haircut like a schoolboy and laconicly unhurried in his work for the $160 per hour he was charging for his services. I can't imagine how he'd handle people crying in front of him. Then again what do I know.</p>
<p dir="ltr">No crying, but went and hyperventilated a bit though, in the corner behind my bookshelves where he couldn't see. Behind my weights and back rollers and piles of DVDs and y'know, everything I own that doesn't make this a cliche single guy's pad. Fuck it.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Anyway I hope he didn't hear me, He was phoning in his job summary. Just reiterating loudly to his boss that we couldn't get anything of the drive.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I was pacing my place waiting for him to leave making fists, breathing deep through my nose, probably most people who be very uncomfortable being in the same room with me. If he noticed my body language at all he didn't care.<br>
<br>
Figured I'd cry or smash something after he'd left, but I didn't. Went straight down to JB to buy a new 2TB hard drive to start over again, from scratch. Because that's doing something. Because it feels better to do things. Like actual functional, emotionally intelligent people do. So today I'll pretend to be one of those.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Still pretty numb though, at least I don't feel like crying or breaking anything now. Don't get me wrong, if I thought it would make me feel better, even temporarily, then I would. Ultimately it'd just be another mess I'd made that I have to clean up.</p>
<p dir="ltr">As soon as I finish this piece of writing I have to crack open that box and start over. Writing helps. The time I didn't cry because I didn't lose baby photos and no one random saw my tits and I hooray still live in the first world. (Although first-world is a term that refers to the cold war era -with the Soviet Block and allies being the second world, so technically I don't live in the first world anymore.)</p>
<p dir="ltr">Anyway, here I go again. I'll watch my feet better next time.</p>
<p dir="ltr">.<br>
________________<br>
.<br><br><br></p>
<p dir="ltr"><b><i>-Peace.</i></b><br><br><br><br><br><br></p>
<p dir="ltr">.</p>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440407774572861373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-779415031411477722.post-89335208139896888882015-06-25T06:45:00.001-07:002015-06-25T15:53:54.593-07:00a fire just waiting for fuel - 25/06/2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
.<br />
<br />
legs feel like arse<br />
your hands and elbows stiff from making fists<br />
and you wouldn't have needed to burn off<br />
that whole bowl of chips worth of fat<br />
with a boxing class<br />
if you hadn't eaten them<br />
in the first place<br />
<br />
you wouldn't feel like going away<br />
if you hadn't have come back<br />
wouldn't want to write it down<br />
if you were happier<br />
but writing it down<br />
does make you happy<br />
<br />
you wouldn't be so hard on yourself<br />
unless being hard on yourself<br />
was what makes you happy<br />
you like people you can talk with<br />
about the people you don't<br />
<br />
you chase loneliness away<br />
with the kind of company<br />
that sends you screaming<br />
back into your own<br />
<br />
you like porn instead of<br />
sex instead of porn instead<br />
of hungry for a healthy appetite<br />
and the hardest times you have<br />
are in trying to do<br />
those things un-challenging<br />
<br />
like cycling somewhere better<br />
than actually getting somewhere<br />
and look where it gets you<br />
<br />
you're looking for fuel<br />
a stomach full of empty grumbles<br />
being there<br />
to tear it down<br />
to build it back up<br />
to get even better still<br />
at tearing it all down again<br />
<br />
sift<br />
repulse<br />
attract<br />
reload<br />
write<br />
stop<br />
eat<br />
<br />
<br />
then burn it off again<br />
<br />
<br />
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<i>Sorry folks for things being so dead quiet round these parts in June. I've been busy sorting through travel photos and lots of stuff in preparation for a future book and other writing. Expect some more poems and pieces of writing here soon, promise. Stay tuned!</i><br />
<br />
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<b><i>-Peace</i></b><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440407774572861373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-779415031411477722.post-67440558109985518152015-06-09T05:10:00.001-07:002015-06-09T05:10:35.906-07:00#metaphor<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
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<br />
I did not hear tonight's question<br />
<br />
but my answer is no<br />
<br />
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_____________<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
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<b><i>-Peace</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
