Again -29/04/2009

.

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.
Again.

The shoulders of four million –near,
Rub off on me,
Trying to clear my throat not daring to cough up conversation,
(ahem), excuse me,
Silently,
Humanity,
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,
Conversions reverting,
Revolt,
Fuck,
Play,
Man I used to have something to say,
A few days,
Spent,
Now my story says scribble but just don’t smile at me,
Singing no praise,
Trained stationary,
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,
My feet.

I have to tell you both something before I forget,
Again,
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,
Again.

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,
But please,
These,
Are my five seconds,
Before inspection,
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,
Again.

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,
And hurry,
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.
Again.

Before it happens to be,
That I can’t see the more extended-cut directed special edition version,
Of me,
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,
Of words.
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,

Never mind.

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,
I’ll change.

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,

Again.

Never mind,
Just like old times,
Only now you talk in thumbs,
Your nationality is air conditioned,
Never mind,
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,


Again.




__________________________________________
.



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. :-)


-Peace



.

Freed Style -14/04/2009

.

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.

.

...not tonight.

__________________________________________________

-Peace

.

Memory -31/03/2009

.
I forgot my lines,
Tonight.

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,
I think.

You know,
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...
Really good,
Really,


As I remember it,
It was going to be worth hearing.


________________________________________________


Goodbye, India.


-Peace.


.

Call Me Back -19/03/2009

.

Just hold on a second just down in the hall,
Where there's a painting I'm hanging,
Down halls from the tropic of a carcinogens label,
A corner holds,
Where I'm learned in Chinese algebra,
Holdouts and handouts on to seconds,
My baggage,
She's chained to my bunk.

I'm two feet one hand no eyes down the hall,
Heavy and painted yellow bars,
That shake like nerves,
Stammering, she said I am the one mumbling,
Shake like nerves all nervous-like,
Shell shocked somewhere between,
A count to sixty seven, sixty eight.

And a fist full of good nights.

Whistling the tune from fist full of dollars.
I'm leaning here, Leone style.
Look at me when I'm not talking to you!

No, I'm made of children and Simon is still saying,
Prying pied pipers in Hamlin,
Maudlin, maybe,
But I done learned something else now,
I learned those moments like new words,
Versed in one moment,
No future or past or present or nuthin',
Just do me a doorway to dark fill with a light-drinker,
His face is the whole shadow,
Looks like a pillow from what you cannot see,
Sings about ten years when he can't jump from this open door,
Holds back the upside down land in blue lights down that river,
The shoulders wanted to leap out,
But the elbows stopped him,
You better grow him hands to hold,
So we can pole-scratch some names into them,
Let it get all-filthy with squashed yawns and those frayed folds,
On red-gone-pink bank notes.

No soul left on either shoes that aren't shoes,
Call them sandals, not thongs,
Take this sentence slow as to not confuse one accent for slights,
Of hand,
Take a mouse pad and grow him a full story,
One eyebrow raised,
Up into the sleaziest of my moments,
So I can now pluck at the best of these and compare,
The length of our chin hairs,
To times spent with a light-head,
Hanging out a train doorway,
While I'm moving.

We're wrapped in plans,
And parts to play in them,
Staging the world in stages,
If it ain't on the page...
Then it's off the wall,
And I threw the fucker out the window.

Like its yet another block of concrete between these bars,
Another man wrapped in calls for food,
Another scuff mark stitch lost pull it with your teeth till the toes start hurting,
Another infection not healing thumbing a thimbleful of puss on a thrum,
Past another scab sacrificed to hairs on my shin,
Another glance to avoid,
Another light switch that don't work so good,
Another accent that hides words in cadence,
Alien.

Same place I hide the direct answer with the vague nod,
Another village that started with K,
And ended in sweat,
Some half-warm warning of a light threat,
You lose your cool,
And we'll take your life too,
Minute.

All in this vast space called a second,
All sounding like rattles of gauges,
All like pretending I know what you mean,
Like I have an audience in palm trees,
Like you fuckheads found something lost in the lines above,
Like I haven't crossed over,
Lines of control,
Into a vicious caricature of some old joke about existentially bad grammar school kids.
Wankers.

