Waiting

Ridiculously waiting on these forlorn and dusty nights
Cantankerously staring at the phone- imploring it to implode
Fandangeringly impatient; for the computer is now off
Holding onto, grasping onto, grappling all the fragments of a comfort, now passing on.
Rubbing eyes in infuriation because i'm left on hold
Poem cut short




















(for i'm walking out the door)

Mr Magician

His blade severs Miss Assistant's cords.
Spinning her top, and then her bottom.
The two parts, now one- secrets are not shown.
A cloud of smoke accompanies a boom. A flash of light.
Stage blanketed in glitter, light catching upon each spec.
A kaleidoscope of shapes shift with head movement.
Stage lay bare.
But for a black box in the centre.
The audience puzzled; this a trick, part of the show?
Moments pass, minutes elapse. Time ticks on.
And on.
Furthermore.
Impatient audience member no longer waits.
Storms upon the stage and booms 'where are you'
Statement, no question.
Inflated by silence he moves towards the box.
Trepidation sets in but he moves on because of the hundred eyes x2 watching on.
Defiant man clicks open the latch
Bare stage but for the black box.
Audience streems out, trampling specs of glitter motionless on the floor.

Variety.

Currently unsure of the purpose of this blog. It is for bitching, writing my shit down, an online diary, showing the world who i am? Probably not the latter as no one really knows this exits, and i strive to attain this. Why? I have no idea. Too paranoid perhaps. Anything online screams JUDGE ME, what other point is there?
I think I'm just too scared to be judged in a negative way, but Jesus, all the blogs and online profiles i come across, it's all i ever do!
Conundrum, no?
What i would love to have is, as I've mentioned before one of those fantastic fashion blogs which chronologies fashion outsifts day to day. Would be interesting to see how personal style changes, but i'm just too lazy for that, and plus some days i hate what i'm wearing...
I wish i constantlyhad a pen and paper or mini computer on hand. So many things come to me when i'm walking somewhere or i'm doing something unrelated and i never have to opportunity to jot them down. I guess next ear will be different, studying changes all that.

This post started off as some ridiculous, meaningless rant, but now, i think i'm going to create a list of things i want to achieve in the year to follow, my new years resolutions, per say.

• Get published (fiction, non-fiction, poetry) in anything
• Attend more poetry readings
• Compete in a poetry slam
• Go somewhere i've never been- preferably overseas
• Keep a notebook with me at all times and WRITE THINGS IN IT
• Keep a diary
• Don't start assessments too late
• Learn how to cook a few decent meals without a recipe in front of me
• Stop excessive spending!
• Stop buying things i'll never end up wearing (therefore buy more vintage)
  
• Start some form of exercise
• Don't lose touch with friends
• Speak my mind more
• Stand up for myself when i ought to

Now for some more long term (life goals)

• Publish a book
• Don't be a one hit wonder
  
• Drive across Australia
• Follow Keroac's footsteps acrosss America....
• Invent something
• Give a lecture
• Work for a magazine
• Create my own magazine
• Go back to uni after i finish
  
• This is really difficult
• I don't really know anymore, the more i think about it the more absurd they get...
  

I wrote this when i was watching Jeremey play the organ in a small church

The moaning mouth emits what is contradictory.
Long pipes taper to cylinders downwards forming pointed teeth.
No mark of fangs, a softened gape.
The man beneath the pipes has a yellow light fallen on his shoulders. an aura around the neck
No halo.
In the glass panes beside him the viewer seated behind sees spiders dancing frenetically over the keys.
Stepping
up and down and up and down and up and down and up and down and up and down and up and down.
The viewers pulse is caused by conjured images of phantoms.
Ghosts bursting through the pipes.
The spiders curse at wrong stepping.
The viewers heartbeat continues.
ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhoooooohhhhhhhhh the organs mouth wants to say and the player allows it.
The sound rises, escalates in motion through the belly of the pipe through the head of the player.
Church stands alone but for man and viewer.

