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Charred

…these paws hold no heal,
scars fill palm-lines solid,
not the result she invented,
lost in dark streets and her mind…
both twisted dead ends and unmapped and unkindly-
on her and me.
…and like a continuous stream of tattoo’d bio-mass before my eyes all soft,
yet solid, sordid and uninspired lines that
dominate my landscaped azure-high-sky within,
that push and relentless tidal pull of bones coloured in skin.

Embedded
Before memories began, all that sung without a birth to dock in…
All that savage sing…

My life is burning empty,
Alone is chosen, lonely just is…
Fires are started, and I recall a line from a lost love-

“Nobody jumps off bridges anymore”

almost the best thing she ever said, almost…

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43o

...and she stands on the hotwetblacktar as it’s slowly puddled rust coloured from her blown radiator.
The liquid oozes like blood onto her 2pm frustrations,
3 lanes either side, calls made- others on their way.
The pt’s free today, mostly to give the inspectors a heatwave holiday-
they made their money yesterday anyway.
I know, it was my tongue on that lie. My revenue, accounted for.
My benefits sized-up and seized.
Heat makes people crazy,
makes people toss their infants off bridges in early morning traffic-
makes threats tangible.
I scurry for a patch of conditioned air-
a pocket of cool, a snowball in hell,
and find one full of colours and collected pieces of other artists time n’soul…
I seek peter Booth, hoping his thick pigments will teach me something,
this over written work could kick me just right- it has before.
Instead I find Dobell and Fariweather, works I’ve tried to reproduce at play.

What do they say?
If anything at all?

Gascoigne shows me boredom’s cheese-grater-play and affect on the humane,
like a slap in the face, I ask can the squeamish heat of this land make it,
whole and taste-able, onto canvas?
I walk on, alone, thinking and sweating- what is it, that I want from me?
Are my degrees, equal to this 43?
You know if you know, are ya'keeping up, with me…

Looking back.

Kisses his palm and shows it to her across the morning traffic-

I want to lick his spinal cord.

He looks, peeks over his shoulder as he walks away from her,

framed lonely in the pubs doorway.

I dream of slashing the back of his neck as I co-incidentally follow him into the city. Such devoting must have a taste.

Must be physically located in the stem of the brain where the beat and breath keep silent click-track, it must taste- must flow, have an odor.

I know mine did- must have,

I once tried to wipe some onto a bandana for a her to take away with her…

on that day- she framed a good bye in a doorway.

And usually I smooched my creases and show them to her, wave my

Self

Away- but didn’t that day.

I’m not sure, now, why- but I recall that detail.

My love must have sweated from me as his does, and now I feel no jealousy, or pity-

wanting not to plunder his place in the world, but swallow his emotions…

sink my teeth into him until his love flood-fills my cavities, replace my blood-

or the juice that lubricates my form, the burnt-bean powdered and resin blend,

vampire desiring that oil-change…no, this is not jealously,

just self silent violence against his disappearing cortex,

as we both melt, walk into this city, this morning.

Both looking back and back and back again.