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.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440407774572861373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-779415031411477722.post-75405078073577986882015-06-07T17:10:00.000-07:002015-06-09T02:49:07.972-07:00P.S. I Hate Cops - 07/06/2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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If I wasn't feeling lousy when I rode here, then by the time I got done with two police officers here debating the semantics of where the train station starts and ends, and where I stopped cycling to avoid a fine, did the trick.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2L2xO8IJb_k/VXTcjqHH9pI/AAAAAAAABmQ/yf2hzz7LARA/s1600/2015-06-07%2B17.47.42%2B-edited.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2L2xO8IJb_k/VXTcjqHH9pI/AAAAAAAABmQ/yf2hzz7LARA/s400/2015-06-07%2B17.47.42%2B-edited.jpg" width="318" /></a>Feel lousy, but dodged the fine. Think it's easier to talk a cop down now that I'm older than most of these constables you'll meet out on street patrol. I can 'speak with authority when questioning it' but my insides still churn while I'm doing it.<br />
<br />
I'm numb, and this weekend has driven reasons to be happy in and out of me like an air exchange under my breath. Spent the afternoon with my family, sat for the last half hour before I left watching my father playing Monopoly with his two grandchildren.<br />
<br />
He can laugh. I tell you he laughs, animated and bright in a way I never saw myself when I was the childrens' age. That jovial spirit, he was never this lively before my niece and nephew came along. Was that sense of play always there under his gruff and cynical surface? I'd like to think so.<br />
<br />
Like when I play with a cat, rubbing noses and dangling string, and wanting that part of me out front all the time. It would be a great way to operate in the world, all the time.<br />
<br />
Except for when dealing with cops trying to impose on you, then I need to be as intimidating and assertively confident as I possible. I can do that.<br />
<br />
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I love being out cycling through the dark under amber light on cold quiet streets on a night like tonight. But I don't like that I'm going home to an equally cold and deserted home.<br />
<br />
I like making peace but also like standing up for myself. I wish I had a cat to pat right now, wished I'd joined in that instead Monopoly game instead of just watching to the side having a beer quietly. I sat there the way my Dad would've when he was, say, the age I am now. I'm still uneasy around young kids, like they'll see what an emotional fraud I am. The way cats do.<br />
<br />
I wonder if, or where I can cross over into that more playful territory. Instead of standing of standing my ground at a train station, debating boundary lines here, out in the cold.<br />
<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440407774572861373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-779415031411477722.post-14218407434322131622015-06-04T22:06:00.001-07:002015-06-09T02:51:05.582-07:00"You're not wrong Walter, you're just an asshole." - 05/06/2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
.<br />
<br />
my injury collection<br />
is about as interesting<br />
to everybody else<br />
as everybody else'<br />
tattoo collection<br />
is to me<br />
<br />
guess it's just a matter<br />
of dressing for the cold<br />
not to show off how much<br />
skin I have in this game<br />
<br />
the worst thing<br />
that ever happened<br />
to me<br />
told me she'll also be<br />
there, tonight<br />
<br />
have to not be<br />
a complete tool<br />
to not be<br />
a petty little man<br />
<br />
in theory<br />
I should be living<br />
by that tenet<br />
everyday anyway<br />
of course<br />
<br />
in practice<br />
I have to stop digging<br />
all these holes<br />
in my moral high ground<br />
no matter how big a plot<br />
of land<br />
it occupies<br />
<br />
or at least use one<br />
in which to bury<br />
this hatchet<br />
held so tight<br />
in the digging<br />
<br />
anyway not to worry<br />
about digging in<br />
or anything to bury down<br />
that's not where we're at<br />
tonight<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
because no one's throwing a party on my moral high ground<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
________________________<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>-Peace</i></b><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440407774572861373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-779415031411477722.post-45435886840768386422015-05-31T20:26:00.001-07:002015-06-02T20:36:24.205-07:00"Which has lead you inexorably... here." - 01/06/2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr">
.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
religion <u>i</u>s fundamentally<br />
any given civilization's attempt<br />
to ask the question</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i> 'So why should humans bother trying to be good?'</i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
