a response to my love- stevie smith

A child of words
spitting on flowers,

God, that haven
I longed for
peculiar belief
and absolution


God, that never came
to me in wake-dreams.

So I wouldnt meet
in apology
or redemption

with knife
neatly gripped
to the wash
of any throat
to my reflection.

I would
vanish.

safest
with my head
against your chest
my fingers firmly wrapped
to any curve
i could squeeze
if only i wouldn't run
if only i wouldn't

and i couldn't think of anything, not one thing i would change about him.

and i could picture his list about me. i can see it now rolling out his front door down the street reaching nearly my house (in brisbane haha) only then his pen runs out ink and he cant finish it.

or even one thing. one little tweak to a person is too much.

maybe i will become a better person-or maybe i don't need to be.

i can't love myself properly if people keep wanting this 'me' to be someone else.

and i couldn't and can't think of one fucking thing i would change about him.
----------

my silly little dream i had last night...

thin rake body, grey and scrunched under a table- dark wood, wood that's scratched that's leaving blisters in her back- she's been clawing at her eyes little cuts over little lids. metal frames slabs of not-silver STEEL that dull heavy thud of a material. a new Her, one long arm breaking at every crease and opportunity through each bar swinging this way and that, a leg twists over and through and she'd scream if it didn't feel so right. there's no face there's no body only limbs that curve and crawl THROUGH anyway they can. the breaks seem easy. there are three. the hardest is breathing. the only light is skin and bones (their's/her's/mine). imagine a black out imagine a BANG a THUD a HUGE EMPTY SPACE. and three girls now standing. in this vast. more terrified than ever.
-----

my little mind is fascinating in sleep :)

right up in that gap between -left ear-meets-right ear- waiting is a grimey like-moss substance drip, slip, seeping in sepia tones [more apt than grey more NOTHING less likely to evoke ani di franco lyrics] its a mush to squash to leap out i would like to write i would like to work on a new play i would like to not be scared I AM of failure of being told the amount i could be is limited. come august i will be an out of work writer/actor/hiding in writing so she doesnt fail at acting and THEN WHAT?

drown drown drown drown drown.

why i should stick to whales and bees

SPIDER...an exercise to see if i could write about anything...no...only my worst get put up here now :)

you extend
your grip
by pressure

segmented
to break to feast
to legs that creak.

your abdomen leaks
flooding,
grinding

fusing each part
to one dark mass
of you/r
crawling carrion.

you carry on.

you sprawl
in tangled mess
of your creation

and wait.

the rants of an insane man at a strip club- turned to poetry...

I wrote books,
a thousand million,
fifty,
a lot
about the dream time
(the bad time
bad stories)

i wrote them on
scraps
of what i could
remember

can't hear anything but mindless arguing deep behind my ears this one tells me the best plan was to make short sharp cuts in his face that'd look the nicest maybe split at the seams only the/my voice (the one i call other, the one i pretend isn't really me) didn't tell me to the newspaper monster soaring down from the ceiling in the single bed sized room did. this monster was thin(paper haha) with newspaper clipping hoods over dark eyes dragging paper knives towards me. death by paper cut.

what is going on with me...

my mother doesnt see how far i have come. every day is NOT. a struggle, not lately (not til yesterday/today/this moment bleeds through me acid rising) i need to explain to my mother-
my job gives me the flexibility to focus on my career
my job is not as emotionally draining as sitting in front of a desk
i create a fantasy i DONT sell sex
i have never been happier in a job
i DO Have the power
if i didnt want to do it, i wouldnt- easy as that
i am very supported by my friends at work
we are NOT drug addicts, weak, victims, sluts
i AM a feminist.post or otherwise.

how can i say any of that to her...she wont understand...she only hears stories of sex work she researches in south east asia trafficking my life story as her own so its easier for her to digest "how can you do this to me"

matthew left me...i am not good enough for anyone...

soon i wish i was air borne flying falling free .wish i was a pile of dirty clothes strewn on the pavement from a great height leaking juices from behind my spine and my ears bloodying the street and any idea of me they might have had (wrong).

matthew said i am too concerned with how other people see me, maybe if people would stop seeing me as a work in progress i wouldnt be so caught up in it...

my poems are being kept off the blog so i can send them off as new pieces...expect incoherent ranting instead...

he said: i can smell your juices
i thought about rubbing my fungus behind his eyes
back there i imagine it's all coils and snakes and rubber
one of those real WOOOAHHHH moments and the eyes spring forward right out there, just after some big bossomed bunny rabbit walks by and before a sledge hammer gets him, in that moment i smear yellow globs and he cries thrush on to my sympathetic shoulder.

dont you hear me
scream..........?

the mother of all.

you men are Just
mother-fuckers
drone lovers

i was fed
for sex
made my own cut
like a hinged lid.

but i can sting
endlessly
i sting

child's trumpeting
I AM HERE
i am here to fight
if this is all ive got.

hear my flight
with out
a movement

dont you hear me
scream..........?



