indifferent fantasy, the dream

she opened up to me, and she opened up to me. i expected flow’ering of love and such but instead got words of foul stench and fuck fuck fuck dirrrrty disgust. that made me harder and made me grin with a smeared red and rotten mouth.

the next morning i woke wrapped in stained sheets and stained but indifferent memory. she brought me breakfast with welt marks on her ass and rope burns on her wrists

, but she kissed me gently and strummed her fingers on my bare chest as i ate. she told me she loved me. that made me harder and made me grin with a greased butter and bacon mouth.

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yellow dress

across the other side of the park from where i sat, there stood a young woman. she wore a yellow dress. she was looking up into the branches of the tree that shaded her. she held her arms out to the side, palm facing upwards, and she gently swayed like the breeze. the world passed her by. time passed her by, but still,

she danced
in the shade
like the breeze
in that yellow
fantastic dress.

she, as now i, was lost in this moment.

in the breeze her hair flitter’ed, her dress flapp’ed, and my heart flutter’ed when she stopped and stood still. she slowly reached her hands higher to the branches above that shaded her. gently falling was a flower, from that tree, shaken loose by the breeze that swayed her. she cupped her hands and let the flower land gently in her palms. lifting it to her face, she breathed in it’s fantastic frangance. then as quickly as her smile beamed and lit up the shade of the branches above her, she let the flower float off in the breeze once more.

i looked down the blank page of the note pad in my lap and wrote “across the other side of the park from where i sat”. when i looked back up, the girl in the fantastic yellow dress was gone.

sway

i heard the door close and her heels on the tiled floor. she called out.

“what are you in the mood for?”

“i’m in the mood to sway.”

she had expected her husband’s voice.
her head appeared around the corner.
she wore a business suit and a grin.

i stood and walked behind her.
i wrapped my arms around her waist and kissed her neck.

“what do you want to sway?”

“your mind, and your hips.”

we both looked at my wife sitting on the sofa.

happy birthday kate.

letter1

dear regret,

hello. i know that we haven’t spoken for some time. sorry, but i won’t be calling you any more. our time apart has been one of the most joyous periods of my life. actually, i’m not sorry that i wan’t be calling. this will be the last time you hear from me. i don’t want to feel your cold arms around me again. goodbye.

noah

wide white smile

i saw a boy on the train and he was happy. his smile was white and wide, and he reminded me of a famous poet. i’ve never met her but i imagine that she could have been the happy boy’s mother. later, i reflected that it was unfortunate that i know so few people with dark skin that seeing one dark skinned happy boy would remind me of a dark skinned famous poet lady who i’ve never met but i imagined would be happy and have a wide white smile.

that is my story about the happy dark skinned boy on the train.

flash

You know the old fable, the one that says you’ll see your life flash before your eyes when you have a brush with death?

, well

when we made love, in the dimming light of that hot summer afternoon in late spring, i had a brush with you, and it was love  that flashed before my eyes. our eyes locked, connected for a sacred second and i saw

rainbows
and i saw crystal nights with blooms of flowering stars,

i saw sleeping in, on Whateverdays, until time runs over the highest brim, and kisses,
i saw lots of kisses, and dipping toes in sandy sea walks and winks and devilish grins from dares

i saw pier walking with icecream eating and hand holding  on a leisurely weekend away and being caught,
in comfortable silence
, and summer afternoon thunderstorms

and i saw your smile,
your smile, in every flash and
every time i saw your smile i knew, i knew
a little more and i can close my eyes and see that smile again and i smile
again and now i’m telling you this because it’s just magic and
i love you, and i’m telling you that
i love you, all from a sacred second flash,
of locked connected eyes

swelling

i enjoy the sweet conflict of the closed eye times when my breath rasps in beats, two, two times for a distractioned focus, fractioned we’re ordinary people in threatened fracture. i have a twitch now, at the base of the little finger on my left hand it’s kinda welcomingly freaking me out —- like indigestion too many hours after i’ve eaten. it’s not dark, it’s not nothing, it’s a swelling of My Consciousness that if you don’t understand i can’t explain unless you’re unlessed. i’m floating in quasi-free. i can laugh at the uncanny certainty that only comes in these most familiar of adolescent memorial-times. did i tell you how i used to feel it under my hands on the steering wheel, the same as when i’d cry at night without a skerrick of sleep, except it became welcome in the later years. acknowledge.

cool’n’awesome

so, here’s something cool and awesome that happened to me.

i was flying across the dawn’s moon, and a shadow of her was it’s new light. she had a wink’n’swagger that was irrepressible, and she drew me to laugh’n’flatter.

so i gotta tell you, it’s happened to me rarely but succinctly only four times before. it took me back to a place where i’d slide’n’glide and for a moment i still wish i could again try my arm there. hmm, i still might.

it’s very {damn} nice indeed, thank you very-very much. it’s kinda like an armful of happy in your eyes, you know what i’m goin’on’about.

o-my, she’s a sweet aroma in my waking moment.

i told ya, pretty cool and awesome huh.

aghast

I was eating my chips and vinegar when a boy of, oh, about six years old, whirling his little chicken legs as fast as they could whirl, came running past me. I tell ya, he was a happy little fella; he cackled and clucked away like a chicken. If I was stoned that day, maybe I’d be telling you that he was a chicken.

