Thursday, 20 November 2014



it’s a crappy title, i know.
but time is a gift to myself on this night of dry palms
sinking with the light turned low and the quiet murmur
of the disc in the CD drive (friends s02).

there are certain streets near my house that i don’t often walk down.
when i do nostalgia slaps me
and the smell of the season is like a greeting
from a pitifully forgettable

it reminds me
of those smells in the city that bring me back
to a time i thought i had no reason to ever remember and
i wonder why such a thing
is captured in all its exhaustive detail.
and then the things like train times and
the day i get my period i constantly fail
to recall.

i’m not sure where i’m going with this.

i wonder why it’s so hard to connect, sometimes.
like a plug’s been pulled or the shutters drawn down,
like the old lady milk bar owner pulling
closed the heavy glass door
the sign and leaving the bread
in the same spot in the window.
surely we all know Wonder White is crap by now.

the woman next to me on the plane said i looked rugged up
and i told her i regrettably was. (35°C, flying north)
there wasn’t much else to say and everyone clapped
when the pilot landed.
            i made up a memory about my mum and i
            think i was less lonely without it.
            “it’s hard to get rid of made-up things,” she said.
            well ^ what the fuck does that mean.

when i came home i felt my house hold me and we treated each other politely.
today it feels a little stuffy like a large breasted aunty hug.
            and all we’re doing is our best
            and all we’re doing, all we’re doing.

today under the tree i flicked a spider off a mother’s leg
and received financial / love advice. i drank wine from a plastic cup
and pissed on my own foot. my dog
barked at another dog
and its owner lady backed away with a vaguely concerned expression.
over her shoulder she told me she saw a kangaroo
in the carpark at safeway. “that’s fucking beautiful.” said the mother (not mine)
and she lipstick kissed me on the cheek, later outside the car.
i felt good and greasy
sweating out the day.

there’s a bench near my house, just off the main road
shrouded by trees and it smells nice there.
we used to line up nearby, when there was a fire drill. we had to count
our place in line and remember
our place in line. sometimes i sit there to sober up and walk home.
sometimes i sit there to think and be

remember last summer-
that time we were angry at each other
but came to mutually appreciate a frog, its squishy reflective body
clinging to the pool fence. it was night time
and i couldn’t see your face. but your feet
left little puddles
on the hotel lobby tiles.

and remember summer, the summer before last-
when the days were suddenly longer like the snapping
of an elastic waistband, suddenly
the slack falls feetward and gravity
pulls us close. and in the soupy dusk we sat
and felt time melt down the trees.

this summer - in the taxi
i felt as if my insides had disappeared.
i was a vulnerable casing to nothing
but a tide of feeling. i felt and you felt
my hand. i felt myself
vanish. i lost a lot of time
thinking about that.

i remember one summer
we sat on the deck and sweat
pooled in the crooks of our elbows.
we ate mash potato made from powder and drank
from plastic cups. i dreamt
of my mother sitting in a tree refusing
to come back down. i woke up scratching mosquito bites
with dried blood under my fingernails.

summer and summer in the anxious morning, over coffee
and a shared toothbrush. you said in the mirror ‘do you have a second?’
and it’s funny that you had to ask. in the anxious
morning and summer and summer, the hours
ran down my spine. 
it only took a second
to bring us back to us.
i have so much time
for you.