----
the saddest thing ive read for a long time.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Queen_bee
poem is totally stolen from all of this.

song of the bees

ive decided i have a new obsession with bees= they're totaly the new birds, but i doubt i could write a play on them/maybe/but i think ill start with some poems and see how i go. the beginning of a poem i cant be bothered working on just yet...

the queen bee says :

my many legs
expand,
spread
black tar and other
sticky shit.

honey in every
lonely hole,
too sweet too sour
the lot of this.

i dont know how
IM FUCKED
but im told
i was born for this.

i was the right size
and every man
the right fit.

-------------------
please note- this is me trying to right with a FAKE character i am NOT writing as myself, though it's easy- im writing from perspective of bee. queen bee as permanent whore and mother, and when i start writing from worker female bees, what it is to never be a mother. devastating world of bees.

my most common criticism- i am just words- came flying back to me last night. how can anyone say i dont mean the if-a-bit-cliched things i say. i am hurt. i am scared.

i thought you understood me so i wouldnt have to try to.

wanting to move past this...

sunny side up...

You trickle through me
around my ankles
chained to you/r nails
or anything sharp
on offer;
your gaze
and remembering
we had agreed on forever.

you stain
this Ever concept
like i saw
red food dye on velvet
picked at it
against my skin
i cried i cried i cried
only the beauty of metal
and not the taste
only dim-lit memories
and fancies, free-like.

that shackled feeling
that we agreed on forever.

--------------------------

i still feel like she owns me.
i want to fly.

WHY CANT I FUCKING WRITE!!!

i dont feel unhappy

therefore with out comparison

i dont feel happy

therefore i dont feel

and have nothing to write.

frustrated with myself with- MAYBE (self reference to my play) maybe when sunny side up is over ill have time for new thoughts.

or maybe it will just be over.

too much art and
the walls are dreaming of peeling
back
to floral wallpaper
lets hope that burn
mark on the roof
is a door to colour
when a fist flies through
its off to a new world of wonderland- i wonder.

watch me
fuck your eyes
lies lies but i do love
it when you love me
this moment
your pockets
empty
YOUrSelf
i fill this time
i run out
of things to say
i stare you down
i run

i need this fantasy as much as you.

i would create fictional characters to write about if i knew any that were just like me.

the art of Plagiarism

i have very little creativity of my own, at least that's near the surface so i did the old faithful collage poem method...cut up words and bits of sentences to create some weird little poems about nothing or everything in my subconscious i guess... begin...


1/
still clowns
synchronised in the corner
a place where they'd been
burnt
--------better than us
i wouldn't have waited around.
they can run, punch, kick, hit and throw.

i found them in a house.

they flew together.

i lost
it
you'll see it
so dirty. i wanna be dirty
get feet in our faces
i like the graceful
you chuck
through a dream world.

until i pass out or
stop. Indefinitely.

2/
i was sick

relax. Don't panic.

-------------------alone
and i wanted
wet dream
so we were covered
after


3/
dance while we drink
i might throw
point my toes too.
It's OK, boys.
No. I'm not a Barbie doll.
control of my gun.
she hates about you!
dainty
-just need more tits
money
get broken
Sex Things
it's a big deal who pays, unless
money is just.
makes it worth it.
But not for all.

MORE old writing circa 2007

crazy crack prose written in 2007 it actually went on for much longer than this but my hand writing stopped making sense and it gets even more confusing and self indulgent...


Dressed in wings and a lace shell, her eye shadow in skin and things,
of trying to erase them. She’s stitched carefully with eyelashes and hair, for holding in boiling with out measure, for holding on. There’s layers for little tears to rip indents in, her and Forever
and decisions take Time.

She chose this
And it’s too hot to hold hands.
tonight
it’s too hot.

She’s clustered on the couch in a Fist and watching sleep disappear with kisses that were Hers and she tries all she dares to exist. The tv is screaming and the floor’s everyone’s but hers. She could own the upstair curtains if the cat wouldn’t insist on breaking them down, leaving a trail of material and fur.

She chose this.
And it’s too hot to hold hands.
It’s too hot.