What I wouldn't give for one,
What I wouldn't,
Would that I was right out the window with a string of paper cups,
Or newspaper greased with pools of samosa fat,
Or sleeping across on a timescale that weighs in,
On a conversation that is long over,
Some embarrassed eye rolling you can smile to,
And then take you seat, please,
Sir.

Just shut the fuck up,
I heard the banana tree say,
But he wasn't talking to me though,
It was some message to pass on, to my thirties,
Or to my social betters,
Or to whom this may concern.

That tree wasn't talking to me,
Because I got a plan, like Cylons,
Revolving around doors and continental shifts.
Not stiffs in boxes,
Waiting for their plots,
To be dug.

But that's way under budget and I'm picking this conversation up,
I'm saying nah man,
I could gag her reflexes with plastic cup coffee,
Before she could tie a tourniquet round my eaten away finger tips,
With string from the last teabag.
Just shut the fuck up.
Is what the plant said, to the man with a plan,
And I'll pass that on.

I'm one of the few to break the curfew,
Like fuck, I know what time it is yeah,
And, yeah, I would have called,
But calling out for you,
And your anyone,
Is like cashing in this fat chance,
And I'm over-weighting in, not broke yet,
I've been dropping kilos like they could have just fallen out this door,
For the value of ...a few dollars more.

That is what I'll whistle next,
I'm gonna-be-have-been, up all night,
That's what you get for being born yesterday,
I'm don't want to sleep,
That moody bitch,
And sleep don't want to sleep with me,
Neither.

But I'll cum quietly,
I won't make a scene,
It won't make me either,
But from what the trees say,
This urban decay,
If you don't stare at them overhead wires,
In the middle of nowhere long enough to forget the urine you do smell,
And the sound of people you keep awake thinking,
Incessant,
Then you will never understand,
Why I can't explain,
This new understanding.

One word, first word, one syllable, first syllable,
Ummm...
Sounds like some future that looks like nothing compatible in the old format,
And the thread you will need to sow up that corner torn hole in the side of my arm,
Won't fit through the hole in your needle.

Because I'm a prick.

And you, are a corked-bored,
And we're all just some clumsy motherfuckers when you need these two hands,
To grip and the room won't stop rocking,
Not in that fun way,
Over even,
My way.

More like rocks without rhythm,
Some convulsive-retarded spasms bend-and-unbend to your knees,
Not much better than the way I try dance to reggae,
Three kneecaps, one love,
Hair everywhere, and sweat, and stains,
Keep forgetting to smile in case I was being looked at,
In that music I'm all thumbs, all mouth, all night.

All night, long.
As long,
As that might end up being,
Being, that it is tonight.

But you don't know that,
...unless you're down that hall,
Calling me back,
Watching me for hearing something,
Anything... please, I hear it.

You want to see it?
It's all there, idiot,
Facing out the open door,
Idiot,


Written all over my back.



_____________________________________________________


So I had a little time to kill in Bangalore, and I'm reading Henry Miller's "Tropic of Capricorn", blame him.



-Peace


.

All That, Was Left. -15/03/2009

.
This is where I was that last morning.

I awoke from dreams of someone else’ Karma-yoga,
Where I had dreamed wave length measurable-times,
In a loving world populated full of fears,
Mostly my own.

Staring up at that same ceiling,
Seen too many times,
But that time now,
Not seeming long enough.

This is where I was,
The community of conscientious objections,
To the objective bounds,
Of my world-view,
Now, it’s a scene of creaking ladders,
Now it’s a row of empty beds,
Now it’s nets and rope-holds.

It’s a stray end,
Poking out of a thatched leaf roof,
Now it feels like a school at sunset,
You’re only here if you’re trespassing or in trouble,
It’s bathing in glows of days gone-bye,
It’s a big fucking space,
Conspicuously full of emptiness,
Now.

This is where I was,
Back at our celebration,
That last day I whistled Palchabels Kanon,
Some irony of mine,
That I’l never let you let go of,
A private joke amongst my publicity,
Because privacy,
Became for us the new currency here,
Expensive,
It was traded, and I got my certificate,
I got my friends,
I had my doubts,
I made my mistakes.
And that cake,
Has been had and all been eaten now.

You know dem… down by the campfire,
A Portuguese beaconing Bob Marley over a beat,
Out into nights out in the forest.
That would transition into too-early mornings,
Where we dug, planted, watered,
Bunded, mulched,
Then breaked.