Where the wild things are...

Some may say the wheel of fate turns. Fate, in my mind, does not exist. That is like saying an unstoppable hand pulls at my strings and moves my steps, says my words, thinks my thoughts- for me. Some situations we are in control of, some we are not. Sometimes it pays to take the leap, sometimes it does not. You cannot judge the outcome, you cannot see the future. You cannot live in what has already happened. Preachers are shit, i'm expressing. Agree or not. Walk or run. Laugh or cry. Yell or whisper. Do both at once? I don't know. I'm just a girl with a keyboard. I'm also a girl who has perfected Uma Thurman's Pulp Fiction twist.

Slurry Markets, why doth thou be on such a hot day!

Those damn fantastic markets are only on once a month, and as per usual i tramp along down there, possibly looking like a tamp in my denim cutoffs (which i think were mean for a 12year old...), black singlet and flanny i ripped the sleeves off, with damn old chains and to top it off my beautiful stanton bolwers hat. Oh and frilly socks and sequins shoes. Heh! Details, details details.
Although it was a smouldering 50billion degrees, i did manage to stumble about for an hour or two, frothing over everything and settling on barely anything.
The leather high waisted shorts were probably the best purchase i've made in a while. Leather festish is almost complete. Leather jacket, top, vest, shorts, skirt x2, i just need some pants! Sorry cows...

Although i didn't buy much else the shorts came in handy for the night, when i went to town on my dads old great calvin klein shirt that it midrifferised. And just generally tore apart. Look topped off by the boyfriends bright blue bow tie. Sweet action cats. Long night, stumbling out of sweaty 77 in the light of dawn. One of the best i've had in forever. No pictures though alack.

Yahar. No more poetry lately either. It comes to my head and i never have paper or a pen/pencil handy. Or the interwebs. No fun.

America's next (shit) top model

Yes yes, i'm very good at coming up with titles/puns. But honestly, it's true. I watched the final of cycle 11 on the tube today, and i just didn't care about it. Obviously McKey (stupid name) was going to win, but my god. Not great at commercials, has a fucked up mouth when she speaks and heavens forbid that she walks down a catwalk!
The other finalist, sam, was no competition, though she did take some great shots.
It's clear this show was not created to breed high fashion models, no matter how many times they mention the word on the show. I count about 50,000. The prizes are all commercial- covergirl, 17 magazine... I am just left totally unimpressed...
The show was just cliche after cliche. Eugh. Though i guess i still did make a point of watching each episode.

I haven't watched other countries versions of the show, other then Australia's and season 3 of that can't be topped. Alice Bordeu, the winner, is a true catwalk and editorial model, the first to get a vogue cover. A Vogue spread is a prize here people! Even though it's Australian Vogue, it's VOGUE, not Seventeen.... Napolean contract etc etc etc. Just seems to have so much more promise. Though a note must be added of the lack of quality of host- Jodhi Meares, Tigerlily designer, other then being a horrible host with not many fashion/model credentials, she just didn't give a shit. Bah Humbug!

If you aren't Australian it's possible you wont know Alice, but here's some proof for the pudding:

See right.


Want to see more of the goods she has: Elite Model Management Profile

ANTM you can suck AuNTM's ass, bitch.

Dear Blogosphere,

There are endless upon infinite of fashion blogs, many which i am yet to pass and boy do i wish i could be just like those girls! With their photogenic perfection and wardrobe that for some would kill, it makes for fantastic reading whilst one is supposed to be working. Girls with ask of their mothers, why was i born with this hideous nose, why can't i find great clothes like that in this shanty town. Alas, no answers to be had. Girls will cry and moan and yelp and whinge and holler and complain and suffer in vain. Mother, why can't i be like that too? You watch me. i'll try. til death i shall. See above in my avant-garde pose, not showing my entire face. (actually this is me dancing at ladytron in September). Just look at me go...

