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the alchemist
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8th-Nov-2007 04:39 pm - tangerine glowing starfish.
He doesn't believe in fairy tales,
anymore than he believes in love
that’s relic-like,
eroding and
covered with seaweed,
but lasts forever
in some form
or other.

I wanted to be
an epic story.
I wanted him
to flaw me,
with rosewater feelings.
to smudge my
haiku skin
with appreciative tears,
and crease my spine
with vintage preciousness.

"because a little hurt
can help sometimes."

I wanted to be princess
in a floral tunic and straw hat,
I wanted him, in dungarees,
to press a daisy between
my lungs,
and keep it a hold of it

but he does not want
a dried up beauty.

I wanted to be
his last, and best


the kind that's too
too soft yet cutting
to the touch,
for placing on a dusty shelf,
to forget all about.

so I told him I still believe,
that the filigrees of white
lacing the waves
are the manes
of elegant stallions.
that fairies
with pink and silver hair
with dandelion clocks
and lady birds.
even in frost bitten air
at the bottom of my garden.

But he does not want
my childish fantasies.

I hoped my ignis fatuus lifestyle
would rub off on him.
infecting him,
rubysparkle lip gloss
on whipped cream cheeks.
that he would want more
with each and every

But he does not want
my devouring kisses.

We played 'White Ladder',
and leaned against a wall
in his cardboard box
with a couple of beers.
I whispered in convexed words
that held too much weight for
my fragile moth bones;
"I'm afraid".
so he swore to fight
the green-eyed vampires away
from my love-bruised neck,
and stamp away
the Versace leather snakes
biting at my torn heels.
to keep the world,
(and David Gray)
from welding an iron mask
onto the face of my heart.

it was then that I told him,
with dragonfly wings sprouting
out of every pore,
that I loved him.
he drew pond weed breath and said,
"I love you too".
and we gazed at the musings,
like tangerine glowing starfish,
tumbling around
in each other's eyes,
foreheads pressed together.

and I offered him my shoe
into which he could only fit
his toes.
and we laughed feverishly.
in a drunken, dreamy passion,
like a stick dragged across
metal railings
by a girl running free,
with sparking optimism
by her feet.

we leaned on each other,
curled on up on the floor
of the cardboard box.
he sighed and said "of course,
it would all be simple,
if the roads were made out of rainbows,
and hedges out of clouds."
"and cobblestones made out of chocolate?"
I offered.
he smiled sadly,
and gave me half of his spliff
saying, "let's take a trip to Paradise".

it's times like those that I feel
like Sarah in the Labyrinth,
lost in a maze of desperation,
with talking doors
that possess no real answers,
and shifting way outs.

But he secretly wishes
I would get lost
somewhere else.

I often find myself, desperately still,
searching for something in his skin
for hours, when I'm tripping,
and he's sleeping.
I explore his freckles
like little islands,
trying to decide whether he's real,
or just the quilt covers engulfing me
after falling out of bed in sleep...

But he does not want
so much wonderment
made from his skin.


you want someone who;

can sleep soundly next to you.

doesn't get in your way when trying to help.

doesn't disapprove of your infatuation with women.

challenges you every day in a 'good way'.

speaks mostly when spoken to.

understands that you mean the opposite
of what you say.

doesn't go around things the hard way.

and doesn't dare to dream.

You do not



.. .

Remember when
we danced
in the headlights
of my car?
with beautiful, symbol-spangled
acoustics blaring
from the radio,
swaying us so gently
like opaque lily pads on the water.

I could've sworn in that moment
you believed in it all,
in all the glazed honey ripples
of moon-painted dreams
coming true,
in gentle harp-tainted currents
winding around your chest.

pulling you under...

but you did not want
to go beneath the surface.

your eyes sparkled
several serrated depths,
like the bottom of the ocean
with thousands of treasures
buried beneath.
I had so much
in to lose myself in,

you held onto my body so tightly
that night...

