Porridge and Bones

He holds me
As much as bones can hold you
As much as nothing can fulfil you
It is the first touch the last touch the only touch left
I ask the little girl if they are going to do it now
She turns in her chair and says yes
The bullet comes and my head turns black.
I delete all my names
Finish the story. Cut up the trail.
Put my hands through blonde curls. Girl hair.
The sickness fades when you top it up with sickness
It keeps the bullet from the gun
It keeps you in the chair in the mirror in your eyes where you can see hills things lost places receding little girl dying but breathing in the darkness
regretfully necessarily
powder dust and rotting onions
Alice mixed with Felder in the stoup
No fingers to wipe the ashes on my head.
I thank the man of bones
I know my place in this tower of fools
I pull my hair up close the window draw the bridge
Petals of J falling
Flocking the ground like porridge and jam
Not an ending but a falling
not hard not soft just right.

Mr Orinda

It touches my lips
I grin
I believe I believe I believe
This is evolution
This is the eight of diamonds
This is Mr Orinda
His mountain top cabin
The place where I stayed
Where I live
Where I am
Where he took me
Naked as J
Falling through a pack of cards
Watch the house come down
Find a wall take a seat hold onto the jumble thoughts a prize a curse a death squeeze it in your hands. Make a fist (if you can) cut up the punch and throw it
believe believe believe
Watch me do it again and again
trick after trick punch after punch nothing after nothing
ascend evolve adapt try
The more I do the less you see
You don’t hear time eat through me
Cover the holes with powder and dust wash it away with water
busy busy no eyes left for me
Move along sir there is nothing left to be.

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(Thank you for visiting..am having trouble logging into blogger (blogging hell!) and leaving comments/replies..should I not get back to you..it's not personal..Jae appreciates you stopping by..)

Keep The Dust Away

A deal of some kind
Shared at the railings
Traded on the path
I don’t know you
Here you are every week paying a trip through my mind
Plasters in the strawberry bowl
Chocolate milk on the wall
Your dirty jeans asking me what happened
Nothing. Nothing at all.
I’m fine don’t worry don’t worry
Watch the sugar fall through me like sand through a needle
Watch the question plummet past my sides
Watch me dilute alive
I sit in the corner of the bathroom and look at you
How many years we have collected dust together
I gave you water and it stuck
How many years to see
Water alone does not clean
I take the cloth and wipe you. Finish the deal
That is how we will answer the question
That is how we will keep the dust away.

Soul Auction

I try to force breath into this cadaver
The air skids off my tongue
Gets to my lips and halts
Gets stuck there right on the tip
Bubbling little specks of drool
What is the word
What word brings back life
I look for it in other bodies
Drag dead muscles around shops with bright lights
Search eyes for any morsel of care
Of love
Hope that a hand will touch my shoulder
Brush the rain from my hair
See me
The thought gave oxygen breath pulse
Now it is dampened down extinguished forgotten held clutched in the corner of the bathroom tucked beside the chest of drawers
just find me just find me
keep the chain on the door no one can get in take the plastic cards leave them on the table lost or found lost and found
Just what thought should I push past my lips bite the world with
Ah. There you see. That is why my kiss never warms the flesh.
There is no anger to defibrillate my heart.
I am not incensed enough to draw breath and shout
I am going I am going I am gone.

Graphs and Charts

Graphs and charts
Beautiful straight lines
Spots of colour between despair and getting by
Flip the numbers score your self
There is no figure to measure to say
I no longer have texture
I can no longer chew through myself
I am a mathematical plane I do not understand
Have no reason to understand
Have no desire to claim back
My arms my face my neck
They are my depth and texture
They are the graphs and charts
They stay tucked in my sleeves
Rammed in my pockets
Despaired
Ignored
Knocked bruised and buried
A death-barrel roll with no resolution
No surrender
No flames just heat
Lack of breath but no rest
Pains aches and black veins
Chaotic nests of waste years and emptiness
No one holds my arms
Holds me in their arms
I am as cold as a line on a mathematical plane
An equation abandoned on a page
A solution must be there
All numbers have resolution
But I am untouchable
An equation abandoned on a page
As cold as a line on a mathematical plane

Red Cherries

The last page in the red cherry book has been filled.
Fifty-six pages of the same words.
A whole nest of writing creeping off the edges
Not quite sure of its own cursive.
It should be different.
The way you start. Compared to the way you finish.
I should no longer be brandishing my little book and dangling my arms over the stairwell. But nothing has changed.
Words do not change circumstance
However hard you try to write yourself out.
The voice laughs
I forbid you to stop.
And so you don’t.
But you know you ended years ago.
Before the red cherry book.
Before the hundred other books hidden under the bed.
Butterflies and flowers.
Powder in pages.
Dust mixed with blood.
That’s all that is left.
A single dose of fire sent skittling down the evidence and you are gone.