This is where I got pine-apple for breakfast,
On the even-numbered mornings,
Where,
I got Senegal fast food,
Stuck in my head.

This is where I heard him say,
You fucked it up!
Playing the Dude to my Walter,
I tell him, no problem,
And I can get him a toe by 4 o’clock if he wants,
With or without nail polish.
He walked around in his underwear,
Un-hippy,
Frowning at tomato plants from beneath that wooly beard,
While plotting his Zionist conspiracies,
No doubt.

This is where I took the classes,
That I tried not to sleep through,
Each one,
In the heat of a tropical afternoon,
Biological resources talking edges,
…y’all.

This is where there was a mud hole,
From which I crawled,
Playing crocodile for a while,
When I forgot anyone else was around.
Now that pool of water is all but gone,
Dried up in waiting,
For a rain months away.
From now.

This is where I pulled faces by the dozen,
Dragged them up onto an open-staged-space.
This is where,
I had read, that God, God help you, is dead.

This is where I defended and upheld,
Appalled and let go,
A battlefield tested opinion,
Watertight seaworthy, but sinking,
When my teeth sank into it.
Sharp, but somehow blunt,
Big, but always diminishing with the proof offered.

And that,
Is where I was when I got caught,
Got depressed and regressed,
Got detached, got rejected, dejected,
Where I deflected,
A tangible death,
For at least one more day, yet.

Where my bruises healed real-slow,
Where the infections spread,
Limping their way across the compound,
From one person to another.
This is where I was,
When we fell off and kept riding.

And here,
This is where I was,
Where I was when I told,
How not to miss,
The absolute perfection,
Of each moment,
In time.
Where I was,
When I finally came to see it,
And to believe in it,
Too.

This,
Is where I said so many farewells,
Too many, really,
For my words.
Sinatra sung, as I leave you there,
They call those songs,
Standards.
Beg me, or you, to stay,
One more day, one more hour.
…and I forget, the rest of his words.

You became another face, for me to face,
It got a little harder,
Each time,
The heart grew fuller,
As this place grew emptier,
Each time.

So this last morning awake,
This is the last time I will find-myself,
Standing here ...without looking over my shoulders,
Wondering what they can-and-cannot carry.
More than others,
But less than most,
As I tried to co-operate,
Not compete.

This is where I was.

This is what I’m leaving.
A forest to grow people, as they say.
Sadhana Forest,
Where I found a passion for this world, again,
This is where I was.
Where I helped it out just a little,
And this act helped me out,


A lot.


_____________________________________



-Peace



.

Over Parota -21/02/2009

.
A Trail.
Nine nations wide,
Made of coffee cups and table tops,
Traced out shapes sketchy,
To hold elbows,
That hold up hands,
Stuck in hair.
In here.

A Handful.
Of thoughts and eyes,
Darting across this expanse,
Of tiny puddles,
Reflecting,
Ceiling fan atmospheres.

A Voice.
Quiet like now buried seed,
From a few hours before,
Yours,
With dirt and scratched off dandruff,
Still under finger nails.

An Idea.
That gropes for some head to hold it here,
For some one-moment,
The briefest of these,
To look at,
It,
In your eyes.

A Gap.
Expanding itself in all directions,
Between each reason,
That binds the rationality,
Of a homeostasis-holder,
To the arms-wide embrace,
Of nothing at all,
… To hold you back.

A Now or Never.
Folding over in an endless,
Infinitesimal string,
Of pearl Now’s,
For you to miss,
Between the swiveling points,
Of arguments,
Stacked up to store,
More boxes to fit worlds,
In.

A look, Looking for more leverage.

A Spiral.
Working its way through curves,
In your trajectory,
Spreading out like a cheesy grin,
On a beautiful face,
Floating somewhere out there,
Beyond your boundary.

A need.
For invitations,
That won’t forth-come,
That know better and envelope,
You,
Contained,
But not solid enough,
To be opened –up here,
On this table.

A Student,
Taught by you, a thing or two,
Student-teacher-pupil,
In her eye,
Hair flowing,
Like connections between,
Now, and its opposites,
You, and all the rest of this,
Her, and the never-minds,
A chance,
And the law of conservation of,
Momentum.