Untitled

I feel like running. Running. Feet pounding pounding pounding. Cold inhilation burns the back of the throat but it's only for moving forwards. Shoes are inhibitors i rip them off and leave for an old young fat skinny new deathly beggar to find. Tiny rocks in the tar tears the creases of my soles so slightly. I don't mind. Trees pass by me, or i pass by them into a blur. Race me i yell. The ground rumbles its warm belly and loosens letting the roots detach and shake the soil from toes. Thud thud thudding after me. Birds in branches screech with disruption catching their nests as they fall and putting them in a tree that now, for the moment, is stationary. The lumbering tree after me makes me faster. Tears stream from eyes and pat onto the pavement. Dark tiny marks are left but not for long. The warm belly of the earth sucks it in and soothes it's burns. For this comfort he moves his back in my direction egging me forward tumbling on. The tree's left a trail of wafting leaves. and settles feet back inside the warm earth. Tendrils slinking forwards wrapping around rocks and driving further downward. I do not stop. The pulse of my heart feels it will expand through my chest and float to the sun, filled with helium. Blood rushing through veins feels constricted and waterfalls with pressure on through to my fingers. Destination? None. what be it's need. Tumbling on emitting a yell arms spread moving forward always forward but off on tangents we go. Up the stairs legs muscles oxygen burning. Falling forward onto grass the world is the axis and i am the spinning top. White mouth parched gives life through gulps of water, runs down the throat cooling the blood calming the heart soothing the muscles easing the pain releasing the pressure. This is IT.

Ode to-

On second thoughts, it's also a lot like Karen O (my hair that is.) I love her. God.

It's a mixture of all i guess...

Pageboy inspired...

My hair's currently along these lines...

A Fistful of Quarters

Newcastle. After eating a triple cheeseburger (mistaken for a double) and then a steak and chips with a voddy on the side and a block of cadburys chocolate to finish off, we rented out some dooveds. The King of Kong was on the menu, and boy oh boy was it satisfactory. By the end we were a whoopin' an' a hollerin' all 'cause Billy Mitchell (the douche) finally got beaten out of his high score for the classic arcade game, Donkey Kong by the underdog hero, Steve Weibe.

(I'd never date you Billy, you don't make long hair look rugged at all.)

The unlikely hero

Highlight to include-
'daaaaddddd don't play doooonkeeeyyyy kooooooongggggg'
'i diid a poooo'
'wipe my bum!'
(Steve's son- all recorded while the high score game is being filmed).

Ah, it was just blessing after blessing with this film, even though some of it may have been staged, i choose to remain blissfully ignorant and just enjoy the film in all its dramatic wonder.

Go see!

Choke

I saw the film Choke last night, finally. And boy, oh boy was it fantastic.


I mean who else but Palahniuk can combine sex addiction, colonial american theme parks, jesus' foreskin, kidnapping, a mental hospital, choking on food, rocks, a lot more sex and italian.

Fantastic soundtrack too- Clap Your Hands Say Yeah and finishing off with Radiohead, it was damn bliss.

If i were to recommend a movie for you- it's an easy choice

On another note, slightly off-beat but nonetheless relevant, i've started reading 'The Dice Man' (Luke Reinhardt). The writing style reminds me of Chuck, slightly dark and quirky, all wonderful. It has such a great premise and definately does tempt me to give all to the die. Why should i make choices when the dice can do it for me...

To inform you-

I didn't write all of that today, it's stuff that's been hanging in the back of the closet gathering mothballs. It needed some light. Slightly eaten you can see, but that's what it's all about. Perhaps.

William, it was really nothing

I am constantly paranoid. Seeing visions of my own death.

Eyes closed in sleep fire covers the sky. Red, burning, flames licking my senses heightened. Open eyes from this dream and still see an aura of piercing crimson.

Walking down the street i see a truck turn a corner and tip, crushing me, decapitating me. The head rolls and bounces and lands at an onlookers feet. I slam my eyes shut, removing myself from this prophecy. They slowly open and in reverse the truck aligns itself with the road, my head rolls back and the sinews and tissue fuse together. I touch my neck and not a mark is to be found.

