Monday, 26 February 2018

free write.

I feel the paper skin of the tree near the oval beneath my fingers, in memory, I touch it and it touches back like glad wrap sticking to ones fingers. In this tree I would sit after climbing, it was a story, I told it to myself so that I could learn to listen. It had leaves that glittered like water droplets, they decayed like all things do and they also grew again. I was five years old and I was sitting under this tree with my friend, I had a purple water bottle with fairies on it, the water bottle had a band that could be worn across your body, so as to keep it safe. Keeping ones possessions safe was an exciting possibility to my five year old self, I liked the responsibility and I also liked ignoring that responsibility, I lost my possessions all the time, I mourned them, I experienced guilt - when I did keep things safe I would be so proud, I would treasure said things. Some things were lost to forces beyond my control – an older boy, a bully, a mean kid, he took my small wooden white toy rocking horse and buried it in the sand pit. My friend told me she had seen him once whipping a younger school kid with a skipping rope, someone else told me he killed his dog. Every day at recess for the rest of the week I would dig through the pit of sand, other kids in my class would help me, it was an exciting mission of togetherness, it prepared me for the community experience of grief, one day we found the broken pieces and I mourned the loss of the dignified resignation to a task, the sense of purpose I’d so briefly experienced. We went back to dangling our legs off the thicker lower branches of the papery tree and playing with its strips of skin that we picked at like scabs, the balance in the way it gave in to our grimy fingers (with nails bitten to the quick) and resisted just enough, was full of magical, physical intrigue.

Monday, 19 February 2018


living like we do on this precipice
of disaster, a wavering truce
with the forces to keep our
cores intact, we start the day a little broken

but there’s all this goodness in it,
in your vulnerability and mine
this weekend and this season
this reality of fragile pieces
            you sleeping next to me
            in dream

also, it’s the season to cut people off
no one’s disposable but also
there’s too much toxic
            in the communication
            she says she’ll write to me in one week. It’s not
            a permanent severing. there’s just only so much energy
            I can give (she’s a taker)
            (or maybe I am)
            (maybe I shouldn’t
            put people
            into categories)

after the sun sets I bide my time
before undertaking the epic rewiring
my brain rolls out untethered
and I flick through its draws
and there’s me, aged 5
locked in the bathroom, internal
compass spinning out of whack

I think what I’m trying to get at
is the way we keep going
or something. waxing lyrical,
seb calls it my trippers logic
but I think
do whatever you can
to find the beauty in it
just do whatever

you can

Monday, 12 February 2018

Spiders and other things.

I think about spiders 
my house is home 
to so many now that when we smoke a joint
out back V doesn’t wanna sit under the decking roof
‘too infested, they might fall on me,’ she says (she’s been dreaming
about spiders
on her)
and I guess that’s a valid concern, but who am I
to tell them to leave / we’ll just stay out
of their way
for now

In the grey light of my morning room I’m
distinctly not-yet anxious. I wake up further
to enjoy this moment. I think about my friends,
I think about all our very different childhoods
that we didn’t spend together

I think about the stars
how I want to know more
I think about P playing guitar in her room (such pureness!)
and I think about myself the other night
sleeping on that top bunk 
in some kinda mortal peril
spinning out on acid, thinking all the bad things
thoughts carry such weight, sometimes

On the train to the gig I think about a call I had
a middle aged man celebrating one year without self-harming
I could have cried through the phone, heartbroken with joy.
Random tethers of kind connection
pull me closer to the earth.
I think about all the pieces of you I carry
around with me (in my head) and the process
I have to go through, of letting go

I think about my new psych, how calm she seemed and how
that enraged me at first (for some reason) – made me interrogate
my own resentment
of calm people, weird glitch 

I think about E and her words
that tumble out so raw, and my own
that must jump hurdles to be born from my internal voice
the effort alone stifling
the need

I think about
Jupiter. Big mama of expansion 
I think about dreams 
I think about you and your child self
I could cry out, from tenderness
I could call you and cry, for an hour
I think about your pain, and everyone’s

The lessons in this haven’t yet presented themselves
I’m still searching for the meaning
but I think I’m onto something – something about love
and fear, crippling
and the constant trying
to be alright

and like a baby I just want to be held, and like a mother
I just want to wipe your snotty nose clean on my sleeve
and kiss your forehead when you go to sleep.
I think about what you might be doing today
while the cogs of trauma whir into function

face of laughter, grinning through the elements
I could fall to my knees from tenderness
it's the resilience against all these impossible odds

I try not to think too hard
about whether you've thought about me

I think about gratitude and awe
and all of us like siblings
waking up slowly across different