Got no cupidity, so come Cupid

Come cupid
string your flexible bow
draw back that slender arrow filled with promise
Shoot me umpteen times
in my back, sides, gut
between my eyes, my palms
pierce an arrow through my knee
until my corners drip the blood that is my very life source
drain me of colour
leave my tributaries void and thirsty
Pull out your crossbow
strike me with your toughest bolt
be sure to hit your mark
and send me into a dizzying spell
I can wallow in
for the rest of my eternity
Let it wound me so greatly
the very fabric of my soul is perforated
so the stardust within me carries the nuance
for millenniums to come
and on and on and on….

Captain Constellation

I pass between worlds unseen, float down rivers and brooks
on a raft made of fossilised memories woven together
with my hand spun quicksilver wishes
As though I am but a shadow cast from no particular light
a shadow cat; dark and slinky, graceful, feminine motion
slow blinking bovine lashes reaching up and out and up
Surrounded by all the appurtenances of a simple, visual,
textual, textural life
lived heavily in complex arithmetic
boggling minds, mine goes up in vast horizons of flame with every new tangent

I am the great observer in the stars, I am my own constellation
all my extremities hold a hot ball of hydrogen burning into helium
lighting my own universal expanse
Deciphering inflexion and
pantomime autonomous or otherwise
as though it were cryptic
Crossword puzzle incomplete
Doctor’s handwritten instructions, incomprehensible
Just puzzle after puzzle after
torturously labyrinthine puzzle
I can dig my way to your foundation then
pry up the floorboards with my fingernails
find all your secret iron lockboxes and
nestle in tight between the frosty hurt and warm content

Not all that, but something….

I’m not a dumb kinda chick, ‘ya know? I got my own intelligence
I’m playin’ with a full deck, playin’ with fire
I’m the entire twelve course degustation
and I’m the e. coli poisoning your tracts afterward
I’m salt and pepper, I’m the whole damn spice rack
Sun and moon, mars and venus
night and day
sweet and sour
I encompass all variables and create my own

I got a laugh that’ll convince you the rest of humanity has all but silenced and disappeared
It’ll infect you with joy you didn’t know you could find
penetrate your very mind and steep amongst your fluid thoughts
until behind your every stained-glass sadness you can hear my giggle and
see my kaleidoscope smile

Might not know a tonne of random facts, couldn’t reel off a political speil
or tell you much about any particular war
really, I’m awful with geography
and I’ve never travelled knowingly

I’ve got a few hundred buckets of wit and humour tied to a rope I drag around with me
it’s heavy, gets tangled on branches and stuck in traffic
I threaded bells in between to add a little spring to my step
a little music to my otherwise unscored life

I know a little about space and a little about ancient Egypt
Wrote my own theories on life, death and love
Bring tears to my fathers eyes with a couple paragraphs of
unusually structured sentences and
more honesty than can spill from my mouth in one breath

Got fascination and curiosity out the wazoo

Just love learning like there’s no tomorrow
I ain’t got no clue about how to play an instrument or speak any European language
but I’ve always wanted to learn and I’m pretty good with intonation

I can cut hair and manipulate it into perfectly vintage tendrils
got soft hands with even softer touch
that buckle and break under too much pressure

I got a joke or two in my back pocket and a little bit of charm
little bit of charisma, stars in my eyes to keep you guessing
is she of this planet?
;this solar system, this universe

Because I can seem a thousand lightyears away but still feel locked and loaded
.44 Magnum cocked and my fingers are just burning
to squeeze off a shot of realism into your chest

Intelligent motion, body language as much as spoken language
I know how to feel and I can articulate it
I can frolic in the deserts of my despair
and cavort freely in the deep mossy undergrowth where I keep my primeval
I can share my sentiment with careful consideration
Mine is a heart sensitive and bruised, it’s already parading stitches and
scars —if it is framed in my favourite black shadow box for you,
please don’t
break the glass

Where shame does and does not lay

With every syllable that dies rolling off my tongue to your ear
and every letter suicidally springing its way off my fingertips,

I become vulnerable

so much so I am starting to feel naked; in every sense of the word
Every morning when I wake to another spider spinning her web on my bedroom ceiling I notice another garment
or disfigured on the floor
much beyond repair

I am not especially cold
I am just exposed

no shame in showing you my ugly side
But the memories of those scars and that extra body fat still hurt

and I have shame in that

I woke up this morning to the bones of my closet
brushed metal spine wedged in the same place it always had been
several dozen ribcage hangers, some hanging off other hangers
hangers on the floor
What is this?
A hanger tucked in beside me with a handwritten note

“All this fabric is but guise
guarding you from me —
you’ve no need for reservation
Safehouse, safety net;
you’re safe as safe can be”

Reflections and future visions

It’s an awful kind of funny looking back to December. I distinctly remember announcing that 2016 was going to be my year. The best year of my life and then some. I remember saying it so clearly, on New Year’s Eve with glossy eyes and freshly coloured hair, not a drop of alcohol in my system. I said I was going to be happier than I ever had been, and I’d finally get my license so I could drive the road to success.