But it is not me

that you want.
8th-Nov-2007 04:25 pm - the rain is thinking of you today.

the rain is thinking of you today.

distorting the milk of morning twilight
as it pours the blue discharge
across dirty mint green carpet
up stale bedsheets
creating halos around
the moles on your back.

and I drift through life
a petrol bomb thrown
in slow motion
a galaxy of umbers following me
to break the greasy surface
of the ocean...

abandoned cars bleed rainbows of bile
that seep into the gutters
lined with sick.
wooden gates moan in the wind
like moss-laced mothers
cradling their dying sons.

I always came back
following the trail of gravel moths
my steps would leave in your wake
flicking the debris of their wings
into my eyes...
spelling out words across my pupils

"stay... come back... don't go..."

frantically crashing into train windows.

all these things never said...

filthy words etched
in public bathroom stalls.

his bones crack
like sour porcelain
as he lifts a cheap cigarette to his lips
the dried spit at the corner of his mouth
like his yellowed
unbrushed teeth.
you'd swear he'd been chewing
on dead canaries
singing rancid whiskey songs
of old, pock marked widowers.

in my sleep
scratching hooks out of my skin




I often awoke from dreams
of being buried
with sand still filling my mouth and lungs
my hands like shriveled carnations
with neon blue blood
tricking down the tremoring window panes...

the chair he sits in
whimpers like a broken woman
at the first movement he's made
in hours.
the light from the High Definition T.V set
stains the cigarette smoke
blood red... forget-me-not blue...
a carnival of fucked up souls
as it curls around his nose
cluttered with black spots.

he sits alone.


sand softly spilling out
onto the ketchup stained couch..

my heart chants most nights.
seeping bitter words to him
like an infected wound
pouring onto delicately exposed tissue;





the rain has you in mind.
as it tenderly distorts the view from your window.

yes. the rain is thinking of you today...

but I am not.
24th-Oct-2007 10:00 am - you left a mark.
. . .

for a second there

we punctured impressions into each other
clinging together like fig sap saturation.
I fell into your eyes
tripped over your heart
{you snuff my breath
with whispered swords}
_that goes something like:
i am different. here. right now,
from all you have extinguished.

they say unwanted girls would never learn how to *keep love*
.don't. deserve unconditional attention
we are the forgotten ones - who weren't good enough

but I feel like an emancipated woman,
ejecting intellectual discourse- to somehow
subjugate a patented fate-matter; and
reason- why we elementalise so
accordingly, in dreamscapes at airports,
where the mural-length glass panes are portals
to where we end up, and our expanse-
like Mandela's walk to freedom.

please don't say I'm a Botticelli goddess,
not unless we can stay enchanted.
and your smile, lit up my life, brighter than
fireworks on the Harbour Bridge, sadly-
I could only feel,
the heartbreak of those who have not yet
experienced you.

and you can't love a self-punishing masochist
because she won't let you.

I was born without rose-colored glasses-
to really understand .worth.
I was worth your countless compromises,
gratifying as pornography. but you did teach me:
mess accumulation
socially tangible transanimation
eating in bed
the madness of indecision
love at fatally close sight
life after love.

you'll always be more than enough for me
for you are a mystery- absolute in the world.
I'm insubstantial, narco-bound, staggering
to translate the sunscript liturgy of your purpose
and we'll meet somewhere in the middle- our stratosphere-
separating the convergence of lonely star-crossed winds,
sculpted to gallery in stasis, visually mnemonic.

now when I reach out, I'm only holding [ ~air~ ]
and I think-
I'm starting to outgrow you.
24th-Oct-2007 09:23 am - oil to flame [and star studded ashes]

the stars.

they look dim tonight.
and I spit on Van Gogh for his false hopes.
as they gasp for breath. I blink.
and hope that they'll revive.
I drink. and toast to lost hopes.
and remorse.

my tears are caught in my eyes.
and the sky is growing blurred with the passing minutes.
playing connect the dots with my cigarette
and my fingers begin to ache.