A centre.
That cannot be-hold,
Scared as a held breath,
Silent as an unread book,
Distant as another yesterday,
Passing you,
On the road.

That centre scared,
That cannot hold you much longer,
Or back,
That centre scared that reaches for new edges now,
In the now,
That center scared, from here to there,
That Pandorian box opened over parota,
That centre scared like what-we-gonna-do-now?
That centre scared like last chances.

That center scared like dears,
On roads,
In head-lights,
That swerves in violence,
To avoid, impacts,
To steer us, sharp and sudden,

For worse or better,

In a whole new direction.

_____________________________________

-Peace

.

“One More Final: I NEED YOU” -07/12/2008

.
Just,
Sitting here missing you,
Thinking,
About you just sitting there and missing me.

The fonder heart,
Unused to our absences,
Left un-used to each other.

Mutual,
Our agony agony ag-on-nee,
Patient,
But hoping that this show is over soon,
You,
Represented now by the moon,
Telling,
Me who I and why I’m here,
Hanging,
My hands and knuckles drag,
Hamstrung,
Equating that my quadratics won’t function without you.

These,
Now are the lonely nights,
Each,
And every one that waits behind a day for me,
Just,
As you stand somewhere
Waiting,
Once and always you have been there,
Distance,
Expanded endless seeming it fills with hollow-ness,
Nothing,
I want for between the time and the moment,
Again,
Coming that I can be with you once more.

We,
Will alloy again into a together,
Like,
No others will ever know,
This,
A together-cradle for our intimacies at velocities.

Fast,
Our relationship moves,
Bumpy,
From experience perhaps sometimes,
Smooth,
Though, for the rest,
And mostly effort-less.

Now,
Time being I’ve been thinking on the curves on your body,
Touching,
Against my own,
Graceful,
Your angles,
Slender,
Your frame,
Responding,
Just the right way to my touch,
Telepathy,
Between us,
You,
Pressed harder still against,
Me.

We,
Together the machine,
Endowed,
With the very spirit and essence,
Humanity,
Our combined gestalt escapes the matrix,
Roads,
We once and will once more travel down,
Much,
Oh-so-much understood between us,
Without,
Superfluous words because our actions speak louder.

Reminded,
Of our once and always sacred places,
Grass,
Down by the shade of the Merri Creek,
Weather,
January anti-gravity-summer-love-song right about now,
Lounging,
An ‘us’ that lies there together,
Looking,
Up and away at our sky,
Knowing,
We’d fly up there if we felt the need,
Exhausted,
Already from celebrating our physicality,
Earlier,
That not so lazy Saturday morning.

World,
To each other,
Roads,
All leading to us,
Even,
As I took paths that took me away, from us.

Know,
That I’m returning to you to be a better man,
Ready,
To be a more committed companion,
Always,
You can feel confident for my affections,
Again,
I will hold you,
Close,
Treat you with that care,
Listen,
To what you need from me,
Will,
Be there by your side.

Everywhere,
I go you will be there,
Never,
Will I leave you out in the cold,
Never,
Hiding you from my friends,
Never,
Be too busy to spend time with you.

Promise,
When traveling again you will be by my side,
Taking,
You with me wherever I roam,
Seeing,
More of these countries, this world,

Unfair,
Of me to have left you,
Waiting,
Without the comfort of a companion,
Gathering,
Age without grace
…or adequate lubrication.

Idle,
Alone and in darkness,
Leaning,
Against some brick wall,
…with the rest of my possessions.


Want,
To ride you again and again,
Become,
Through that joining the growling beast that only you,
Unleash,
From deep within in me.

Yearn,
To touch you again,
…hold you by those new grips I put on you not long before I left.

Dream,
Of wrapping my legs around your body,
…and strapping by boots onto you.

My love,
I want to take you through red light intersections,
Bounce you up gutters,
Guide you down staircases,
Like I used to do.

Didn’t plan to be gone,
Nearly this long,
Aching,
And even now I shiver,
Thinking,
About laying eyes on you again,
…and I know you’ll need one hell of a good service,
After not being used for a year.

Dearest,
My fundamental incomplete-ness centre-piece,
Bringing,
You back out to share the daylight.

Together,
You and I as one heart on fire,
Hard,
After I pump up your tires.