She broke the glass in the door, just one crack held together with cellotape and she said she slept in the park, but it was safer than her, safer than here. Meaning Forever meant flying knives and waiting for the sharpest to take the both of them.

She always flinched with yelling, she’d never been told love meant always having to say you were sorry. And she liked silent and crying and was used to alone and played wife, even if she couldn’t get the cleaning right. Smoke and diamond mirrors led her easily and soon she cried when touched for it was meaning and rushed her dizzy head in to spins of promises. Music was thrown across the room and she sang riddles in her mind to hide time. She had cried when she heard the groan of the punching bag and fist in the garage and made childish demands to outraged ears. Many steps to take and she couldn’t run fast enough only round and round, begging at feet.

She could see the world and her mind were for worse than walls that shook close and sterns words were Honest and Truth would bind their love. Lies sounded good if she said them out loud but she only knew to write words that hurt, better to not, and to cocoon and soon-later at least she’d re-emerge and they’d be better. Her words only bred crazy and if she didn’t write or think much about much she wouldn’t be.

She pays best she can and buys time with gifts, not enough, never enough and is giving the impression she doesn’t love as good and right because she dreams collages and candle names not shiny toys and shoes for love.

She is lucky to be looked after so well, and is faithful to fear and she never will tell. Even tripping over that darn cat they take photos and laugh at easy bruises and cry for easy forgiveness. Somewhere in bloodshot she wishes her eye would stay like that so she would see. Yet even in fading she can’t forget, just pushes it in to her bubbling digestion and swallows gritty salt, shaky smiles.

She keeps seeing other smiles with sharp teeth and she’s already thrown all her trust in to her red, white and checked basket. Her nightmares of wolves under the bed are in the daylight and she can’t quite bare the wake from dreams comes true.

She lies and likes the way it cans till sound nice when she says she’s looked after and loved and they will marry. Even if she is kept a secret, how long could anyone really keep secrets, she wondered.

No room for leaving: deceit ridden everywhere and not as was thought, even the cat’s unhappy and angry and clawing to get out. Except when they’re alone, the cat and her. Then they hold tight and warm each other.

ENOUGH.

what does it mean to be both a stripper/an object/and a feminist (post or otherwise)? the post mix got delivered to the club across the street even the buildings suffer from some confusion.

man is buying skin is buying sex only i dont have sex to offer MY sex is not for sale only man's sex he buys in to this illusion/allusion to sex he buys his own desires. man is seeing me naked only Darling you will never see me naked you see me dim lit with red lips the both of them you see soft skin and shadows and whiskers. i havent shaved for a few days i figure you dont get to buy my smooth and ive got a bloody tampon shoved up me im splitting at the seams so any minute now i might bleed on to you. bargain, you got this woman real cheap.

apon reading kathy acker

**please note, the use of dots is meant to just be empty space but this stupid website won't allow me to do my fancy thought seperating spacing...
------------------------------

if i can accept
colours
and pretty/ugly...................pretty ugly
shapes
.....................THIS IS IT
i can be free.
[to die.
.to live?
.in an undetermined order]

i wouldn't
i couldn't
make a decision
of what to wear to the funeral
{said in a muted low voice that is not my own}

red is the new black
black is everywhere
im not sure
i have the right shoes
to get around in

i get around alright.

i could break the circle
if i made The Choice

only i wouldn't.
......i couldn't.

i could live a Life
of embrace
desire/
no concequence
leave a trail of myself

they leave me battered too
this battle
each blow i bring apon myself.

alliteration is one of Lifes small pleasures.

i have allowed
my toast to go cold.

it is now
bread with melted
peanut butter
at an earlier time
than mine.

he's perched
on his breakfast log,
minds have been swirling
for an hour
or more.

it must get congested
up there
or it's all in order
as straight lines
or circular roads,
a capital idea. [get it. haha]

i'd like to keep this
image/
always.

quote of the day-
i want the world to stop. i want the world to be sad.

and i do. how can all these people i have never/will never met keep moving keep smiling, how can they laugh so loud [nothing is that funny] how can they not cry for this loss. fuck you sun for making pretty patterns in the clouds that look like a painting of gods and cherubs. i prayed to this God character ive heard of on the off chance i did believe, i prayed. but it is the world, it is the universe, this horrible mess of BALANCE that brings good and poorly placed bad to us all.

thank you stevie smith for reminding me we are all waiting to die- or maybe that's what ive just read in to this EVERYTHING.

i am a cliche on my knees in the rain wrenching out my hair screaming WHY NOT ME.