I hate these words I speak with ink
and metaphor.

but I love the way they sound
when my tongues goes dry- and my lips crack.
voice quivers. and I get lost in

translation: I feel cheated.

and the stars scream to me- 'I will let you down'
lines that I've fed to myself. and I've never failed.
at least I cared.

to begin with.

this is no more art than the stars.
and they're as dead.
as these words.

only I'll burn out long before
anyone can call me beautiful.
23rd-Oct-2007 04:53 pm - making love with words.
he wrote me a poem
and suddenly everything made sense.

the words were washed over with shreds
of him and the scent of magnolia gardens
and it felt like magic

to move my lips and have his words come out
in perfect flowing rhythms.

he’s perfect.
in that way that perfection is flawed
when his voice resonates throughout the

like a subtle laugh inside a pen.

and there was this flutter
inside of me and i swear i could’ve puked
lovebirds with butterflies in their stomachs.

it was more than just being able to understand
what made me cling to his collarbone
and fracture him easily with
concrete kisses.

it was that i felt.
i felt him in his absence screaming
at my chest
and pounding the beats from my heart

crushing them,
into tiny particles until they fit in his

“the wind speaks to me
when she laughs

of angels unraveling
and god keeps pulling that

and i think

i think,
the sky broke when she cried.”

i’m not sure
when he fell in love with me
but i think i’ve loved him all along.
23rd-Oct-2007 04:50 pm - breath breaking.
his hands:
they look like trees
when he reaches for the lightening
storming in his veins like electrocuted
barbwire tattooed across his face.
i shook with him
beneath the shade where he said sun
rays are only specs of what glitter purges
when it speaks. and i was only his pocket
book dictionary, tucked safe, for those
words. those words i’d never explain.
and his hands:
they cradled me in ways.
ways that made me break.

ways that
made me break.
15th-Oct-2007 02:39 pm - our last days as children.
There was thunder in the distance
as I traced the outlines of your poetry in vanilla sugar tears
I often ponder, if love is imagination
and find myself falling headfirst into love, out of my mind many times
to have knelt amongst broken chandeliers and poetry books,
forgotten ragdolls litter memories of long ago..
I think you might have been amongst them,
dreaming these words into quicksilver wings that serenade flight
and I fear if I were to weep your face might melt away
because I have wished for you
upon every star
and all the time, you were waiting for me inside my stories
with baited breath, wax candle cupped in your palms,
lighting the path to our ever after..

I was born of these words, as all those snowflakes
you never managed to save with a kiss meant for I,
whispered to life by your senescent voice
delicately strung of daffodils filling with rain
like children huddled the top of stairs
and falling tinsel aftermaths of abused christmases
cradling a promise of butterflies having no sense of loyalty
pressed into my eager palms as the most beautiful tragedy
...I blew into my cupped fingers and released a moth. but I kept you safe.
I held the nightsky like an umbrella to save you
from the wishes you made.

..these were our last days as dreamers upon rooftop cinemas.
watching our shared imaginations make love inside thunderstorms
before we were old enough to know of love.
oh how we would have avoided it knowing forever cannot be saved

when the clouds crashed like the muted bangs of abusive parents
behind trembling doors
we have sat upon on this cursed rooftop,
waiting, praying the heavens might bend
paper moon and star dew lament only to crack by your hands

The electricity of your fingertips kisses the static crackles of my face
and gives me reason to exist..
Allow me escape to the worlds within you
that I might be encased in a snowglobe winterealm of your ceaseless wonder
to fall asleep beneath the blankets of your sighs
praying to the half moon gods smile in your eyes that glisten
like the ropes of a swing after an early morning rain
dawning in and out of focus like a drunken husbands dream

as children,
whispering of secret attics
running with kites of twilight hues
chasing starlight fireflies through the neverending fields
until the sun sets like a worthless apology
..our children will never know this
but we have had reason to escape

entwined like early morning sheets in these words alone,
never to end...together
that maybe someday we might share again this unexplored reality
rewriting ourselves into the ever afters of bed time stories.
somewhere between the endless pages of an unwritten sky
and a small boy standing alone in a playground
tracing cloud calligraphy around the faces of those met in dreams
your voice was found there, inside identity and eternity
as the only moment of clarity

broke through grey.
and I'll still bask in the light your memories cast shadows puppets
softly upon my window
and rouse only to trace them into the braille of your snow cracked lips
as your ink eyelashes splash sillhouettes upon thine snow white cheeks
I close my eyes when we kiss, and when I dawn to reminisce
you are gone

