Category : Prose


…. then there was the time she let me place those intricate, flowing lines of self upon the soft contours of her back, the slightly dusked and beige hues of her skin flowing in sync with the subtle nuances of that portion of the world irrevocably tied to the passion of self..

The day is warm, and there is that vivacity in the air around her that cuts through every small parcel of wonderment. In the background, a fan whirs its way, back, forth, splaying the hot air of the room from each corner to each, one wall to another, flowing around us in a near silent movement of breath within breath within breath. Across the bed, are pieces and notations, fragments and collusions of artistic vice and creatively spliced edifices that have been worked upon and blundered into – formed and resolved.

Pieces of paper. Books. A bag.

A camera resting on the softened surface.

I draw, the lines continuing, moving and very near placing themselves of their own accord. I watch a shiver move within her, for all the heat, as I traverse a shoulder blade with the fine edge of the only weapon I will ever wield that will mean a damn.

She’s talking of study, she’s talking of nature. She talking of the things done and things to come and the things that are un-spun within her world. Shocks of brain and teasers of life bundled into a cameo appearance of fragments and pieces.

As the lines continue, there is a word inside. There are too many words. There is that wholly impossible and indescribable babble of voices and reasons, choices and terrifying precipices of knowing.

Another sound bestrides itself across the moment. A television purports its wares and shouts its ways with a soft embrace as images and settings display themselves in succession across its photon infused shield, apart from the moment, apart from the world – the creatures across its view a procession of the new, the old and the curiously weird and wonderfully provisioned familiar.

A final line matches itself, a movement and a small hushed outlet of sound; something reconciles itself within me, and I take nib from surface, a thing not finished, nor ever will be – a thing as final as it could be. The patterns wind their way across and around, but never ceasing to find that very second where they will end – continuing, and in my imaginatory, near-panoramic view I see it spreading, evolving and making itself as it wends its way all across her, to ever corner and every thought, inside, out and as devoutly intimate as only that portion of a hidden fevered feeling could be.

I take the camera, and press. I snapshot a moment, and that is what there is – that moment. A single fragment. A larger whole. A line upon which there is only very little understanding, and little knowing. An encompassing mosaic of hypothesis.

Its there, that second of time – and though only a small portion of it is placed, it is enough to make itself whole.

Afterwards, there is a tentative embrace, arms across and shaped, and the fan takes its passenger of air and wraps itself around us. I hold, without holding. I touch, without touching. There is a breath upon breath upon breath and a laughter covering everything, a mirth that can only be seen from two pairs of eyes. I wonder, if the thoughts impeding upon me are held – I wonder, if as cheek to cheek, eye to eye, breath to breath to breath if that upwelling of something .. other .. is there and that breath upon breath inside breath next to skin on skin holding upon breath upon hold upon skin upon glance inside glance looking eye towards eye upon a breaking breath …

I wonder. I wander inside whilst displaying nothing outside … I wonder and wander across all those things and more. I fail in self understanding, again and again – but the words are there, always beneath the veil of outwards self. The words unspoken and as formless and incomplete as the lines upon her skin, as hypothetical as those subtle nuances of the world I find myself thrust into – and shaped in those words are the wondering of if she understands and knows how such things are like the atoms around us – so vast and incalculable across the universe, and yet as rare as a fragment of life is across the islands of time … precious and so near-never encountered after a lifetime of travelling the pathway of heart and passion, of souls akin and alike..

I feel a shift, and we are apart, and yet in that single second, a macrometer of distance is discarded, and a gulf of time and place is open in the same moment that an incredible distance is covered, light years apart, skeined, meshed and yet as if a fold in a continuum has been smoothed down by the hand of a wondering deity …

Around us, the air moves. A fan in the background cools the surfaces of our skins. Notebooks and sketchbooks and papers and pieces and fragments and edifices and contours join us in a place where neither can enter nor leave, and I feel the words. I know the words. Like a song sung only once, and yet which stays with you for the rest of your days – like the notes beneath, playing themselves out time over time, awaiting only an orchestra of such dissonant distances to form their own concerto…

… the words are there, always beneath the surface. They are as improbable and as impossible as the intricate lines of flowing self upon her skin. There is no speech, and yet the words are not needed within that subtle nuance of a portion of a world that is irrevocably tied to that moment in my minds eye, this time I speak of – and beyond the worlds of words, I know not to move or their dyslexic ambiguity will falter ..

….and yet if I wait, will they form themselves and release themselves from the cage in which they are placed?

Thus it is that I stand here sitting, some distance away, and yet so close I can reach out, so close that I can look into her eyes by merely shutting my own and thinking of that day… I breath…

Inwards. Deeply.

I breathe, gently, ever so gently, and feel that breath upon breath upon breath upon breath …

I do not move, for fear of waking those words that slumber between us …

The Dictum

It’s hard to stay sated.

Lumbered and thorough, your life on the edge of a broken wheel, tumbling with fucking hamster like zeal and grasping at the edges and hoping your eyes don’t stray from the dollars and cents of satisfaction. One side step, and that whole edifice spills, your feet snap downwards as if you’re Indiana Jones attempting to cross a fucking rank, decrepit bridge that someone like that old train-snake-sneak-crotch-toucher would have hidden under as a child.

You can eat, but you’re never full. Never full of life and love, never full of talent, never full of vice and the constantly evolving dice rolls of relationships with your fellow hamsters. You’re just on that wheel, eyes forward, heads down, hustling for all your worth and hoping to not step on others truths as you do so.

But, shit, this presumes you have morals. It presumes that your resume is one of valor and noble Paladinic pride. Assumes that you’re like some glorified gift to humanity, without a skerrick of doubt, sadness, guile or just sheer cunty badness of heart – because you’ve never done that, have you? Ripped off a friend, cheated a lover, lied to your brother or stolen from your mother – coz you’re a hamster, right? Running rings around whoever brings you joy and hope and pleasure along with a little grope of sex-staunched rope to hang around your wondrous pride.

