hey love

there is no hole in my heart, only fear.
fear of how if i stop to think about being
on a planet called earth in a solar system in a galaxy -
fear of how much that really freaks me out
fear of how they look at me when i say so
i'm trying to conquer fear with knowledge but
those books you have to read to learn are good
to throw when you get scared.

hey love, i think you can help me.
i think about times i slept with him and
i think it helps me sleep better so
i replay it over and over but
i'm not in a film or a book or a song so
it's just weird of me.

i wonder what will stop me feeling it and
i do not know you so
sometimes i convince myself
that you can fix this.

(not that I post here lots or anything, but just letting you know, I'm gonna cease posting here from now on. if you want to keep in touch, follow me to blogger or seek me out on twitter)
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short story

This is a story about every morning when her housemate woke her up. This is a story about when the cat got stuck in the storeroom for hours but didn't poo in it. It's a story about the time when they decided to have fish and chips because it was a warm afternoon, the first one since the last summer, and how they had to pay 40c for individual sauce packets because there was no sauce at home. It's about the way the wind blows on a forty degree day on the edge of a country town, has a bit of dirt in it too, and blows spiky gusts against bare legs. It's about when the first indie band she ever started listening to finally release a new album and everybody is anticipating it but she will never forget how special their first CD was on those lonely nights studying just to get out of that tiny town.

This story is about the quiet freshness in the mountains and how lovely he thought it was that of all the places in the world, deep in the mountains seemed like one of the places that might remain untouched for a long time yet. He remembers how at high school he was the only one to pick up rubbish from their spot on the lawn: now when he leaves food courts he has to put everybody's rubbish away and is uncomfortable with leaving it there even though the cleaning ladies are always loitering around ready to take it. It is about when he moved into a place with his girlfriend for the first time and it turned out one of their housemates were growing shrooms. They would never take drugs together because her father died recently. Their electricity bills were huge that winter.

She never had the courage to ask if she could use the milk or the bread and figured it was better just to use them when her housemate was out - she was annoying anyway - and use as much as she thought she could without being noticeable. This story is about the time when she passed people in the corridor and must have been pulling a face because after she walked by she heard them asking "what was that about" and she resolved to seem more happy when she walked in public places, even though the incident really made her more sad than she really was. This is all about the time when she couldn't decide to kiss him because she had just eaten something satay, even though they were sleeping so close together it he probably smelt it anyway.

This story finishes with the time they both thought how nothing really seemed to ever work out or matter and life was just a combination of small events in a too big world, that time they didn't know how to write about the weight that they felt every day inside so other people would feel it too, or whether that they even felt that weight and were just trying to make themselves feel as terrible as everybody else they knew.

back to the new house

Words echo in rooms unfurnished
hammering ricochets off
freshly painted walls.
You, my handyman,
rough and worn, working
from first light to last,
are loveable once more.

The new house is bare
and barely anything yet.
Disagreements are in boxes,
failures in storage too.
Floorboards full of potential
nail us together again:

Nails in my mind,
paint on my nails.
Paint’s going to my head.

You say if I get dizzy
I should take my tea outside.
Concern makes me happy
because interest is trustworthy.
You can trust a handyman.

john, paul, george and RINGO

going to a Beatles themed 21st party next weekend. I will be dressed as Lovely Rita

Standing by a parking meter, when I caught a glimpse of Rita
Filling in a ticket in her little white book.
In a cap she looked much older,
And the bag across her shoulder
Made her look a little like a military man.

great job!

link blatancy

this is just a note for everyone, I write for another blog with my friend Stacey who lives in New Zealand. I write there more regularly so if you are into that kind of stuff then stop by there sometime. We want everyone who reads it to do this questionnaire so if you like those that might be something fun to do

also for those who are truly hungry for the sooze (that's me), I have a radio show about food and you can listen to podcasts here and I just made a fanpage on facebook if you want to make me feel really special ;)

sick kingdom

I built a fortress entirely from tomatoes last weekend to keep you away from me. I called it my sick kingdom, cause I'm actually allergic to tomatoes and this is all some sort of demented self-harm mechanism.

My arms became numb. I felt what might be likened to an oil slicked albatross. How I longed to be free from the debilitating love slick.

The memory of your moustache caused me to levitate for three hours last night. Tomato brick number nine hundred and eighty-five frowned at me from above the fireplace as I hovered with sadness. I opened a window and airswam out of my tomato prison prism for a spell.

Outside I found you had smeared a giant portrait of my face in mustard. The mustard molecules had begun corroding and eroding the walls of my tomato fortress flesh. A hole appeared between my mustard nose and mustard freckle to the left of my mustard nose.

My fortress was falling down. Hours of silent construction would soon slop down into a ruined relish.
pom pom dinos

kafka & cheese

When Ziggy Gelman awoke one morning after troubled dreams, he found himself transformed into a giant cheeseman in his bed. Given the average size of a block or wheel of cheese, this size was not altogether dissimilar from his human size. The differences, instead, were the mouldy white hue his skin had taken on, a general oozing sensation from each and every one of his extremities and perhaps most disturbingly, the overwhelming inertness of his present situation. Cheese, Ziggy noted, had never really seemed to be one of the most mobile dairy goods, but still, stranger things had happened than cheese hopping about the place.

Indeed this might be one of those stranger things, Ziggy chortled mildly to himself. Or so he once would have called the act of making a slightly humorous remark and guffawing somewhat to himself: present circumstance called for a complete overhaul of most human behavioural - and, he supposed, social - norms.

Ziggy wasn't usually the type to labour over his morning routine. As a travelling traffic and incidental roadworks sign inspector he was required to arrive promptly at the office at seven o'clock each morning to collect a map of the day's scheduled inspections. This occupation, though he had been proud to call it his own for the past five years, had by no means elevated him to a state of financial security. Much to his continued chagrin, Ziggy still resided in his childhood home with his parents and sister. He imagined that by now all three of them would be downstairs around the breakfast table: his father presiding over the morning's papers, his mother and sister hovering timidly over the tea and toast. Ziggy was pleased to note that the cheeseman transformation hadn't addled his infamously vivid imagination - one of his few virtues, he admitted to himself with his other virtues, humility and honesty; he felt proud to have chosen that particular word to describe his father, who indeed was well known in their part of the town for presiding over just about everything he ever came into contact with. Ziggy, at that moment, realised how truly one-dimensional his father was.

the cold

Rugged up and bulky -
truly winter now -
in layers.
Tread carefully
down damp steps
to the concave park
where fog collects,
thick at six.
No runners on Sunday.
Hills, illuminated
by the moon,
breathe in frosty air.


on the phone to mum she says "you seem a bit down"
I can't explain myself!
At least this time on the train I didn't seem so dull.


watch all of these, stunning, breathtakingly beautiful animations based on some of Basho's renku

wind howls outside. things come to a head, into my head (tee hee)
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