I pray upon mantelpiece snowglobes, that you are somewhere safe

inside my dream

If it meant your hand never left mine, I would have promised never to wake.
and I'm left counting shooting stars in my sleep
gazing the moon at its fullest nights it doesn't hurt too much
if the boy who lives there still wonders of me

as I do of him.
10th-Oct-2007 02:38 pm - 21.
.away fly I before, me to fly So

unrestrained by all the numbers
holding me to an identity, a spot
in the paleolithic equation, that even I
could understand, if I retrieve those
scrunched up emotions in the pit of
my stomach and the faces
I'm afraid would mean something. to me.
Where - a face is not a face, but
a disfiguration of features to which I assign
a favourite trait, a familiar characteristic,
the unique qualification that makes a smile
gentle, difficult, heavy, or his eyes, filled
with the black matter of my own heart, and
complex variables spread across the spectrum
of your iris, almost reflecting

Can you take the final blow of my c o n f e s s i o n?
I am dishonest.
I want to say,
that I love only you,
but the truth is,
I have loved many.
Though, my love for you is not diminished
one little bit. Someday I'll learn to find the truth
and the fibres of innocence, worn so proudly
in my youth, strung loosely in memories;
why one isn't enough, is something
that scares me everyday.

Did you know, you only have one fatherhood
to screw up,
and you can't redeem one
with the other.
The righteous knows no exceptions
when you broke every promise
in the fatherhood book of ethics and
my only failure is never to tell you this.
And I shall endure the hell.
and I only wish your son well.
And you were the first to break my heart.
I had it in my mind you would come to say
you changed your mind-
not the messenger
or the bear, stuffed with
someone's pity, evanescent
as that birthday.
all I wanted was a piece of you,
some profound universal secret.
a wisdom to resound through the rest of my decisions
that it could be real,
to take away with me for all fractured time.

imagine a place-
with you-
on a level plane, spacially free
to fill it with observation
our contingencies,
that which defines us
the way we want to be defined.
How far it is from
living in this moment and
all we hide from each other!
just speak the unspoken and unspeak
the spoken, and skip to the middle.
we could be happier
in confusion than absolute clarity.

I feel so perplexed in this skin
like the girl who hangs on her curtains
and sits alone in a closet
with kind-sighted memories of sugar cane
fields, under one of those
heaven's finest sun masked days,
but the little eccentricities
pervade every impulse
dulls receptivity over decree
of humanity's simplest.
I'll leave political schisms
for the tactical spirits
who live in jaded disenchantment.
That is sometimes myself.
if only science could serve the answers
for lifeforms perpetuated
and all the whys,
and if only there was an answer from God.
Or how that people in adversity can have
so much hope for something better
but people with an iota of wealth
can't see beyond the paranoia,
human conspiracy, the narrow-mindedness
of Darwinistic preconditions.

So when is the time to be 21
and a girl
for one day
to make the parochial mistakes
with no arsed-up apologies or 
karmic repercussions.
Truly I would
the words from this page
until they promenade around my head
and I can take it in mouthfuls of
hard liquid shots.
I would find those petty pieces of grace
and pretend they came from you.
love is the lump in my throat every time I think of you
atomically ancient
as any chemical existence.
I want to take you
even as you brush me off
for the undependable,
discord of polarised doctrines
and those parts that I don't understand
I'm not a dumb girl
I'll know you better than anyone.

and I have
all that
to keep it interesting.
In a world of spares.
I am virgin-eyed,
mercurial as a
bermuda road.

