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Journal:
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     "The Sky is a Landfill", the posthumous album and song title by Jeff Buckley. What could this possibly mean?

     This sky as cornucopia, wings and fingers spread wide to take what is free perhaps. But with that certainty the wind will bring unpleasant aromas to challenge you: Your conceptions, your hidden symbols, your psyche and ego jarred from its usual serene perch.

     They say that knowledge is power and ignorance is bliss. These clichés are certainties revisited by everyone at some stage; some moreso than others, some unwanting to know, to delve into the refuse, the bitterness, the other face to discovery and the ecstasy this can bring.

     Questions and quests. Answers you probably don't want to hear but will anyway. The cruelties of life a mirage to some, full-frontal assault for many. I ponder my existence daily, meditate upon the seemingly inconsequential, only to find out later the immensity one small action can do to influence others in a chain reaction. Cause and effect, action and consequence, karma if you subscribe to this theory. What of it, you say? Why not, and it's obvious, I reply to you.

     Poverty. Old institutions stripped and redefined. Endless wars one after the other. Subversion of beliefs and principles to a more ideal end for governments, monarchies and industrial imperialists. The people in the middle and lower stratas of society having to deal with the workings of the few. We are many. Ground down. Silenced. Ignored. Dispersed.

     This diaspora to lands of opportunity continue unabated. Dreams of a better life consume even the most placid of citizens. Another chance, a new life, new soil to work and landscape to suit one's desires.

     What of it? Is this revolution or a compromise? I say both and neither: Half-full, half-empty, an invisible vessel.

     Your call.

...Created 2008-09-21 00:25:07

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whatta hectic weekend.
i've spent all sunday snoozing and watching dvd's.
back to the weekly grind so soon.
sigh.

...Created 2008-09-14 11:23:22

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one of my flatmates
is such a tactless retard sometimes.

he's one of those people who honestly have no idea
when it comes to subtlety, innuendo and not-quite
in-yer-face "fuck off".

then he wonders why i've just slammed the door
in his face as he asks me to shift my car
for the umpteenth time.

i've known him since i was fourteen.
he's like a blood brother. but still,
he needs a slap around the ears.

...Created 2008-09-03 09:38:18

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'henna'


   on parched
papyrus, with
   rancid ink}

if ever
   if only
these eyes
   could hold
   an onion
unfearingly

{sing to me
   of shining
sea like
   sappho

i want it all
   i want it all!

...Created 2008-08-20 10:59:12

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feels like doing a plath.
the oven needs a clean first, though.

...Created 2008-08-17 05:35:56

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'e'


i'm doing what i haven't, what i've meant to do: a hug,
a kiss, a poem, a stray hair flicked away from your face.
sunday laughter, talk of trails and waterfalls out west,
of meeting up again tuesday, perhaps to gemma's on saturday.

i miss this life of uncertainty. i miss warm breaths
and someone asking me what my tattoo means, and when i got it:
right after the comet in the sky that hung around for days;
the name escapes us both, the name, it doesn't matter.

so many people last weekend, so many gracious people.
my eyes always scanned the vicinity for you, polite hands
grasping mine, telling me the latest and greatest sights.
i ignored the jabber, how rude of me.

songs of aching change: this bed is cold, i think of you.

__________________________________________________________

...Created 2008-08-11 10:48:32

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been way too busy here but i promise i'll get back to all you lovelies who've commented and been such nice larrikins...

...Created 2008-08-08 06:48:06

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'tambourines'


you say
i could girdle this earth
with my potential
but i waste it all
on frivolities,
on the sound of tambourines
ringing at vespers, me on my knees
searching for browner eyes,
for statues to
become alive
and open their palms
to the sky.

...Created 2008-07-21 11:23:05

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'a kitchen voyage'


uno.

synaesthete: the smell of violet curtains
blooming, patchouli and sour violins

come say hello in my kitchen!
notice: my sun-dried tomatoes

singing
this sunday morning

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'lapis'


you breathe seven
as if it were a quiet drink,
smoky-eyed, distilled tonic.

you regard me in sepia.
it's all spent ink, you say:
corrugated iron.

between numbers, you
spin silk, weave shadows.
a milky lozenge.

between this road, there's
no mecca, no jerusalem
in mirrored stone.



'jigsaws'


this night speaks velvet to me: slightly morose, slightly inconsequential, yet touched with the divine. why? i look up every time, hoping to catch comets between my teeth, elusive sweets, allusive therapy. i yawn, sprinkle pages with tannined fruit, hold journals to the fire to soak up every fickle memory.

this is an episode i can't afford to miss, character studies of nuance and altered flicks of wrist: comedy, tragedy, a playwright's fancies given room to destroy and create anew. a silver pedigree, gilt-framed, a guilty shiver. breathe.

...Created 2008-06-21 02:20:23