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A Song for Rest

How many times have I exclaimed perfection for the ones who possess my mind? I’ve lit them each up like a fire. And sayin it outta loud purring as I go feels real nice. Cos that’s the sound of the first syllable. Does it make me feel like I seal it someplace and can lay down and die? Maybe I’m lazy for ever uttering the  word. Over wine and cascading smoke from my mouth hole to the lovely lassies who ask how I am. Cos I think now snug in enough days since each of the collection of limbs I once spoke of and I only think now that it’s kinda nice that people do serve their purpose.

Perfection fades quick and I feel silly for a bit but I don’t dwell. I just pretend I never said it. Like a drunken night. But now I am confused. Cos I don’t know what is what. And when I think darling of you as perfect which at the moment I do believe, I second guess myself. Is my heart only yearning for rest? I crave rest and yet I don’t. Cos I had brekky with all these couples. And they looked so neat and tidy. They smelt like laundry powder and nothing had a crease in it. They smelt of never having sex. But maybe that was my judgementalness coming through over avo on toast. I saw the husbands watch me dance the night before. I couldn’t help it, I’d look up and there they were. I knew they had once looked at their wives like that, they must have to have ended up where they were. If that’s was what rest is well that makes me so sad. How gorgeous is someone just doing their thing and being free. Maybe they envied me. Maybe it was nothing sexual. I never want to be the battleaxe. I fall so out of love and out of appreciation. And I can cut and I can create a brand new start better than Van Morrison. It makes me so scared and insecure. Cos you are what you desire and you know what you know. And when your mind is able to detach so bluntly and blatantly and you know you are just as human as everyone else how can you trust someone will ever really truly love you?


A family comes down the ramp at Sunnyside shopping centre. He, in fluro orange, sized XXXL, a four wheel drive of a man, big as a Nissan Patrol. Silver beard and balding, the hairs above his lips taking on the sheen of nicotine. And she, the body of a grapefruit. Waddles as she walks, thighs rub together like tectonic plates colliding. Tsunami Sal. Once upon a time quite a looker, a cheeky binge drinker, deep throating Dale in the back of his Hilux like no other. He is one of the ones on the road works. Not the one holding up the signs, that’s for the soft cocks. He’s one of the ones who doesn’t quite look like he’s ever not on smoko, and he still comes home cranky. Cos she ain’t as beautiful anymore and he forgets when he’s looking at the back of her, washin his dishes, his gut full, the back of her like the whole of America, that he is not the Mona Lisa either. And the kids, exotic names to give them a good start. Names that sound as beautiful as all the places Dale and Sal saw on the tele. Venice and Skye. They think their mum and dad are holy. They’ll hold onto the shopping trolley as mum packs it up with loaves of tip top and frozen meat pies and pizza shapes and cordial. They fight for the spot on the back, where the steel sits between the wheels, just to hold on, while mum piles it up with the bargains and the shiny glimmering rainbow packets, she’ll give them a backhander if they aren’t careful. But they have no idea. They are fluffy and floating. The world is lit up like a fish tank and they are there, crouched on their knees, noses squished the glass, amazed.  The world is amazing.


It’s funny how you can have people around, sometimes alot of them, sometimes enough of them to make you feel you have no time to yourself, and you feel alone.

Some people just do life with you but together you’re not really experiencing it. People flock to people like gorgeous cockroach tape, not questioning, just nibbling. We don’t want to feel alone. We scuttle to fill the voids, scuttle under the ovens and into the back of the fridge, we scuttle to find the putty.

I don’t do that anymore. You know I went to a party a while ago and I hardly talked to a person. I just danced. I danced in red pants. To them I was a weirdo. To me they were sheep going to slaughter. I find it sexy when someone can be alone. I find it sexy even if it’s me. I felt sexy that night. By the end four men were sniffing around. They wanted a piece. To them I was alone, vulnerable perhaps, shaking for their pleasure, their very own bird of paradise. To me I just didn’t care, I wasn’t thinking about them, I wasn’t thinking about me, I wasn’t thinking about anything. One approaches me and he goes, “you hate men I can tell.”

“Do I?”

“Yes,  you do.”

The DJ changes the disk, and its a corker. I close my eyes and sway, arms rising like serpents. He stays and waits to think of something to say.

“Why don’t you give me a chance?” He calls into my ear.

Serpent arms are eating up the air, the MDMA has really got me, I’m in the bliss zone.

“Well?” He calls out again.

The beat starts picking up and i’m really shaking, head tilts back, hair like seaweed dancing, lights on my face, I’m grinning like a garden gnome.

“How bout I give you a ciggie instead,” I go.

It’s important to surround yourself with those who together you burn, you’re alight, you glimmer, crack and create heat as well as the comfort. Intimacy for me is that kind of thing. That togetherness. That twin. I live for the moments of togetherness. I float forever to an extent without them. A squid plummeting airlessly in the depths of dark blue. I need some sort of grasp on me, I think we all do. Sometimes it’s good though to chose nothing even when your choices are limited. Settling, settle after settle chizzles us down. Maybe I’m just too tired to fabricate now. Time alone is good. You don’t always have to love, to desire, to output, to  have somebody there for the sake of warmth. Sometimes it’s nice to just be that little squidy. Dancing with no clue where in the dark blue you’re going to.