Anyway.

Then I cracked open my Bundy. Ginger beer of course, not rum, it was still only 2 after all. The rum starts at 5.

Anyway.

Then this big fat woman came along. I could hear her puffing and gafuffing from a way’s away; she was no chicken, that’s for sure. And I tell ya, she was not happy Jan, not happy at all. She called out to the chicken boy,

“Come back Johnny, come back!”

He didn’t look like a Johnny to me, he looked more like a Scotty. Johnny’s are two-shoes, and this chicken didn’t look very goody goody to me.

But anyway.

The big fat woman heaved and hurled herself to where little Scotty had stopped, and she was mad. She was all red and aghast in the face, while he was bursting happy and joyin’ the face. It was pretty funny to look at. I wondered as I chugged my ginger what she was so freakin’ freaked out about, so I watched them like a sticky beak as they walked back past me. I wonder if chickens ever actually get sticky beaks?

Anyway.

When they walked past I kinda worked out why the fat wheezing oompa-loompa was so freakin’ freaked out, and it wasn’t because she was afraid of little Scotty-Chicken-Johnny-Happy-Happy-Joy-Joy-Boy running away. It was because he was only about six, and she knew that she’d lost him already.

Anyway, those chips were pretty freakin’ freaky choice. You outa’ get some from there; just two bucks for the chips and a buck fifty for the Bundy.

every day

this morning, the sun’s entry on stage brought a burra’s chortle and children’s feet clippering on the polished pines to greet the day;  it’s sunday, and the air’s crisp is like yesterday, and the coffee is like anyday, and it’s velvet silk and satin smooth;  there are smiles stirring inside me as the simple slide of the kitchen window brings a breath of breeze and fragrant flowers;

it’s like this every day you know. today is just the same as every single other day, and every day i choose to be as magic as a simple cool and cozy, lazy sunday morning, and it’s pretty darn great.

Mr Peterson

As Mr Peterson’s psychologist for the past twelve years, I’ve seen the best and the worst of him. I could write a book about him, and I still may when the time is right, but I certainly wouldn’t consider it until after the trial. He considers himself as a likable character, and I’d simply say that he could be. He makes friends, close friends, quite effortlessly and is very generous with his affection. Of course, he loses these friendships as quickly as he makes them, usually as a result of an unwarranted violent episode.  One such example is that of a man he used meet in a bar to talk about politics. They became great friends in a short period of time, but he assaulted him with a pool cue after a simple misunderstanding. As is most often the case, the man never pressed charges. Of course, any psychologist worth his salt could tell you that his illness stems from his uncle’s molestation of him as a child, but it’s how this culminated in his father’s murder that will take me to the stand tomorrow. As thick as the file marked “Charles Barlow Peterson” is, I still don’t know how I’ll testify. I don’t know if I’ll condemn my patient, or save my friend. It might depend on how he looks me in the eye.

fuck the saints

I loved those vinyl jazz mornings, after a night of leisure and being lost. From where I’d wake, I’d watch her cook and move her ass in time with Mr Paganini. I couldn’t turn away from the sway in her ‘sing it’, and the jiggle in her scat; it was my favourite thing in the world. She’d make me forget about all the sounds of the city.

Should I have expected more when I prayed to all the Saints to spare her? More than daggers and loss of faith, surely. I mourned for a thousand nights when she left us. It is only with my drunkard friends that I can tranquilize my sorrow; a welcome adjournment from my bitter harbor.

I try to write, but every word has tears of ink. And it’s crap. All of it.

The traffic is driving me fucking insane.

party people

there was beer on ice and the scent of summer in the air. the light was teasing that in-between place where the city was as bright as the sun, differing only in their shade of orange. quite a few guests had arrived, and some old strangers had already become new curiosities. i hey-good-to-see-you-thanks-for-coming’d my way through the crowd to where i knew i’d find you. you poured me a smile as i poured the rum. we took a moment, to cast our eyes on what was laid out before us. you remarked how you liked that there was Adidas, Armani, and Peter Alexander all in the same place at the same time. i said that it was time to get started.