Finally,
And once more we’ll be,
Perfectly,
Two combined in purpose,
Unioned,
In my madness once more.

Disregarding cars,
You’ll be rescued from my parents’ garage,
Into the future we’ll roar and charge.
A singular insane entity,
On the run, and always… at large.

You are that which moves me,
The health-blood of,
My rediscovered life,


Yearn for you still, my beloved bike.



_______________________________________________________

Admittedly this needs work structurally, but the time is not-forthcoming, and the existing piece has all the sentimentality it needs. Additionally, the peom already has some historical significance within the trip (already performed to good effect), and so I felt it should be blogged -before- my return home. Cheers.


-Peace



.

Breasts -21/01/09

.

Breasts.
Breasts...
They, are the best.
Oh yes,
My friends, I'm talking about breasts.

Breasts.
Man, I'm impressed,
With their shape, firmness,
And all the rest.

Breasts,
On her chest,
Believe me, I try my best.
Not to be a lech,
But I'm powerless,
When resisting temptations of...
Staring at her breasts.

Breasts,
There's really no contest,
For where my eyes get,


Stuck.


...it's just my luck,
To then get busted,
Staring at her bust,
And then I lose her trust,
Now she's real suspicious,
That I only think about what juts,
Out from, her chest,
Namely, her breasts.

Breasts.
At her bequest,
I want to be her guest,
To please make... a mess,
All over the top of those breasts,
Right on the crest,
Or directly after, a conquest,
I guess.

Breasts.
I speak on, in jest,
Not to cause offence,
But perhaps because I'm jealous,
All that attention she gets,
For having breasts.

Breasts,
Have pressed their shapes into my consciousness,
Now on exposure to them my intellectual power plumm-ets,
Into an infinite regress,
Falling far, the IQ points down, as far as it gets,
And the only thing to land on, I have left,
A cushioning idea... the one about, breasts.

Breasts,
It may seem utterly meaningless,
But it is for these, that I quest,
Though it seems hopeless,
As women ussualy just think I'm a pest,
To say nothing about letting me undress,
Getting a closer look at,
Yeah... her breasts.

Breasts.
Damnable breasts!
I say they're horrible monsters like the Loch-Ness,
And like Captain Ahab chasing the White Whale,
I too am obsessed!
By those comely breasts.

Breasts,
They threaten my equilibrium and wellness,
My imagination gives me no rest,
And it does pain me to confess,
Yes,
For all my cerebral force on fire,
It is still my basest, but greatest desire,
To simply pull up a chair,
Sit myself down without a care,
So I could just, endlessly stare,
At what she has there.

My meaningless,
Yet continual, imperishable and indiminishingly eternal zest,


To have a look over there, and gaze at her breasts.



__________________________________________________


Yeah well...
Why I pick the out pieces from the notebook that I do, and blog them, is beyond me. And all this while, people keep reassuring me I'm really a nice guy deep down. Then I keep talking.

I remember emailing the great Steve Smart and telling him that I intend to singularly destroy Melbourne poetry when I get back, he said destruction was good. Maybe we needed more terms of reference? So blame him for my misbehaviour.


-Peace.

Don't Ask Why -08/01/2009

.
"Everybody is going to call everybody back,
As soon as somebody knows something."

-Alex Scott, (untitled)





If the world ever loses its mind,
It will be in India.

It will be in that place,
Where westerners come seeking ancient wisdom,
Amongst inadequate sanitation,
Here for a piece of peace and harmony,
Amongst an amazing symphony of traffic horns,
That will always be unfinished.

If the World ever needs a reality check,
It will be in India,
India the incredible,
Boasting more billionaires,
And impoverished peoples both,
Than any other nation on Earth.

If the world ever needs an enema,
It will be in India because…
No shit,
It’s in India that shit,
Is goin’ down man,
And up,
And around,
And on the walls,
And floors,
In the fires,
Streets, roads, footprints,
And definitely, definitely,
Hitting the fan.

If there’s ever a fuse to be blown,
Or a movie shown,
Song and dance lights showing,
Street poles each wired like whole a phone exchange,
That,
In other countries might seem strange,
It just won’t,
Be,
Because, you’ll be in India.

