And more:

Little stems provoke miniscule,
Delicate buds of promise,
Blushing under a hint of light.

--

My words come twice,
Thrice, all at once, I spend them
Recklessly, without vanity,
They disperse like buckshot,
Ringing together in messy clumps, like
Hair wet with blood, or stringy tangles of
Fish guts, mixed in with the occasional
Glimmer of scales,
One dead eye.

Sunday

I've spent the morning either typing on my laptop in the sunshine outside my house, or typing on my laptop in my favourite cafe, which I have just discovered, has free wireless. Honestly, I am so perfectly happy to sit here, listen to music, type emails and poetry and bask in my Sunday. I mean, sure, I'm drinking an organic fucking latte with my Mac in tow, which surely qualifies me as the biggest wanker in here, but I don't even care. I'm that happy with today. Although, my feet are getting a little cold.

I'm going to post a few things. One of them is long, and terribly angst-ridden. I don't think I've finished with it, but whatever, here we go. Today's offerings:


If this were all there was,
I would live it perfectly
Sequentially, for this is all
Calibrated rapture.
I will live in all of my
Determined bliss.

--

Cold feet perch on an
Oft-kicked wooden strut
Heralding a small question of
Departure.

--

Armour

A cathartic rip tears me and
Everything open
And breaks the withheld front
I've maintained always
Without knowing
How much of it drops at every
Minor attack.

Little murders dot my surface
Flecked horrors beading
Like clear water on sunshine
Skin - caught in the hairs, a
Snare for unwary hands
That I call and call,
Check my fall -
Bitter voice scratching over
Repeated pleas.

Please, find me soon.

I've a locked box
Strong with banded iron
That I'll crack open when
Boldness overruns me and
I've armored sufficiently.

I've wished to be steel
In the ruined past,
I'd mutter it over and again,
Willing my flesh to bubble and smelt into
Something bold and impenetrable,
That blood would slide off
(Although I never saw him bleed, just diminish)
To be held in bright glory
At the end.

10% More Epic

So I scored half of a smashed epic-rock guitar tonight.

I was at a Rainbird gig (excellent band, see them if you can - they play Melbourne a lot!) with Louise and James and all of the other people who always go, and at the end of a mighty fine set, Kon decided to whip his fucking cool guitar against the ground. Everyone was kind of shocked, but you know what? It was awesome. And I got to keep a big fat chunk of it, being the fangirl that I am.

Observe:




Man, I love those guys,

Themes

Real post. Oh no!

Before I do that, actually, thanks to everyone who has been reading the massive amounts of poetry that has appeared lately. I have plans for it, yes I do. Sending it out to more places would be a good start to that, I think. Oh, and please feel free to give me some criticism if you see pieces that need it - I would quite like to improve it if I can.

Enough wankery. Or wait, maybe some more. Depending on how you look at it, I suppose.

I was sitting around with wine last night, with my legs perched on a stool getting spattered with rain, and I started musing on the themes that I constantly have popping up in my writing. Rebirth and regeneration are probably the most prevalent, especially in my fiction. The last two major pieces that I've worked on have revolved around the concept of rebirth or transformation. I'm not sure why, but it seems to resonate really strongly with me. And would explain why I have unholy love for Battlestar Galactica.

Actually, even my poetry tends to have an influence from those particular themes. Several of them, absolutely directly. I wonder why that is? I do have a peculiar idea of death, maybe that's why. Rebirth is certainly a cure for that. Well, after a fashion.

I found a line scribbled onto a supermarket docket that I have been using for a bookmark. It said:

Rebirth is
Tuned to the
Morning Sun.


I rather like that.

Bare shoulders brush
Corridor shadows & my
Dry feet slide over cracked tiles
But each fine bone in my hand lies
Within its cautionary network.

You are heavy-lidded satiation
While cold-hearted opposites
Play under my
Grateful fingertips.