Barlow

I once met a once-charming fellow named Barlow. The first time we met, he was interested in something I had to say, but for the life of me now, I can’t remember what it was. What stuck me most about Barlow when I first met him was that his eyes were slightly different shades of green, and the left one was ever so slightly more dilated than the right one. This caused him to squint, causing the laugh lines on his left side to be more pronounced. I actually got to know Barlow quite well, and we’d often meet at the Bay Royal for a few pints of Speckled Hen, where we’d talk about politics and literature. I recall fondly one afternoon when we sat in the beer garden and laughed with futility about the lack of real political choice. I never understood Barlow’s poetry, there was always a hint of esoteric-ness, but his passion for it fed mine and my writing became more considered as a result. One Tuesday morning with Barlow at the Bay Royal, I asked him for his advice about a piece I was writing on how much greener the grass was on the other side. Barlow didn’t look at me but stood and walked to the pool table behind him. He took a cue and without warning, swung it violently, striking me across the face.  Calmly, he walked out onto the street, never looking back. This is the story about how Barlow went from being charming to being once-charming, and of how I lost my right eye to that mother fucker. I never saw Barlow again after that day. There are some days I don’t think about him, but they are few and far between, and usually accompanied by cocaine and a street whore named Desiree.

Blush

“What do you call that colour?”
“Blush.”
“Interesting, I’ve never heard of that colour before.”
“You only asked me what I call it.”
“Oh, what do other people call it?”
“Ruby.”
“I think prefer blush.”
“That’s why I call it blush.”

A long and silent pause follows.

“My hands are still tied.”
“Yes, I know how to tie knots.”
“It hurts a little.”
“I must have tied the knots very well then.”

Cathy sighs, and the room is silent once more.

“What do you call that colour again?”
“Blush.”
“Yes, that’s it, blush.”
“What do you really want to ask me Cathy?”
“Could you untie me now?”
“I could untie you, but it’s not time.”
“Blush you say?”
“Yes Cathy, for the ninth time, I call it blush.”
“But other people call it ruby?”

David walks across the grey stone floor to where Cathy is seated. He slaps her cheek, hard, with his open hand. A loud crack echoes off the dark, windowless walls.

“I call that ruby.”

The hallelujah sea

No, the sea is not a day dream. There is no plink and tinkle of a music box in the white wash, splashing over playing children’s toes. There is no florid turquoise and aquamarine shimmering from the sun, as its light skips across the swell. And just when I think that, yes, the sweet salty cologne that wafts off the waves is real, I open my eyes, and breathe the fantastic truth.

The green is unripened and sour. The crash and bash and smash of the wave’s storm saturates my ears. The light is morose, as mournful as any deaths day. The salt stings my eyes, scratches my skin and I am alone.

So beautifully alone, hallelujah, I am the luckiest man alive.

ubiquitous gamble

I tinkered with tip toes across all that was luscious and oh-so just so. Some things remain the same today, as they were in those early days. That same, common unknown transcendent state of being within the dreary days we share. Now it ping-pongs somewhere between bland and jealousy, or between desire and couldn’t care less-ness. There is a routine, that turns the tote board of this ubiquitous gamble. Roll for new odds! You know, it will never stop, this Jamy addiction. One day, according to the status of my faith, we will run together. We will run to the hills, to the sea or to the valley of the sass. There are often days where my dreams will stake my kingdom for a chance to taste the peaches that grow there.

Higher place

The steam from my coffee rises across my sight, as too does the steam from the late afternoon rain on the blistered street. It’s moments like these that I wish I could etch into my memory with greater texture than I know is possible. A photograph will only remind me of the moment, never allowing the full glory of the cockatoos’ shriek, the smell of the ocean, or the sullen humidity in the air to once again enrich my senses. The realisation is bittersweet.

You sit across from me, reading. My eyes reach for you, imploring you to see what I see, hear what I hear, feel what I feel. Again, the realisation is bittersweet, as I am forlorn by the shawl you keep yourself wrapped in.  It’s as though you keep your soul wrapped in it as well. Hope follows me however, and I extend it to you.

I take solace in my existence and acknowledge that I am not alone, despite my loneliness. Love is all around, in forms neither of us knew of and are only now beginning to embrace.  I sip at my coffee once more and it’s warmth presses a smile to my lips. Imagine my surprise when at this very moment, you look up from your pages to smile at me, and with no words, acknowledge your gentle, comfortable silence of the moment. I am truly in love, and this now becomes the moment I wish I could etch into my memory.

I ask myself, what else is there to want, but to be here in this higher place.

Orane

If I were to ask you frankly to meet me forever, you’d know how my intent has become certain. Tomorrow, I’d pour you gold coffee and we can sit across the shadow of the pier and drink the night as it safely closes. Kiss me Orane, and realise how welcome we can make our days.

Sit with me and listen to the stars, singing songs about mulberry wine and saved hope. Swill this tune and all the folds that blind our eyes and bind our smiles will meld into the spaces in between. Be saught after Orane, and yield to the knowing that this universe presents to your feet.

It will be as simple as nature allows and I dare. To prevent risk of superfluous ramble, this is the end. I bid you, Orane, my best hand.