Plans change pretty fucking quickly, huh?

So it’s September now. This year has been a hoot *infamous eye roll*. I cried my guts out through my mouth and sent all my tears to mars on a spaceship so they might find some water. I completely three-sixtied in a bout of vertigo and got in a lot of debt. I spent a lot of time in depression so deep I came down with chronic vitamin d deficiency and forgot how the sun felt on my naked skin. I forgot I even had skin ’cause some days I felt scaley or feathery or all covered in slime.

May was the turning point, my breaking point. Couldn’t manage another day in the darkest, heaviest depths of the ocean. I couldn’t breath anymore. I couldn’t go visit my best friend without apparent reason. Couldn’t reconnect with a remarkable someone. Couldn’t call my parents without guilt. So I cut all the ribbons in my way with a new pair of hairdressing shears and spent a night looking at the sky.

I’ve noticed floaters in my vision as of late. I’m not concerned. It’s just the jelly in my eyeball pulling away from the retina and getting a little confused. I think it means something other than my ageing.

I don’t wanna say “I regret….” ’cause I don’t like the idea of it. Seems a pointless place of worry, and I’ve already paid the mortgage to my home in WorryTown, got a spare set of keys but no one wants the weight in their pocket. Or the pusheen keychain they’re tethered to. It’s giving me crows feet and frown lines but I’m not going grey yet and that’s a damn shame. I’m just angry at myself for being so soft instead of letting my hard exterior reign supreme.

Were I a man I’d have more of a backbone I guess. Perhaps I’d have had the courage to put my foot down sooner and squash all the bugs threatening to crawl up my trouser leg. Then again, maybe not. And really, I doubt it would have made a difference. But if it did maybe I wouldn’t have these moments to cherish now. Or maybe I’d have found them sooner. In retrospect I know I would have though I’m a little too weak to accept that. Guess I’ll just be picking slaters and weird, wiggly creatures from my clothes for a while. 

Would’a, should’a, could’a.

I’ve found so many things I thought I’d lost. Like my old 35mm Minolta and the prints I made when I was in highschool.

Like writing. Can’t believe I left it for so long, I just couldn’t risk it being read. I kept all my disappointment buried so deep it started gnawing at my organs until I complained of chest, stomach and back pain. Being honest on paper is so much easier than voicing it audibly.

Thought I’d lost something else just as special a long, long time ago. Turns out that was just temporarily misplaced, too. But not like the keys my mother ‘misplaced’ eight months passed, they’re gone for good. I am so thankful that I found my key at long last. Better late than never but it gave me time to grow up and learn to drive better.

I’ve always looked to the future for happiness rather than looking in the past or the mirror. There is so much more there. I can feel it right down to my bones. My very atoms are crying out for the year to close.

My every 11:11, my every shooting star, my every birthday candle wish are grounded in the days passing by as fast as lightening strikes the earth and retracts again. If I could press a button to skip the rest of this year I would. I’m click, click, clickkkking the skip chapter button on a remote I found in my bedroom and sobbing pleas out loud. Time is torturous. It seems to move in slow motion when I’m sprinting down the highway to my future.

I’m still convinced that my endless running is better than standing still. But I’m not sure it’s making me actually move any faster.

November is the month after next and it’s my birthday month. Can’t wait to be twenty-two. Won’t have a party or celebration and I’ll spend the night alone in my bed. No man to take me to the moon or attempt to bake me a cake. No one’s here. I’m a hopeless poet with hopeful visions painted on my eyelids.

Guaranteed there’ll be a piece worth grimacing at published here on my little corner of the Internet. Guaranteed it’ll be me trying to draw a picture filled with wishes when all I’ll really be pining for in that moment is a kiss.

I have this unexplainable deep seated feeling that something big is supposed to happen. Like maybe next year will be the year. Double numbers are supposed to be lucky, right? So perhaps when I’m twenty-two the world will implode. No, wait. My world will implode and reborn from the ashes will be this sensational new globe and I’ll hop on a plane where my future awaits.

Here’s a piece just for you….