Poof.
Well Done You.

The policeman stands behind me in the queue paying for a sandwich.
He keeps his hat on.
I pack my shopping.
A lady that manages.
Such a shame. You know. But she gets by.
A small step into the red cherries and my world would collapse. I would collapse.

How delicious that seems.
To fill the words.
To find my hand.
To finally be ok.

One Potato. Two

The pink sugar paper tears easily.
The tea bags seep into its cells.
Wiping out the words.
The sweet plan.
April disintegrating into May.
I remember when the top of each letter started with a delightful young lady.
Now the syllables are troubled and bruised.
I lie in bed picking up radio waves.
Wondering how time could have gone so wrong.
How it soaked right through me.
A stain.
I remember what it feels like.
To wait for the plane.
To jump from the platform.
I want it so badly that noise soaks through me.
A stain.
You can’t make the letters change or the paper disappear. Not really.
I spin amidst the dotted lines.
The cash register the beat of my heart.
One potato. Fifty beats.
Two potato. Gone.
The sweat collects on my neck.
No tissue to damp it down.
Two worlds orbit my place in the queue.
I try to show them but no one rings up the total.

If I cut off a single lock of hair I won’t be able to stop.
Pink sugar paper and hair collide.
Take it out on Tuesday.
Tear off the yellow page.
Form the words again.

Jitters and Plans

I stand in the kitchen all jitters and plans.
Cash boxes. Pillow cases. Coat pockets.
No real protection.
In my head it has already been done.
My fingers trace back the dust.
A thin trail of existence.
I am lines of ink.
Nothing more.
I used to hang bells on the door handle. To know when.
Now I think I should hang them from my lips.
It is an uneasy dance with Jesus and Alice.
A stumble and a fall.
Words mixed up.
No swirling cloud of grace.
My breath thumps in my ears. Regretfully. Necessarily.
And I just can’t see where I am.
A pencil echoes in the empty room. Tapping on the paper.
Clickety-click beetle’s leg.
All such a waste you fool.

And the air. It smells funny.
Too real.

Bag of Hearts

The bag of hearts is so old it disintegrates in my hand.
I was saving it for a special time but that disintegrated too.
I brush it up. With the powder and dust.

The white pages of the new notebooks are yellowed and worn. There are no words in them. Maybe my thoughts wore them out.

I write options in a scrapbook. Tear them up. Slice through the pages like claws through bark. As if slicing them up will destroy them. The scrapbook inside can never be torn. Time. Place. Action. It records year after year. Relentless and pointless. Like Ticker tape.

To have a list is to determine the action. Thick black ticks sit on the chair. On the paper. Things to buy. Things to do. The order of events. Taking a chance to within an inch of accuracy. It is a paradox. To scream. Let me be nothing. I imagine the time when my nothingness is scrubbed from the kitchen floor. By a man in his twenties who wears white and two pairs of rubber gloves.

A hazard.
J is not Jae is not Jacob.

It is not J who goes to the room and sits in the chair. J is hidden in ink on the wall. She does not come in. Absence is not recorded until something has been missed.

My prayer card has been pinned to the middle of the board. It seems only I visit and look. I guess I have to answer it. My own prayer. Unless Jesus sneaks in with Alice when the door is locked and the stoup is empty.

I await their reply with afternoon tea.

My tape mixes up with confetti. I walk by as they shout one, two, three. The picture is taken. The cake sliced. Imagine that. To rest on the edge of an occasion.

Just imagine. A day where a picture turns you into something new. But not a hazard.
Just imagine. No lists. No thick black ticks. No desire to buy boxes and bags.
Just imagine. A bag of hearts new and rosy. Used before you crumble into dust.