If one time a Sikh, a Muslim, a Hindu and an Atheist,
Are sitting around together this one time,
It won’t be a joke,
It’ll be a peaceable conversation,
And you, will be in India,
Ah ha ha hah.

If everything is gonna be fine,
As long as you don’t look down,
Now,
You’ll be in India, my friend.

If there ever was an exception to the rule,
A sore thumb sticking out,
Lose thread,
Or something better left unsaid,
It was all in India.

If history never explained anything ever,
Or ever again, yep,
That’d be India too,
You,
Will be trying to find internet connections,
At five past nine in a city of two point three million,
Otherwise fine folks,
And fail foregoing fail-safes,
Laughing yourself,
Hysterically cynically, stiltedly,
Jadedly, fanatically,
Not watching traffic walking,
All the way across jammed intersections,
I reckon,
Oh ah ha hey hey,
How you doing,
Sorry you can’t get through,
Jokes on you,
A ooh ooh ooh,
Get it get it,
What you looking at pal?
Don’t mind me,
I’m just in India.

If there was anything that ever,
Really actually,
Went wrong,
Or could, or might,
Or should-have-but-didn’t,
Or won’t-but-watch-out-because-it-still-might,
Or won’t you’ll never know,
Until its way, way too late,
Mate,
You never know…
It might be…
It might be…
In India.

If you really feel like asking why,
But know there’s no-point,
Boy,
You know what we’re talking about,
With scams and and tricks and hotel touts.
India.

It’s the hair of the dog’s gory story,
In an allegory wagged by the tails,
Of greener grass glass houses green house effecting,
Selective judgment days and nights,
Like the one with the rows of naked children,
Laying right down the side of Chandra chowk,
A hearing-contest,
Screams between,
With you and your own so-called conscience,
Back to sleep you,
By saying it’s all right all right all right,
All right?
It’s all right even though you know,
It’s not,
And it’s gonna be,
You know what it is,
And it is just,
That you,
Are,


In India.



________________________________________________


Oh and the title? It's in reference to something a fellow traveler at New Delhi airport I disembarked with said, that I couldn’t quite gel into the body of the poem, but really wanted to include. She said to me “Don’t ask why, you’re in India now, there is no ‘why’“. Not to sound smug or jaded, but in all candor, I seriously can’t stress how effective that advice was, having explored some Zen riddles a little while in Nepal, it… kinda… works.

Good night folks.


-Peace


.

"Fuckin' Poets" -29/12/2008

.

"They say alcoholics are always alcoholics, even when my lips are dry..."
-Ani DiFranco, Fuel


"Humans must be the only species capable of hating themselves"
-Anno Hideki, The End of Evangelion


"My keys don't fit."
-Henry Rollins, Get in the Van


"You've changed? I think... weather changes, and we keep on making the same mistakes."
-(John Criton), Farscape.






FUCKIN' POETS



You can feel,
A million hands on you at once,
Squirm,
Sense being touched by them all.

Your eyes are hurt,
Everywhere,
By the whole,
Of it.

Poet.

You have a skin,
Covering you,
Only so you can cover it,
In those scars,
And it's as thin,
As,
A contraceptive membrane.

You have eyes,
Window-pained,
Seeing out as if through glass bricks,
In a bathroom steamed up,
In the showers,
You take,
Hot and cold.

You are barely...

Or not at all,
You kill with looks,
And died each day,
Suicide,
In heart failures.

Poet,
You've been so short,
In the distance,
And seen,
So far ahead of yourself,
To understand the doom before the threat,
That might lead to it.

And you don't know,
You really don't know,
Where.
Or how.
So missing these from the recipe,
The why,
Is overcooked,
Other ingredients still,
Overlooked.

Poet,
If what you say is true,
That only,
What you say is true,
Was true,
You're a poor poor soul,
Impoverished soul,
That is.

You're a butterfly,
Caught in the chaos,
Of your own storms.

Poor soul,
You really do,
Want the cake too,
To have it,
Not to eat it,
Just so you can tell them...

Tell them, yes,
Tell them all about...
The hunger.
Or about how beautiful the cake is.
Or the anticipation,
Of eating eating it.
If only you could.
Or tell them about,
The last bad dining experience,
You had,
Or,
Whatever because cakes... pfft.