You’re fucking Indiana Hamster! Look at you go! Look at how you wade through the social race with all the bonafide fucking grace of a pair of anacondas fucking underwater, rolling in the mud and muck of some Amazonian stream stuck in endless cycles of flood and plain, at every coil and thrust of whatever the fuck snakes use for cock and cunt, visiting pleasure-pain releases beneath the sordid filth of fluid and vegetative matter. Where is all your work-life balance amongst the torrents of such fun filled dilemmas? You fucking think you’re free! But the cage is so simple that it holds you in check without you even realising that your neck is well and truly in the noose – and you can’t recognise it for what it is. Can’t see it for how it holds you. Can’t untie yourself or even slash your wrists to provide the necessary lubrication to decide on if you want to stand on your own two feet and

Just. Fucking. Go. For. It.

This is where they come in. Your friends, family, lovers, haters, all those dick eating rollers and trollers – you’re nowhere near full, and they’re just sitting there, satisfied, not looking inwards to your life, judging you by whatever hope and strife you wade through, like you’re some kind of endless Korean drama – oh look out! There’s a villain, there’s the murder, there’s the threesome triangle lover and the weird fucked up mother who hides her secrets til screening time. They feed off you and eat every ounce of flesh from your personality, sucking on the marrow of any tragedy that falls.

By the time you stop running, little hamster, you won’t feel like sitting in repose, sunning yourself a little, waiting for each presumable chapter to close. You’re not a book. You’re not a drama. You’re not some hackneyed little fucking farmer for the sheriff to take advantage of – but don’t worry, coz they’re all watching. Waiting for you to fall to pick up you up or kick your butt or just sit back and laugh. They’re all waiting for those moments, though none will admit, when you’re just a distracted piece of satisfaction. A minor villain, an epic fail. A greater hero, an epic tale.

You’ll never be full. You’ll never step away from the wheel of the real until you really, truly, step outside that constant dictum –

and stop playing yourself for a fucking victim.

Nineteen Smiles

I chase a smile like a three letter word – and, she, yes, may, its – but for all I would think I am capable, I am not. There was nothing more than a slip in my mind, a swing in my thoughts – and there it was supposed to be – forever elusive, forever vagrant.
You’re wondering about this smile. You’re thinking, what is it that caused you to chase it so? Where were you chasing it from, and where were you chasing it to? Its not as if a smile is a physical entity, its not as if they are hard to come by – for most. They are signs of happiness, are they not? They are a manifestation of your own cerebral joy. This, is true, for the most part – but in most examples, at most occasions, they are the tool by which we deceive, lie, meander, wander and consol. We use them to break, start, ease and dwindle the impact of other words. A quick smile is like a quick fuck – satisfying, but, ultimately, all you’ve done is sated yourself for a few moments with the fulfilment of amusement.

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The Lattice

There you are.

So there you fucking are. That euphemism, the one in the corner and the one that sits over on the pyre, you’re all lit and on fire with all the moves and the smooth versions of your speech.

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I have this impression of a moment – its there and wandering in the cornice. The shed out the back where the possums lay and argue –

… but, I digress

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The Mastery

“If you are wondering whether you’ll have to stand vigilant with pencil and paper until the end of your days – you wont. Writing things down is only a way to get started, like training wheels on a bike. The mastery over our dark thoughts and feelings quickly becomes a habit. As the grey cells are reprogrammed, the left front lobe is trained to master negative emotions a tenth of a second after they first appear. As this ability grows, the bitter feelings disappear.”

Stefan Klein, The Science of Happiness

Yet where is this mastery that is spoken of? Where are the pillars of compressed and reprogrammed emotions? Where is the knife with which to slice open the package in all its glorious wonder?

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For I Am Schrödinger's cat

I am the cat in Schrödinger’s box.

I live in a house whose structural integrity is unsound. The foundation of concrete cracked, the beams bored throughout by the mindless crawl of tiny thoughts remebling white backed ants. The windows long since glazed over and curtains hanging tattered.

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The Slightest Fragment

I need to edge out the science of over performing. Over correcting and over-relating to all those things that have come and scraped up against the wilderness of my fingertips – the barren, tender little bites of temple touch there at the end of my taste.

Is it axiomatic, quietly now – is it tragic of asymmetry in me to want to take those cardboard cutouts and swords made of rolled up paper and poke tem into the recesses that hold my together? That I want to stab myself with the edges of a thousand letters,and pour vinegar over the multitude of papercuts that they leave in their wake?

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Stipulating lubrication

Often times you must actually decide what it is that you need – is it a flower? Oh no, is it an interpretive dance? Oh lah. Is it a goat? Or a Geet? or a little, perrrrrrfect piece of sheep in a bowl of tender red curry?

So the stipulation is thus: lubricate my mind. Let it hold water. Let the holes in the basement of it chew through the world. If there is no lubrication, then possibly try sand. For all that have read upon the mighty religion that is Sandology, will know of that whch I speak – your life, in a grain. blue, white, yellow, imperial or silica consistant – not quite a lubricant, but at least you can surf down it.

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Hearts racing like a gunfire cotton shot, fingers are twitching and the rumination of the belief that I hold here: somewhere, down inside on the internal mechanism of my life is somewhat skewed: Im waiting, like a twigless matis to ponder to pounce and quite possible renounce the welfare of anything that comes towards me.

Im not ready for change. Im not ready for the knowing or the unknowable collapse of turns and shaking darkened evenings. Theres only sudden belief, suddenly relief and the machinations of those around me that cant seemt o turn themselves into the real.

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