only problem with that<br />
fundamentally,<br />
is that if God does exist<br />
I'm pretty sure she thinks</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
it's a stupid fucking question.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br />
<i>_________________</i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NKwARSqhFMI/VW52GyF2jLI/AAAAAAAABl4/SoXUpbkAmkk/s1600/architect.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="171" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NKwARSqhFMI/VW52GyF2jLI/AAAAAAAABl4/SoXUpbkAmkk/s400/architect.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>(finally a poem my Dad might like)</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br />
<i><b>-</b></i><i><b>Peace</b></i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
.</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440407774572861373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-779415031411477722.post-71917900929000300302015-05-30T19:15:00.001-07:002015-06-09T02:52:32.405-07:00Sex Hair - 28/05/2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr">
.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i>"sex hair"</i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i><br /></i>
somehow he'd never heard that phrase<br />
before she mentioned it<br />
it caught him<br />
saying it over and over<br />
kid with a new toy<br />
shiny<br />
sex hair, sex hair haha<br />
her sex hair yeah<br />
I like your sex hair</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
he writes down everything he likes<br />
he likes to use everything he likes<br />
he likes to show people what he writes<br />
himself into corners<br />
just to work phrases in<br />
to figure things out<br />
and she didn't like<br />
the things he wrote</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
he could respect that<br />
poems aren't good places<br />
to find yourself in</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
he sees the writing on the wall<br />
but then again he sees writing<br />
everywhere he looks</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
it's on the lamp<br />
left on in the other room<br />
all night</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
sees it in<br />
two whisky glasses<br />
abandoned on the floor<br />
one not as empty</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
see it in the disturbed<br />
contents of an open draw<br />
rummaged through bedside<br />
for material</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
sees it interrupted</div>
<div dir="ltr">
sleep in the evocative<br />
tangle in the eyes<br />
in the sheets<br />
of paper</div>
<div dir="ltr">
crumpled</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
worse still is when<br />
he sees things to write<br />
about what is not there<br />
for others to read in too<br />
a disservice to wordless<br />
urges made worthless<br />
sleep on it, absent-minded<br />
while that writing on the wall<br />
reads- </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br />
<i>
"some things you really shouldn't share"</i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div dir="ltr">
he wasn't reading<br />
those words back though<br />
too preoccupied</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
waxing lyrical about sex hair.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
_________________<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>-Peace</i></b>.</div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br />
.</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440407774572861373noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-779415031411477722.post-62584527223200551162015-05-27T08:31:00.003-07:002015-05-27T08:38:59.323-07:00Day One - 27/05/2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
.<br />
<br />
have to stop <br />
instantly falling in love<br />
with any woman out cycling<br />
in the morning<br />
<br />
then again<br />
maybe I don't<br />
<br />
microwaved food<br />
sugar and beer<br />
and porn<br />
and casual sex<br />
<br />
so desperate<br />
to be better<br />
setting a reminder<br />
that tells me<br />
<i>'stop hating'</i><br />
each morning<br />
at 9am<br />
<br />
what I can go without<br />
is being this fucking good<br />
at telling you all about<br />
what I should be<br />
going without<br />
<br />
got enough shoulds here<br />
to starve a whole village<br />
of artists<br />
<br />
I can do privation<br />
like it's a vice<br />
and vice versa<br />
<br />
need another fix<br />
of fixing<br />
gimme another hit<br />
of withdrawal<br />
<br />
and all the while<br />
only thing really wrong<br />
with me is<br />
I keep looking<br />
so hard<br />
to find<br />
<br />
<br />
something that is wrong with me</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
<br />
_________________________<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>-Peace</i></b><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440407774572861373noreply@blogger.com0