I take a step further and a sign falls of my head, i fall off the balcony, i’m stabbed by a herion induced case of psychosis.

All i want is to die, peacefully, of old age in my sleep, for a belief i’ve suffered every other kind of death.

Club Cat

She was a little sloppy in her movements. Pounding through the water in the air, pressure on her body. She was exhausted. Her eyelids sagged until finally sealed shut. Her body begun to slightly sway and before stance could be gained she fell on the floor. She was a night owl, returning home at dawn to her cave. Blinds were drawn shut, light peering through as if it were trying to witness a magic show. Alas, no magic show was to be had, only the impenetrable snores of her slumber. The day continued on around her. Warmth stroking the hill’s backs, flowers extending in pride. Chirping birds meant nothing to her. 9am did not exist in her mind, how could it? She was sleeping. Hands turned the clock, grabbing the numbers and pulling themselves around. Dusk. She was awake again. Shower, makeup over makeup of makeup from last week. A new set of clothes barely covered her pale body. Her body had not yet recovered, but as usual, she gave it fuel. The motor starting, idling slightly, chugging into full speed, and beyond. Out into the endless stars of disco balls, strobe, music that threw your body from one end of the room to another. It pulled at her chest, hair plastered to her face, as to the faces of others. Dawn hit again. And down she fell.

Ears...

The ears parted and closed. Munching on the waves of energy passing through them, swallowing passages whole, nibbling at others, vomiting back some. The ears sifted through the sounds like a sea full of plankton, straining to make sure none had escaped attention. Passing sounds from one to another, between the two and shared by both. The ears grew subtly larger, waxing and waning with each sentence constructed. As years passed by the ears found no sounds graced its lips any longer, thick hair was streching out like hands, grappling available sounds and muffling them. The ears, controlled to live in its own silence, began to imagine sounds, and grew content, as such things could never be created in reality.

Lady in Red

(alas, i was angry once more- as you may be able to tell)

Demon behind the teeth
pushes to escape
barred by ivory

Eye contact broken in order to avoid interrogation

Heaving cough and phlegm
stretched to a thin film
snapped

Grinding shivers
Frustration

Demon grows and shrinks
day to day

Soon bursts to a piercing shrill

Heaving husk continues its discourse to brokenness

Leaving behind an opinion-less but opinionated hole
So it wishes

Puppet run along

there once was a puppet, who on the end of 4 strings
sat lonely in a cabinet, forgotten by kings

and queens who had once enjoyed its sweet act
but had called for a servant and ordered it packed

away. The poor lonely puppet blanketed by dust
sought after a companion, be it with or without rust

But, oh alas, and oh my, alack!
all the puppet knew was a sour old jack

in the box. and so dear puppet thought to himself
‘i shall cut my strings to get off this shelf’

and, doing so, he slunk to the floor
unfortunately, to move no more.

-

ghosts bursting through a hollow cylinder

seeping through windows, doors and flesh

sucking on the youth, bleeding them dry

mouths gaping; sucking; gaping

To fall through the earth

To be forgotten

The Persistence of Memory

The radiance of the yellow sun allured me out of my idle stupor. Once my attention was knocked back to consciousness, my eyes focused in on what lay in front of me. Ahead, to my right, was a rocky mountain, its terrain sharp and steep, incapable of being surmounted. I knew that this would remain far in the distance as I turned to face the stretching, seemingly empty desert. As I moved forward I continued to search the environment and cool, blue shallows materialised, in contrast to the heat of the arid desert which was sure to be a source of exhaustion. The colours surrounding me: yellows, oranges and reds, seemed to expel heat themselves. Regardless of this fact, I was looking forward to discovering what lay before me.

