I should have said, "and wet ones!"

Hahahahahhaaaa

superlative

sitting in septic sepulchre
solo
spectre
in solitude
solo, or solitude
there is a difference
what is the difference?
scepticism or cynicism, I've
no idea
who knows

unforgiving and unforgetting
I can neither forget nor forgive
I give, and for what?
I get, and for what?
I slumber, the most
sound somnabulent, and
for what getting?
For no giving
for only some solitude
without solace
"come and be more sociable" she tells me
what, so I can bequeath my silent soliloquoy?
no thanks
sorry
(and yes, I still say that).

It doesn't have to be good. It just has to be familiar.

cornwall park

Whenever I go here I think about your decrepit body wandering around between the trees. The trees are all women, split in two by flash-phallic lightning. I think about you being alone and quiet. You are an observer. And when you speak it is a small, steady utter which carries across the crater. The newly-shorn sheep gather around you but don't come too close. They are fitter than you and wary. You are wary of the other people but like the sheep. So because you are wary of the people, and the sheep are wary of you, you are alone.

This is my imagined version of you.

urban blues

first kiss shorts
they are the oldest piece of clothing I own*
they are quite ripped on the left side
they still fit me
I still wear them
they have seen eight summers
and five countries
the insides of six wardrobes
they have made multiple memories
they must stay, they must
stay
until they eat themselves open

they have seen midnight sand dunes
the seats of bicycles
tropical storms
the underneaths of summer dresses
their own reflection shining back at them on stage tarketts
caravans and campervans and tents
austrian mountain tops
sulphur-drenched gondolas
they have been a closer companion to me than most humans
these shorts -
is that weird?


*I have not held onto them because they are my first kiss shorts, it just so happens that they are the only thing I owned then that still fits me and that I still like. 

YES!!!

What are you?!

ghost arm

Yesterday I had a girl come into work with most of the lower half of her left arm missing. I asked her if she wanted to put a puzzle together (before I saw this) and she said she did. It was amazing because since she still had her elbow joint her arm moved as if there was a ghost lower arm and hand. I assume she once had a whole arm because of the way it moved and how the end stub looked (folded and tucked skin as if it has been surgically put like that rather than the skin neatly grown over in once piece).

She was using her little elbow stub just like a hand. she picked up pieces with her right hand and turned them with the little arm. It was actually incredible to watch. How it kind of rotated and moved around like a thick arm antennae. I wondered, 'why is it moving so weirdly' and then realised it must just be normal except looked heaps different because of the lack of length. I kind of wanted to touch it (don't worry, I didn't). It was like a creature on its own or a robot with an purposelessly manufactured limb. This girl was amazing. I think she was 9 or something (I asked her but I ask most of the kids so it's a bit vague).

I also noticed the elbow stub had the faint remains of blue pen ink on it and I guess she must write memos on it like most people do with their hands. I don't know why but I really liked/was intrigued by this. I really, really liked watching how she had learned to accommodate not having her whole left arm in order to still be able to do things. Like, I felt like a bit of creep watching so intensely but didn't feel rude or wrong. And I did actually look at her face when I talked to her.

She was wearing a pink scivvy with sequins and had a bit of a belly peeping out underneath at the bottom. I wanted to be like, 'your arm is awesome and you are awesome and I hope your life becomes many wonderful things'. But I just said, "awesome!" and smiled when she finished the puzzle.

bed

only just realising how many memories are held in this same bed
the friends who've stayed over
and all the books that've been read
how many cups of tea have been consumed
dreams spent
or sleepless hours
upside down
draining
diagonal bedsheets, rarely made after first placed
how many ideas have been birthed from my head
the words scrawled
suddenly upright
I forget what came before my bed's current home

I am trying to forge new memories
I am remembering and creating
I am imagining
I am talking about these plans
I am drinking several additional cups of tea
but forgetting to scrawl ideas
and forgetting upside down
too upright
current book is coming to an end
the pens I have left I don't like

ghost birds

Drove through Khyber Pass yesterday with the flatties and saw a bunch of people putting up posters. But looked kinda strange because: 


1) There were four or five people pasting, usually there is just one person on their own;
and
2) There was a photographer and a guy across the road filming too. 

Mucho curiosity.
Thought it'd probably become public what it was.

Here's the answer:

http://j.mp/uOJbpZ

"and even when we make a cup of tea...

...we are still performing."