Spinach in a Glass

I won’t drink so much when I’m not lonely anymore. Drinking makes me like Popeye in the night times and we all gotta spend a little part of the day feeling strong. Sometimes I go two kilometres extra over the speed limit to get home quicker. It’s not like I’m salivating for it or anything, like when the waitress is coming towards you with the sizzling plate of Mongolian quail sending smoke into the restaurant sky and your lips are wet and parted. It’s nothing like that. It’s not the taste of it that gets me going. Sometimes I can taste egg. Sometimes little fruit flies are in it and I have to dig them out with my fingernail before I keep going. What I love is two sips and I feel warm, two glasses and I feel strong. Like spinach in a glass.  And your boss could be there right then and tell you that you fucked up and you made the worst mistake the company has ever known and you won’t feel sorry cos your conscience has a bone to play with. You’ll just get up, with that delightful deep red stained on your lips, with that egg glass in your mitts, the fruit flies buzzing round, and you’ll tell him the bravado wasn’t fooling anybody, cheerio fingers always mean cheerio cock.

Joy and a Two Rows of Teeth Smile


The face started living under my lids. Joy and a two rows of teeth smile. And I was the little girl with the house mouse in the shoebox under the bed, poking carrots and bread crusts into the holes to keep it alive.  I would use the face in the night times to help me feel complete. I lived alone then.  I liked living alone and I didn’t like it.  Sometimes living alone made me think about how long it might take for my body to be found if I died from choking. Sometimes living alone made me feel like I had gotten too unrestrained because I’d find myself doing things like things I don’t really want to talk about and playing the same songs over and over. Picturing the face put an anchor on me. It became my nightly ritual, a clockwork miracle, I’d get nicely stoned and crawl under the doona and take off my pants. The face would meet me at my little front door.  Black beard darker, longer. Hair different, all the beads and shells gone, hippy boy a man with eyes brighter, joy and a two rows of teeth smile. And I wouldn’t say a thing I’d just jump, my wrists brushing his backpack as they met around his neck. Reach for that slug tongue with mine, his beautiful lips like fat happy leeches, my ankles like pythons at the back of his knees. We’d do it right there on the staircase. Our throbbing bodies quivering with instinct and sweat like we were creatures of Charles Darwin and there was nothing else. And then he would not let my eyes go. Stubborn man eyes. Eyes of a man who has found his woman and he’s not scared about that. He’d cup my face in the curve of his hand and say I love you. This is where he’d tell me he always had. I’d be sitting there on top of him, with him still in me as he’d tell me what the outer suburbs of Melbourne were like.

This nightly ritual went on for months. This or something similar. Sometimes we’d fuck in my garden instead of on the stairs for instance. And it would be just like the last time we fucked in real life where my eyes couldn’t keep straight and I was on top and we had to keep quiet. We’d been watching Carl Barron on the tele and he put his hand over my mouth because I was being too loud and was only supposed to make a noise when Carl cracked a good one and the audience laughed. It’s May now and I still feel like a rigor mortised kangaroo corpse at the thought of my skin under someone else’s weird little hands. I don’t even usually like going on top but I felt so free.

I’ve got a problem. I like turning into a goblin. I like turning into a goblin just to see what happens. I don’t know why I do it but I kind of do. I think it’s to find the real man. I think it’s to find Mel Gibson on horseback tearing through the village with a spear.

He had been so beautiful that night. Attentive, getting me scotches. He was sitting there wearing my little house like a glove. He looked so good. I loved the way he dressed. He’d wear footy shorts and have beads and shells in his hair and big feet like he was everything and none of it. Was I really in love with him? It felt there right then it was far to soon like it must have been a sickness in me. Can you say you love when you have only backstroked through the yum?  I was disgusting. I couldn’t help but keep looking at him. I liked him there. I liked him sat just like that with his knees bent and bare feet tucked neat beside him, wearing my house like a glove and I never ever wanted him to leave, so I said it. I said do you think I’m stupid. He looked at me like I was holding a cat by its tail above the furnace. I said you are a tiger, do you think I think I can bring you in from the wild and not have you resent me. He wanted me to stop but I kept going. I kept going until he left.

And a lady came to my house. She had wedgetail eagle feathers and sage. He had been back in the outer suburbs of Melbourne for a while. I had written a poem for him and he’d been mean back, I’d fantasised about him twenty one times. She asked me if it was ok if her dog was in the room. He was a little jack russell. I said it was ok. She went to my heart and she cursed.  She swept the wedgetail feather over my heart, I felt the wind it made, I smelt the smokey homey tang of sage and asked her if everything was ok. Your heart, your heart, your heart, your heart! She said. And I just go, I know.