.me reach don't you if, mending keep So
10th-Oct-2007 01:31 pm - my taste.
a feeble assembly of words
could pass from my mouth

and many might be impressed.

(maybe even you.)

but i am growing tired
of the same accounts
of the same emotions
pouring deliberately
from my bitten-down fingertips
onto the obligatory
small messied pieces of paper.

black ink
playing like red blood.

my soul rubbed a little bit raw.

a little bit cliched.

a little bit overexposed.

(i need to hide more.
become more modest.
wear more sweaters.
long coats.

and tall boots.)

i fucked a virgin
who looked just like Elvis
because i wanted to write
a poem about aching
and staggering someone’s memory
leaving an imprint so deep
that i will be fossilized.

it meant less than all of the other things ive done
in the name of experience
and poetry
and good stories.

because i was drunk enough to know what i was doing.

and because i was sober enough to wish that i wasn’t doing it.

and yet.
i pressed on
with my hands
on his back
and my mouth
on his shoulder

because i wanted
(because i was screaming and dying and alive
and awake and married and single and widowed and divorced and sleeping)
to feel something

-not for him-

for myself

that is when
i can write.

and that is when
i can say things

that is when i can explain the depth of my first job.

not when i was being taxed.

but before,
when i cleaned the family steps for a living.

that is when i can make suppositions about why i had a stutter
until the age of 10.

that is when i can write about paper cranes
and turquoise jewelry and terra cotta skies
and the mud on blue tarps causing me aches for the west.

that is when i am able to create perfectly crafted images of water lilies.
quiet fat babies.
and thin haired men.

that is when i know
-for certain.-

that i am meant to head west
to the hills of san francisco

where the sun and the sky would be my blankets
and my moon.

that is when i know
that for the good or the bad
that i can make.


and sometimes

(if not only in its sheer fuckedupness.)

that is when
i am a mother.

when i am not barren.
when i am not empty.
when i am not hollow.

i kissed him to taste his lips.

i did everything else
to taste my own.
9th-Oct-2007 03:31 pm - aborting the mold.
i seem to arrive, right in the middle of things;
unnoticed & misplaced
and i try and try and try to give
by scrubbing my womb, baring my hands,
until i lose all ability
to piece myself together,
like one hapless blunder that slipped
past the universe
without much luck in vindicating
the integrity of its existence.

i'm the mouse that just won't tread on the mousetrap.

i've said goodbyes, and not understood what i was losing.
i had my heart set on the bigger picture, while little things have always proved true.
for years i prayed. to. a dormant emptiness.
what is the difference between suffering and ignorance?
i saw the park i went to as a kid, where i'd once fed a dozen happy ducks
& picked wild raspberries from the forests,
until the sun began setting, and the sky turned titan,
but i didn't stop.

i can no longer stand to look at humanity in the eye.

i'm a middle person
with no beginning or end
just drifting,
lost between the cracks.

who are these pathetic souls
walking through each other
unable to face freedom?
they hurry back to boxed cages
to serve every hidden personal urge:
masturbation in jaded lament,
substance abuse, alcoholism,
OCDs, whatever perverse eccentricities
that jerks the senses,
amuses those high-cultured minds.

and i cried
and i laughed
in hilarious, hysterical misery.

-for every lawsuit that strains already fragile human ties
-the cruel disenchantment of a child who
had to grow up too fast.
-for those vintage 1900s family portraits
now buried and burnt to the dirt
-the number of whales falling victim to Japanese harpoons
whose cheap deaths are commonly sold forward as pet food.
-that all the supposed control freaks- have no control over their own actions,
must plead innocence when executing a stranger's evil.

i related to an old traveler about the smog hanging above town,
about the machete wars in africa,
how we are slowly being killed by corporations,
with less dignity than the concentration camps.
emissions agreements that are never honored,
u.n. council members competing for illegal arms deals.
he shook his head, ashamed, "we can't solve all the problems in the world."
finally i see, god is simply a symbol
of our fear.

then i just .stopped. believing that i
belonged anywhere.
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