At the mere mention of vomit I seize
can’t bear the thought, cripples me into anxiety attack mode
Fight or flight, flight, FLIGHT I want to run
Blackout, switch off, uncontrollable unwanted crying
my entirety shaking, words can’t permeate the stress
But you make me feel sick
sick with excitement
nervous you might change tracks and listen to someone else’s EP
Roughly lift my vinyl off the record player, throw it at the wall and replace it tenderly
delicately with that of sweeter sound

You don’t add an ounce of weight to my depression’s grossly obese form
in fact you convince it to exercise once in a while
choose a salad over another bucket of gravy covered fries

I can’t help but think we could be the greatest
and maybe we can because 

my heart was skipping around in a field full of rotting carcasses and
skeletal trees, a murder of crows flew overhead
blocking out the sun like a storm cloud but I knew rain wouldn’t relieve the cracked soil
or my chapped lips
The air was thick with the stench of death and
small bugs were hard not to swallow
When some refuge sent me a letter
with a map and directions, a little heart was scribbled in the corner

I saw a cottage covered in roses, it was painted pastel blue
The door swung open at my approach
I was ushered in by the scent of Nag Champa and freshly brewed herbal tea
it felt safe inside these walls
they weren’t tall or looming
but they were terribly impressive
Languages by the truckload, paintings, scriptures, more and more
they’re my favourite flower

So many books, too many titles
One had all your initials on its spine but the back cover was missing
all it’s pages had been stitched in periodically
different papers and sizes all compiled as to read so far….
I was fighting my curiosity to finger through the pages
but I got this feeling you didn’t want me to read it all just yet
like you wanted to read it out loud to me when the time was right

I found a thin paperback marked with my name
unlike most the of the books but alike to yours
alike to others marked mother, father, brother, first heartbreak, fears
names I didn’t recognise and heritage
mine had been titled by hand
The calligraphy was flawless, gilt and manually embossed
the weight didn’t match its width
Again I fought the urge to sup at its contents
Again I won the battle

Heard the scratch of needle on record followed by pure sound
I began to sway and quickly gave in to graceful motion
dancing with emotion right to my fingertips
moving feet in time and hips revolving, I spun

felt a hand on my waist, whisper in my hair and
I turned but I found myself alone
knew you were there but you were so far away

I’m missing my co-pilot, he was supposed to help me

I’ve been a pilot for far too long
was born with my aviation license and
even though I keep burning it
the plastic seems to un-melt, reconstruct that shiny image
It reads my name
and beneath that has its phonetic spelling for some reason
then it tells of my birthdate
says 13/11/1994 but I swear I came from another decade altogether
I have a hunch the thirteen is accurate —unlucky
I feel twice as old as I apparently am
never felt the youth I supposedly had
My hands are crooked from all the years I have gripped too tightly
My brain and heart are heavy and dissolving all too rapidly
My eyes are so blue, too blue, hiding an ocean of script
The photograph is hideously unflattering
which is why I keep it behind all the other cards in my wallet
that and I want to reject having it in the first place
Leave the aerospace to a co-
need to find one before I can leave the cockpit for a tea break
bathroom break
cigarette break, any kind of break
Just need to lay down
switch off
But I can’t afford to shut my eyes because
I’m the only pilot flying this wreck
I don’t even have time to survey the damage or make repairs

The light gets in the way but I need it

I’ve tried all sorts of things. Gotten myself in all types of ways trying to find good vibrations to thrum at my heart strings. Want that 24/7 butterfly sensation in my stomach.
Want every mouthful to taste sickly sweet, chewy, sticking to my molars and the roof of my mouth. Tonguing the remains for hours on end with no ‘relief’. Hand to God I believe in love. No boundaries, no restrictions.
I’ll take every oath under the sun.

The thump, thump, quickening thump of my heart palpitations bring panic and only make it worse. Chest feeling way too tight, like perhaps my lungs have just shrivelled up and disappeared. Left me to flat line ‘cause they’re sick of aiding a hopeless romantic. Then regularity kicks back in and I let my eyes roll to the back of my head while I thank my heart for not giving up. Not quite just yet.
But the burn and ache remind me I’m real.
I hate every second of those is this the end? moments, then I reflect and want to dance the night away and into arms just one more time.
In case I wake up dead, ‘cause it’s a concrete possibility.

It’s like a lens flare on the perfect photograph. You thought you’d captured the quintessential essence of your subject until you’re flicking through the developed pictures weeks later and realise you were at the wrong angle. The light hit the lens and you’re a moron for not noticing at the time because you’ll never get that moment back, now it’s but a silhouetted memory. Can’t just reset the studio and pose your love anew.

