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spent all afternoon teaching myself how to play muse's hysteria on bass. maybe the third time i've ever picked up a bass- feel like a total puss because my fingertips are raw as fuck. and bass internation Vs guitar internation= WHAT THE FUCK. my midget hands do not compute. but seriously. i fucking fucking fucking love that line. |
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spring is sprung! everyone is sweating and smiling. riding bikes in short shorts and listening to morphine. oh oh oh oh my life. the mulberry trees are fruiting like a motherfucker and silly chook laid her first eggs today! four of them. |
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 in the den of the east wolf so much time spent looking at chrysalis' of broken skin left all over this continent. i feel restless and downtrodden. words are welts in every conversation. i get sexualised by near strangers, my balance unsettled and shifted by the misplaced eye. in the past few weeks i try hard not to make eye contact, romanticising a spontaneous moment when someone can look and read and if not understand, at least not dissect with an amateur's attention. i don't know where home is. i build nests in the arms of lovers of varying regularity. i build nests in places where the rest of the world cannot touch me. shifting this pelt for a second to show sinew and nerve, irrationality and the dark. wanting these trusting people to see the raised hackles and the wild, to comprehend what it is to have a wolf as a lover, a sister, a brother, another canvas of skin under their hands. i dig through old writing, fumblingstuttering to articulate the essence of a muse.  fuming at my inability to convey the simplest of impulses. to communicate my needs. my desires. late night, i talk to an old friend and struggle to evade the nightmare. we talk about our bodies as nuclear reactors. i watch my birdcage cathedral as it trembles and sputters and lays dead at dawn. i read cards and the calluses of palms, throw bones. i try to understand where i am. fumbling to articulate.  i fumbled to speak to a wolf, someone who sounds whitegrey and sharp. stutter or silence and minimal eye contact. someone i can't read, i can't see without half-obscured vision. fuck. walking from karaoke where i forfeit my pool-table prowess for the nerves. i lose my phone and find it again, struck by the irregular beauty of a minituare tree under a barely present streetlight. pieces of the eldritch in suburbia. in the black hole, the loungeroom of a punk squat in essendon, i show him the guts of the log. where he is a creature sketched with frustrating care to detail and fiction. how to articulate the essence of. i sew pieces of armour into this skin with deft fingers. i isolate myself with a desire to disappear without notice. without feeling attachment. i isolate and distract. becoming adept at being comatose in my social day, going through the motions. in my mind i lie down naked in a vast expanse of snow and let the fall cover me. the tips of toes and fingers and nose just breaking through to the surface. i had my ribs torn open with frightening force last week, in the south. she asked me, just once more. just so you can understand my last week month year, life. lay down beside her and felt myself asphyxiate on her presence. heroin dreams and half closed eyes. a day after where even the wind looked exhausted. we fight like the wolves we are and keen for something that is final. a catalyst. i told her about the image i'm getting inked. the wolves clinging to each other above the marsh. she asked if it was her headstone. the motif for her memorial. but she's not dead yet. i'm typing this out and my hands are shaking so violently, feeling the dark in the place between my scapula. fuck. fuck. everything has an end. |
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back from the south. my head is in tatters. my heart is swollen and epicly bruised. |
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missing my lovers and listening to mojo juju's theme from znitzki , on repeat. i've gone soft, nail biting and enamoured. with the south, with friends, with groups of people that feel like home. fuck, internet time running out. i will prewrite and post and photos. |
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metal morning at suspension. outrageous head movements too early in the middle of the day. i woke up this morning cradling hugo ghost. strings making lines that itch on my palms. vodka and coffee at midnight put me to sleep, in the midst of a song. i think i was singing about synaesthesia and wolves and broken fingerbones. foggy morning eyes got fixed on polaroids of exlovers stuck to the walls of the den. i wept a little, got up and washed my face. all my mornings are afternoons are evenings are mornings. searching for quick fixes to the illness. trying to remember how i last through this each time. |
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 what is this illness. drinking to kill the insomnia. drinking to stop dreaming. dreams of being skinned alive. hung from the eaves of a cathedral. i am sober shakey and loveless. asphyxiated by my own ghost. i spend time with other chronic self-medicators. we fall drunkenly onto carpeted floors in the morning. wake up covered in bruises and burns. i fucking swooned. i'm so sorry. |