Poor-soul that you are,
'cause its a cake-walk,
For the rest,
While you're off wandering,
Unfed through forests of the trees,
For you to read,
Into,
Between lines,
Trying to find,
The real reason,
While your stomach,
Stays empty.

You,
Poor,
Poor,
Soul.



You fuckin' poet.




____________________________________________________

;-)


-Peace

Setting -28/12/2008

.

Watching her,
Fallen asleep,
Glowing band of colour,
Where suns just set,
Moments ago,
Light now covered behind,
Eye lids.

Sitting by her side,
It was still not quite night,
It was still warm,
The air,
I was still close enough,
To her,
Still enough twilight remained,
That moment,
It was still okay,
For me to still be there,

Sitting next to her.



_________________________________________



-Peace

Two Thousand Eight -31/12/2008

.

This year,
If,
I could almost count,
Intimate encounters had,
On one hand,
That weren't with that hand,
On the other hand,
I can count this year itself,
As the best one,
I've ever had.

This year gone,
If,
It saw stock markets fall,
My dollar decreases,
In the crisies',
Then at least,
As a stock, my own life's-value,
Split and sky-rocketed ten fold,
Through its experiences,
Felt,
Not that I would trade it,
For anything else.

This year,
Found my voice,
Yelling hoarse,
As I learned the lyrics of alone,
Off by heart,
Singing all the words in the rain,
Washed me clean across,
Forty-three cities' streets,
And two overnight sleeper trains.

That weather now on my face,
One year sunrises,
Five continents later,
They used to say I looked young for my age,
This year,
No one says that anymore.

They say,
In so many words,
I'm heir apparent,
To the outrageously fortunate,
To a life now taken hold,
A year later not feeling so old,
As I used to.

One year,
Once around the sun on this planet we go,
And I've made friends all over it,
From all over it.

Life, time,
You can feel pieces of them both,
Twinned in every breath you take,
Inhale it all from the air through nostrils,
And out again from your mouth,
You can renew,
These gratitudes,
There in every breath,
Or take them as simple platitudes,
Down to your death.

I'm thankful,
For it all,
End of year you old acquaintances,
Are not forgotten,
You friends I've never met, yet,
I'm writing a general 'thank you',
To this life,
That is only and that is the least,
I can do.

I, we, Us,
Got a lot to celebrate,
From this year passing,
Two thousand and eight,

It's been the greatest, funnest, crasiest, bestest year I've had, to date.




__________________________________________________




In 2008, I've had a year that can barely, scarcely, poorly be contained within that four letter word. So, wherever, whoever and however you are, in whatever circumstance you find yourself in today, in this life, you have my best wishes, and hopes. May you find whatever it is that make you smile. Twice over.






-Peace

Not With You At You -29/12/2008

.

Laugh,
Laugh yourself in half,
Laugh like a life raft,
At long last,
Or a parachute catching your up-draught.

Laugh like there's enough left in the cup,
Then laugh yourself the right side up,
Laugh like it’s all you know how to do,
Like that laughter can save you,
Giggles going to see-you-through.

Laugh like you’re the left-over,
Wedding feasts from funeral meats,
Laugh like the unconscionable king,
Or the lunatic on the grass,
Laugh,
And chuckle like slips over a sly word,
Laugh like the black cloud,
Lines lining the silver tongue,
Licking laughs off your cheeks,
With whipped cream,
In wet dreams,
Down streams that break at the seams.

Laugh like error-mongers,
Sucking vampires of their follies,
Laugh like the drunken monkeys,
Riding schooners,
High speed into brick walls,
Then arguing with the conductor,
For more change,
Back,
Exact change,
To the deranged.

Laugh.
Your wicked witchcraft.

Laugh,
Or I’ll hurt you.
And laugh ‘til it hurts you.

Laugh like it’s gonna flesh you out,
Dig you in,
Fill you up,
Taking hand-biting feeds,
On your chin,
Hold your humour within,
My bad taste,
Bitters.

Laugh.
I said laugh, fucker,
Laugh!

________________________________


-Peace

The Music, Man... -15/12/2008

.

The screen, is cracked,
Or shattered, to be exact,

You better, just relax,
Stat,
Just cool out, and deal with that,


(...)


. . . AH CRAP!