While I’m terrified my ticker might stop ticking I’m not actually afraid of death. I don’t know if that makes sense, and I’m not sorry if it doesn’t. The only thing I’m scared of is not knowing if you might fall in love with me, not having that chance. It’s the only chance I’m asking for, ever will ask for.
Though I’m not such a deserving girl. I live in a pit filled with liquid.
The fluid is thick and teeming with weird fish that aren’t fish but I don’t know how else to describe them. They’re kind of carnivorous but they won’t harm you if you dig up the courage to dive in.
Swish, swish you’ll feel them brushing your calves and exploring what patterns live on your skin. You can talk to them, they all have voices. Lift them above the surface to see all they’re pretty colours and glistening scales. Hear them chattering about the memories and emotions they hold, listen too all my secrets kept in these wet creatures. They’ve got big mouths for the right ear.

I live in a house where my brother is too lazy to go outside and smoke a cone, too lazy to even crack a window and my bedroom is adjacent to his. So, I suffocate in this weird, sweet smell and it makes me feel like I need to shower all the time.
Tends to bring me thwack back into reality when I’ve got my eyes squeezed shut because I’m dreaming of the day I get to wake up at 4:30AM to fly out of the country by eleven. It’ll be the end of summer so getting out of bed will be easy and I’ll be so warm and fuzzy. I’ll run straight into the shower and wash every millimetre of my skin twice before I feel clean enough of Australian dirt to leave.
‘Cause I’ve got this feeling that I might jet off to a place I could call home.
But I’m not sure and it’s making me curious. Nervous. Expectations are high but not too high, so I know they’ll be met. Don’t want any undue pressure, I’ve already presented enough of that and it made me want to break.
My fingernails will be freshly falsified, hair newly trimmed and coloured, bags will be precision packed and planned carefully weeks prior. All the information stored in one of my colourful not fish.
Lingerie, shoes (heels but not too high), Canon 60D with all the bits and pieces, sweaters, dresses, scarves, a book for the plane ride. I’ll feel one hundred percent prepared though I won’t be.

Then inhale, back to reality….

.50 calibre

Here sits a girl with difference on her side
love her or hate her, or maybe you can’t put your finger on it
but there’s no in-between
she’s paradoxical in its epitome,
total black and white saturation
leather or tulle, take your pick

Here sits a girl with passion and fascination beyond measure
twenty questions, magic eight ball pale in comparison
feisty and quick witted
filthy language with the power of a fire hydrant
blows you smack against the brick wall when you’re protesting
leaves you blistered and cardinal

Here sits a girl strong and safe with words
articulate and unafraid
using the alphabet like a weapon, bullets missiles
either way you’re blown to smithereens
‘cause I don’t fuck around, use .50 cal hollow points or nothin’
nuclear or it ain’t worth the fuss

She’s a little bit left of centre
She’s a little kooky and a little dark
She’s a little of a lot of things but not much of anything
lives for humour to send her into hysterical fits of laughter
disable all her heaviest artillery
wants nothing more than to fall asleep smiling every night
warm between sheets and limbs

Genuine vintage, Italian leather heeled shoes
sheer black blouse only half revealing what lay beneath
tight black skirt and stockings, always stockings
expensive lingerie and a cheap handbag
She’s a lady and a sailor
refined and fancy lookin’
could be genius grade and not so good lookin’
Her image reveals she can fake it ’til she makes it


Little known attraction facts:

I love faces and I love shoes
but not exposed feet
I love a prominent nose
and deep, dark flecked eyes
A certain pale to the complexion
letting all shadows cast more intensely
dragging up that black point notion
letting all scars shine like beacons
of your old world

I love hands, they’re more telling than facial expression
want them to show your trade
don’t care if they’re hard or soft
calloused fingertips from strings
or palms from implements and tools
chip, chip, chipped varnish from weeks ago
my hands are always covered in colour and chemicals
I wear talons rather than soft fingernails
and some of my fingers are bent

I love a bare back
where the spine raises little bumps beneath taught skin
where muscles jut and fat softens
I love the slight taper toward the waist
to trace fingers down toward those two small dimples
see hairs raise with anticipation
as mine stand in unison
I have a wide, wrinkled scar on my right shoulder blade
from a heart-shaped mole thought cancerous so removed
turned out to be benign and I miss that little brown spot

I love a smile
big and bold, spotlights me on your stage
cloaks the rest of humanity in a canopy of darkness
sets that flint in my heart to sparking
faster than I can inhale exhale
I love teeth
pearly white and set nearly straight
a mouth gives laughter and kisses
a mouth gives voice
My mouth is small but my sounds are substantial
screaming, talking, singing, no gag reflex

I love hair
enough to rake my fingers through
hold on tight
brush lovingly from your eyes if it falls or the wind blows
My hair is fine and straight
falls around my face
always touching it, fidgeting out of nerves
I love to see natural greys
silver fox, starlight, liquid mercury
Ageing is a beautiful thing and I want to see all your
frown lines