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 ( foxcat and i being dicks and not going to class ontime. ) chipped my tooth got hit sideways by a car while on my bike, driver is a complete fucking asshole. stops and tells me that I am in the wrong because i was riding in the bike lane when he was turning into a carpark. proceeds to go on about some fucking shit about how dangerous cyclists are for motorists. and how his mirror is cracked off the car a bit. does not ask if i'm okay at all. while my fucking mouth is bleeding all over my fucking face because the lovely-sharp pieces of tooth that snapped when my jaw got aquainted with his subaru have decided they like my cheek and the bit between my gum and cheek better than where they oughta be. tells me that 'wise-ass brats' like me just don't think about the consequences of our 'stunts'. yelling at me while his kids were in the back of the car with one of them crying. which, let me mention, is why he called me a 'wise-ass brat' to begin with. because i said that i could deal but that maybe his kid seemed more upset by the whole thing. the kid was Seriously Freaking Out because he'd just been in a car that hit somebody.  angry puffy jaw and i'll-bite-you-on-the-head-for-speaking-a totally still have the bike-love, just it's a painful relationship sometimes. and, my appointment to get my the cog on my shoulder touched up was cancelled. my excitement about even the littlest things tends to backfire, eh. and i have to pack all of my shit to move on thursday into the new house, where kyal hasn't finished moving his stuff into one of the other bedrooms. WHINGE WHINGE WHINGE world's tiniest violin. esher= pansy-ass motherfucker. |
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bambam bones. a month since i ended up on power st, 5am. full moon is leaving me nervous and coarse voiced. i'm watching the flight navigation path that runs horizontal to my window sill. hesitant hours tonight. heavy weight of a rusted new key around my neck. the urge to cut my hair off. all the world is short sentences. i am procrastinating packing. where the fuck is my ink, i want to tattoo something. culled my shit a little. found my skateboard. second week in a row with not a cent in my pocket. savoury pancakes are the poor man's food. my hands smell like burning wood and salt. kangaroo bones on my desk. plans for new brews. started my ginger plant for ale. i want to have no commitments. phone call from a friend. lead to memories of sorryday at the embassy. wearing false glasses to avoid eye contact on the street. fixed pants have a leather crotch. turned on by the smell of axle grease. sneaking into tom gabel was nostalgia triggering. remembering balcony squat sex against walls and 2wks of storms arm in arm with a new friend. dreams of freight trains and banjo summers. missing crushes and playing spoons. plaster casts of skulls. fanny packs and so! fucking! crusty. exhusbands are lights out touch and frantic fuck. a new project bike (bike total now 4) and fixed my tyre belt. text vomit.  i'm a total dick. i don't know how to compile my mind into some form that is readable to anyone else. at the moment i'm playing this shit all by ear. by what the circumstance or state feels like under my hands or feet. i'm feeling a little displaced and i think alot of that is to do with moving into a new place. when i think about the choices i'm making or have to make at the moment, i picture myself standing on a moonless night at hardpacked dirt crossroads with some behemoth of a hound breathing hot foul breath down the back of my neck.
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you crawled into my bed that night like some sort of giant insect and i found myself spellbound at the sight of you. beautiful and grosteque- and all the rest of that bug stuff .. i held you there thinking i would offer you my pulse, if i thought it would be useful i would give you my breath, except the problem with death is we have some hundred years and then they can build buildings on our only bones. a hundred years and then your grave is not your own. ---------------------------------------- i've talked a little about the slipstream mechanics, before. the transience from body to body. breath to breath. the calm lull when that or this moment seems almost too much. too solid and irrevocable. this beautiful indelible effigy, that leaves you quaking when it's scent has only just left the room. trying to remember what it is to be fallen falling flustered for someone, something, someplace. the waking hours between seduction of the sensibilities. and you walk around somewhere familiar, and the walls seem too small too decayed, too filled with the creaks and whispers of once-upon-a-words. i move out of the crowsnest in a week, less than that. the last place that i can still hear what it felt to hold that crushing lover. beautiful, and grotesque. broken and poetic. feeling nostalgic. trying to remember the fluster, before physicality that reminds me is gone. i made a video of la lune from the window here. it's just underneath the text. ---------------------------------------- |
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had a couple of days last week where i couldn't walk. lok came and spent time with me, watching degrassi and taking photos. feeding me hot chips and keeping my mind off of bad body days. |
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 2 cups plain flour 2 tsp baking powder 1 tsp baking soda (bi-carb) 1 tbsp sugar (caster) 1 tsp salt 1 cup thick soygurt 2 1/2 cups soymilk (bonsoy) 1 tbsp arrowroot (replaces egg) mix all dry ingredients except for the arrowroot. mix wet ingredients and arrowroot. fold (i think that's the word) the wet mix into the dry. if you stir too much it makes it lose air and the pancakes aren't as fluffy. if it's too thick add a little more milk or maybe some water. 1/3 cup of the mixture for each pancake. ( skele face )( skele face )( skele face ) |
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