The End

This is truly the end of the earth

where on the horizon there is a vastness between blips of land

and the land melds from the blue of the ocean

into the blue of the trees and on into

the blue of the sky 

Blue shifting to shades of black and the twinkle of stars erupt sporadically 

Over that stretch of ocean I imagine there to be some great fall 

where you peer over the edge holding the hand of your lover but they push you

This is where the fall is longer than the universe is wide and 

your breath is taken away from you before your shouting may sound

This is where you plummet 

your joints pop into and out of their sockets and 

your eyes are forever spinning, trying to find some level but now

you don’t know which way is up

Your falling becomes a stationary madness

All angles are bad angles and there is no gravity or resistance so

you’re lost in outerspace 

It’s not like they say it will be, you don’t fall apart or suffocate

You just are

and it’s deafening and you’ve never been so alone or so frightened

The hand of your lover is still visible but distant

and it’s just their hand

You’re reaching indefinitely with your primary arm and with the other you are trying to swim through the stars

The atmosphere is above and below you and your tears are coaxed 

from your ducts to float around and torment you

You are at the end of the world and 

no one is there to hold you 

into infinity

Perspective is a funny thing

I am outside of myself in a mans body walking through the semi crowded Federation Square with eyes searching for a girl I am guessing to be clad in black. She promised to cook me dinner tonight and I said I’d meet her at half two but it’s now six passed three, she probably predicted my tardiness.

There was a plane crash this morning just outside of the inner city and I’m thinking about how the hell it happened. Four people died, I had heard. Four people but it could have been five and I was oblivious in the land of nod. It was nine am and I didn’t rise until my phone rang louder than the music in some shitty, shardy club on Chapel Street at eleven.

Eyes scanning faces and forms, when did everyone begin to get so fat?

There she is

Green and red tartan kilt, a classic vintage piece hacked up to skanky school girl length with black stockings and a black ribbed tee. She’s wearing Doctor Marten t-bars with no socks and a collar, some ridiculous pair of French glasses that look like mantis shrimp eyes. She’s weird and I’m curious.
As I approach I notice her fingernails are in bad shape. Grown out acrylics from a month and a half ago, the polish is an incredible shade of copper but it’s wearing at the stiletto tips and completely  nonexistent on the two fingers missing their claws.
I get closer and see she is reading Haruki Murakami. Closer again and I see her right thumb nail still has the false tip attached but the cuticle end has snapped off completely.
Closer again and I see her eyes are shrouded in two completely opposing colours; one shades of purple, one shades of orange. She is like a forest fire, clouds of dense smoke choking me out with every further reach of my feet.

Her legs are crossed and she’s got vampiric tendencies. Sitting in the only spot of shade and trying to shrink herself as the sun slides through the sky, sneakily trying to catch glimpses of more than her hair.

She hasn’t noticed me yet, hasn’t even glanced up. I’m not sure she’s even blinking. Im not sure she’s of this world.

“Good afternoon”,

my voice rings out but it isn’t my voice and I recall that I am outside of myself talking to myself in two separate bodies. This voice is deep and feels awkward in my throat. I run my tongue over my teeth but these teeth are not mine, I look down and this vest is not mine but it’s someone’s.

She looks up and for just a moment I forget how to breathe through this strangers oesophagous. She smiles and fumbles for her bookmark, closes her book and straightens her posture. She’s remarkable sitting there and waiting for me to sit down, maybe offer a kiss, maybe offer my arm. But these lips are unfamiliar. These arms move with different lengths. These feet feel heavy and I don’t know how to sit in someone else’s body.

She has a small hole on the right knee of her stockings, it’s glaringly white beneath the black of the fabric. It’s hard to focus on both opposing shades. Like her eyes, I can hardly tell if her iris’ match anymore and I think I might be drowning in the lagoons of them, she’s like a siren.

I attempt to sit and take her face in my large, rough palms and I mustn’t have done it right because she lets this giggle out. It’s the happiest sound I think I have ever heard and my head is swimming, safety stroke but it’s not so safe. She sheds her sunglasses and folds them neatly in her lap, wriggles in her seat with her fingers betwixt her own fingers and leans in to grace me with a kiss.

She tastes like cola flavoured slurpees and breath mints. Her lips feel like dandelions and latex or maybe even super malleable silicone but they are so warm. Immediately she feels like a gift. A punk looking pretty ugly gift with a huge nose where the bow should be and I want nothing more than to unwrap her. 

Valentine’s letter contest— SpellBox

My dearest and truthfully truest Valentine,

Beat exquisitely heart of mine own for none but the rhythm of our hearts pulsing may cause such grandeur; such monumental light and banter free, and heat enough to weave tungsten rivers betwixt mountains we had once loved.
Dear sweet man, your silvered hair is the moon that kisses my skin and your eyes project forests into mine oceans. I am truly the most fortunate lady that you may flatter or perhaps even love me one day.
I call not upon magic nor wishes for your heart to cuff itself to mine. I call upon you and your remarkable mind, nature and adoration for language. Tell me how to say “I love you” in your seven different tongues. I want for nothing more than to express those three words in every way you might understand. Be mine tongue tied or caressing the syllables.
My sweet, blue prince this is a love letter to none but you— for you have riddled my soul with patchouli and velvet and cloves, my mind with poetry and cursed these eyes to see faces but not beauty. May these eyes befall only your form and find humanity in its physical epitome. May these hands hold the small, broken parts of you and love the depths you drown me in. May we challenge one another for aeons as we fall through each other’s subconscious and lay arm-in-arm, at the bottom of us looking up. Watch the moons wax and wane and plan our plot in the stars.

Forever, I will love you,

Your little bird

Unbutton your shirt, lay beside me and let me unbutton your shirt

Don’t make me back you into some shrinking
fucking corner because you are too proud
or too cautious
You plea to love the depths of you
The pieces you publish
-though you haven’t in months-
cry out as though no one has ever reached through the velvet exterior
The words,
they drip with unease and want
The discomfort of being loved wholly because
to be loved in your entirety requires unbuttoning your
button down shirt [see: heart] , sweetheart
As though your primping and preening,
tattooing and piercing,
your perfected façade
has shooed any hope for real love away
and the bottom of you has watched the surface of you always
It has been peering through your blue, velvety exterior
and seen the hand and mouth of so many women
caressing those boundaries
And your cracked foundations are weeping
they’ve been crumbling for years but now
now you are telling of your need for newly mixed cement
I will push you into and over that stupid corner
to find the bottom of you and
I promise you,
I fucking promise you,
as I sit in front of the ugly side of you
I will cry for your ruin
I will hold it in my hands as though I were
cradling a small bird with a broken wing
This small, broken, dysfunctional heart
I will press toward mine and
I will love each and every depth you drown me in