Peering forward towards the sun soaked horizon, the blurs of large entities developed into more solid forms. I picked up my pace as I moved towards these objects with fascination. The heat increased with every step and the air thickened to such an extent that I could no longer view the objects in my sight. The wave of heat only allowed for my close proximity to be seen. I had to lay trust in my other senses to guide me. This factor somewhat dulled my enjoyment. I could no longer see the rich colours across the landscape, rather only the brown dust at my feet. As time flew on, closer to midday, the heat continued to escalate. Every movement needed great effort, even breathing was a difficulty. My insides seared as I gulped in hot air with every inhalation. With my head drooped, my sweaty hair interfered with my sight. Beads of sweat trickled down my neck and sizzled on the fiery red ground.

At this point I felt lost, lost in a place I had never before encountered, nor imagined. My movements slowed as I came to an eventual halt. Glancing behind and to my sides did nothing to establish my position. What should my decision be? Turn and walk to the only water source I knew and give up? Remain in the spot and possibly perish? Or continue on, unaware of where I may eventuate?

I could not accurately judge where any of these options may lead me. It was possible that while attempting to return to the start I could be in an even worse position then what affronted me now. It only seemed wise to move forward. And so, with heavy feet I dragged on. The brown colours at my feet intensified, becoming almost black. Somehow they changed to reflect my mood. I no longer wanted to be here, but what other choice did I have? Lost in my own thoughts I did not realise I had reached one of these mysterious objects I had previously seen. Curiosity and wonder led me to examine it more closely. It appeared to be a face, similar to my own, it too melted in the heat. My hands ran up its smooth surface, strangely, it felt alive. Could such a face exist without a body? Along the back lay a clock, its texture as soft camembert. The quiet tick of its moving hands echoed through the vastness of the desert. Encouraged by this strange being and the possibility that an explanation to what this was lay in my path, I continued. My mood had picked up; at least I had achieved something today.

A buzzing sound swooped past my ears and settled on my face. I brushed the fly away and it flew off into the distance. Not until my walking had continued did I realise the oddity of that situation. What could be attracting that fly to this place? Just as Alice was lost in Wonderland; I too was travelling through some kind of dream. But unlike her, I was not so interested in returning home. Not until the meaning of this place was found would I leave. And so, on I walked.
A looming figure of a box appeared, it was hard and solid, contrasting what I had previously seen. I heaved myself to its crest and surveyed what I had just passed through. I could see the cool, blue shallows and the rocky mountain, the soft, contoured face and the accompanying melted clock. They seemed so close within my sights, yet it had taken me all day to reach this point.

I then changed my focus, concentrating on what lay on top of the sandy coloured box. A swarm of ants were moving in a group, so fast I could not distinguish where one finished and the other began. Underneath the mass of tiny bodies a glint of gold caught my eye. Brushing the ants off the surface emerged a pocket watch. And then, there was another melted clock, oozing down the box’s side. A tree was at my right, its roots planted deeply within the box, and on its singular branch, a fourth clock.

This place was certainly peculiar, solid melting as liquid, and metal attracting ants as if it decayed. Surely this is no reality? But what is? I could not be a judge of that. For all I knew I was just part of the imagination of some giant duck that is suspended in space. Chuckling to myself I thought, perhaps it is true. My trek across this vast desert was complete and as the sun set the panorama seemed to glow.

I stepped back from the box, the clocks, the desert and the heat. Every brushstroke was visible as I stepped back from the canvas and viewed my painting. The process had been long and arduous at times, often because of my lack of direction, but, in the end it seemed to just fall into place. And there it lay, complete, my masterpiece, my ‘Persistence of Memory’. My only hope was that someone else would appreciate my risks and effort.




This dear kids is what that was all about:



By the way- this was written over a year ago. Little editing has been done of late. But pah! I don't mind even if you mind.

Written in a bad, bad mood baby.

Fed. Fed fat to make useless

Fed fat to control.

A belief of fullness, wholeness

Those who .refuse. to take the spoon

See the hole in the bucket

Dripping

Drip-

Drip-

Drip-

Collection of zombies on a fringe of humanity

Lights flicker out into constant neon