My sub rosa delirium is
Ceaseless and heaving -
A cultivated mess and tangle.

Like dark, warm wet
Seeping into hairline
Fractures, she has
Infiltrated you and yours.

Winter heralds a sharp
Freeze and crack.

--

I'm a pressed together
Mosaic of contradictory spins and
Falls - each new-minted standpoint
Rolls to the rest and locks in.

Hurrah!

Good news, everyone! I'm getting work published in Verb-ate-him, a most excellent new literary journal! I'm very, very pleased!

Submissions are still open, so if you're the literary type, head on over to http://verbatehim.wordpress.com/ and check it out!

Also, I have more to post. I've still been writing madly lately, which is probably the greatest thing in the world. I'm so happy with it all - I feel like I'm on track and really giving my best. And it seems to be getting favourible reactions! Thank you to everyone who has been reading!

OK, so, I wrote this in bed the other night, and have absolutely no memory of doing so:

Of all things, you are
Primary, a self-conscious
Tour of solitude.

--

And yet more:

I stab with a
Thick thumb to
Discover your possible
Acknowledgment.
None comes.

--

Enjoy your
Foreign harvest
Before it
Withers anew.

Old Words

I wrote this a little while ago, and just found it in my writing book. I really, really like this one:

Today is hot ambrosia
Clapped directly onto skin,
A honey-shot mind-warmth, a
Solidified promise of
Expanded enlightenment,
For this is but a darting
(tongue over lip) taste.

Of the Cave

Ah, right. So. I don't know quite how it happened, but I actually managed to get about 10 poems out this evening. Which, fuck, is astonishing. I suspect that a certain number of them are far too personal to post, but a few of them, I think, i shall put up.

I would almost suggest that someone is slipping me some kind of euphoric creative drug, if I didn't know better. (Or maybe Tran is just far more subtle than I give him credit for...)

Here's a bit of a taste of what I've managed today:


Could it be possibly that I am
All of you and learn everything that you learn,
And grow and know and am all of your entire experience?

I think, honestly, it possible, for as I age,
As I become more and more and see and change,
I feel as if I am recovering from lack,
Or learning the lost,
That I once knew in my
Bones.

--


I should pull my threads closer, and
Wrap myself with the questing tendrils that
Seek the cracks in you,
For every reaching pulls me apart,
And diminishes my haphazardly constructed
Framework (a labour of fears and reason).
For all of that, I cannot forbid the drift
If you call it.

--


A clean slate, I think, is far from possible
Considering all that has past.
I simply desire a favourible palimpsest,
Retaining all inherent beauty, sincerity and
Full, shining devotion.

--

With weights in each hand, you maintain the
Carefullest of balances,
Tipping gently when needed.
Yet, you list unremittingly to
Your preferred angle.

--

I've flipped through a multitude of combinations
Yet I cannot pinpoint the delicate roil of water in cup,
Nor the forkfuls of simple provender
Which bespeak a languid mindfulness,
A burnished, inherent tenderness.

Each nick and dent is
Indelible sagacity, a pitted, pointed
Prompter of our collective lack of
Self-care.

More Scraps

I got hit with these at work. Terribly inconvenient, actually, although I did manage to scrawl some notes onto my hand with a pen. And now I look like I'm about eight years old.

Speaking of errant ink, did I mention that when I was re-filling my (glorious) fountain pen the other day, I somehow ended up with a streak of ink on my inner thigh? I don't know how that happened, but it was kind of hot.

Also, I have been sending work off to places. It would be pretty damn fantastic to get a few things published here and there. I wonder if I should stop blogging things if I'm sending them out?

And I need to blog about Amanda Palmer. Because she was epic.

Anyway, the poetry business:

You are
Balm
A reassurance
Oft-spoken.

--

Like a shuddering mountain,
You tremble atop my
Wrist - all hesitant delicacy.
I mask your eruptions and
Settle your seethe.

--