______________________________________

A shorty today, but maybe a little more fun that last round? Meant to have something a little meatier ready, but we're outta time, rhymes for these lines... etcetera, and I'm running late, late for a very important... prior engagement.



-Peace



.

In Whore Eyes -09/12/2008

.

“Asking all these questions ain't highly recommended,
They’ll eventually get answered if you put time into friendship,
That is if what you’re doing is helping and it’s not like you know until you, uh…

…reach the ending”


-Sage Francis, Agony in Her Body






You want those eyes to adore you,
Those eyes… do not adore you.
Those eyes,
Look like vacancies,
Light-up signs at a hotel,
On the road,
Those eyes aren’t a home,
Nor a real shelter,
From the storm you're stuck in,
They're just a sign,
Saying you can stay,
Overnight,
If you must.

Nothing looking back at you,
Not eyes not-looking back,
No ~ nothing looking back,
At you.

No matter,
How you feel that body move,
Under you, in front of, on top of,
Feel the twitches and see spasms,
You’re sure this is all real,
Like the mattress beneath you both,
Feels thin and possibly hiding stains,
It’s a bit like her, liking you,
In this dim light you’re in.

Looking back,
Nothing trying to find you,
Coming for you as you’re diving in,
It will find you through flinches in a tangled blanket,
A mangled top,
Twisted bra on the floor,
Two matching shoes at opposite ends of the room.

You’re unseen and drowning in her out-of-focus.
You’re the cause of all this friction,
The lengths you go to in her,
Into her nothing, you see,
Eyes that won’t look to hold you,
Eyes you’ll plead to hold you,
Begging as physical exertion,
Each thrust says,
Please her, please me,
Please,
Show me,
Something there,
Please,
Can’t these eyes grab onto you?
Pretend for a bit like you’re something,
Make you believe you could be,
Allowed somewhere inside her head,
Please?

You can access one of her voids,
In exchange for another.
The body answers,
Pleads with her too in a chorus with yourself,
But the windows of that soul,
Are shut,
You’re thumping knocks unanswered,
Eyes not heeding, needing or holding promises,
Eyes not lust more fear, at her fearlessness,
Not what happens when you come out,
Not exactly regret,
But simply embodying you,
As… the time-being.

You are her fatalism,
As a vessel,
Leveled against the dregs,
Of four beer bottles,
That have all accidentally fallen off the walls,
That she keeps up,
To keep men like you, out.

While your walls are all down,
To stop you together needing,
What you’re wanting from her.

A fable explaining,
What you can, and cannot have,
That girl, woman,
Who sleeps in this room,
Beautiful, sharp,
Utterly alive,
Met earlier that evening,
Nope, not allowed to have her,
In the blank stare back,
That much is clear.
You can have her like a slut,
Who has alcohol,
Who has a roommate out,
Who has nothing better to do,
Than make a mistake,
Out of you.

Those eyes speak of transaction,
Not seduction,
Fucking eyes that she will not give you,
For her all her sounds,
Her gripping on the head board,
Facial twitches,
Grimaces, you know these movements well,
But the eyes worked against completing her face,
Eyes that won’t allow the rest of her to see you.

Eyes that are looking at you,
Like a ghost story,
That scares her.

Tinting her twitches bitter,
The eyes will keep just the one thing else,
From everything she’s let you have,
Tonight.
That long hair, ear lobes,
Hips down to labial folds,
Her legs that should be all-yours.
The eyes steal everything back,
What you’re taking from the break in,
They’re not going to give in.
Will not let you have,
A moment with her.

Those two dark orbs.
You swear,
See right through the back of you.

Her daytime eyes are not yours to have,
You cannot keep,
You cannot hold,
You cannot touch,
Thief, cheat and hollow man.
Look at your hard earned prize,
Looking back.

In all this,
You’re getting nothing,
From a real her,
Just damned eyes that’ll leave you,
Both later to despise yourselves,
Because you’ve been seen,
As you might look in the eyes of a whore,

Now she really wasn’t this,
But this is really what her eyes gave you,


And you didn’t particularly like what you saw.





____________________________________________


Now, just remember the opening to the accompanying quote, before you comment. I've blogged a lot lately, consciously, becauase tomorrow I'm off the beaten track again for a while. So until next time-



-Peace


.