This morning I awoke to the tv on in the kitchen bellow me,which is odd when I live alone, and a drama just waiting for my generosity.There is this cute family of ring-tailed possums that live in and around my studio, and over the last few months I’ve watched them like a home-Disney without the cheesy as spring has come and gone, and babies have been born, grown and adventured…and this morning as I ascended my loft, coffee in hand, I was privy to a horrible scene as the mother attempted in vain to fight-off two bored neighbor-hood house-cats, as they mauled to death one of her off-spring…for the cruel fun of it, I know- as they are well fed and allowed out at night, like all our pussies. Here’s where I become just a badly-drawn set of pink hands and giant features in the family-movie of these possums lives: I got the tiny thing away from the cats on the cobblestones in my alley, as the distressed mother hung on the fence, being blocked by one felines as the other carried away the baby- unable to let myself get all bio-ethical or Darwinian about the affair, and being raised in the bush and not generally afraid of animals, wild or not, it wasn’t hard to get the poor, bleeding bundle into my hands…dawn came on fast, the mother had to retreat and the baby had curled my palm- I presumed to die, as he was bleeding badly from around his head and both back legs seemed broken or torn- but he held on, and his pulse was strong against mine and he was silent and allowed re-adjustment to pressure the wounds and I figured he’d actually have a chance if I could get him to a vet before he went into shock, so dressing around him as he roped lightly around my fore-arm and hand I scurried to the local animal-hospital, a lucky five-minute walk…talking him awake and doing all the ‘human’ tricks to keep him conscious until luckier still- morning guard and nurse had turned-up to do paper-work and start their days at 6am! She took him and was surprised he was alive and had such vitality-'He didn't bite you? wow, he must know you saved him?!..' Yeah lady, his wild not figgin'stoopid...I filled in a form, she gave me a half-naked smile and receipt number for him. I was so angry at the thoughtlessness and lack of caring that so-called ‘animal-lovers’ have in regards to their domestic, yet out-dated choice of ‘live-stock’…knowing cats fight, and fuck and all get the incurable cat-flu should be enough to warrant an owner keeping their ‘pets’ in at night…and as one of those ‘cat-people’ who is likely to have photo’s on my mantle of felines instead of ex-lovers or family-members-it made me angry enough to spent the next nine hours of my working-day, shoveling a few tones of soil and stones from one location to another, that I am going to yell at my neighbors’…write a letter to a editor, or local-council and well…blog this experience. I don’t know what these words are in aid of, the possum is fine btw…currently-separately, housed in the ‘cat-ary’ and I am allowed tovisit during business-hours if I can recall his receipt number. I hope the badly-lit photo, taken in the rush of dressing around this critter helps you to be convinced that his life was worth saving, this tiring, heart-breaking day was worth having…and if that’s at all true for you, do what you can to keep you over-weight killers in at night when other much charming, uncommon and native creatures share our lives. In the immortal words of rob zombie (white-zombie) “More human than human...more human-than you-man, more hum-man, than, you…man”

(installation off Lonsdale st.Melbourne, near crn of Elizabeth st.)
Goto my devian-art gallery for more pics of it...

I sit atop the fatt, flat polished steel butt of the escalator,

I love the hum behind me,

The sense of movement…

The engineered angle and slick’ness of it gradually aid gravity to pull you to your feet.

Train delayed again.

That one walks like a man and knows it,

I burry my claws in my hat-

Hiding my face under brim.

Cancelled due to un-rule-ie passengers,

it shushes by us all empty.

But I won’t let that rally me with the other customers or get grumpy.

I prefer the hum going by me,

the sense of movement even if its not my own…

if movement ever be owned.

Another rattles by empty, frowns deepen-

my dimples widen and I hoist myself back up on to that smooth, loving, life…

Angle, again.

Those are snow-clouds above you boy…
but you’re at the wrong altitude for them to work right.
-instead they just alarm/awake you while freezing bad pop-songs
to your wet-eyes as you hurry-up pass cafes and alley-ways you once beautified.

It’s a Monday, shrinking empty mouse-wheel world.
Sloshing memories of the weekend now fading-
Ending something, following the glow as I walk him home…
He gladly pays in thick blue smoke for my lack of any small talking.

Dead lain rings through me as feet-beat bellow swallow the hard-sand,
 “wake-up young man,it’s time to wake up…”…there-after,
my insight lends me nothing worth learning kid,
you’re all better-off than I are…

Mobile-phone thumbing invisible knives, left hand seeking hers never felt,
internal dashboard flickering with colours…pulsing with sighs…
bright orange road-signs and workmen melting tar on Sunday-overtime…
smells like my ashen-thoughts that I can’t stumble away from…flicker,flicker, why?

I’m queuing and don’t even know, I’m waiting for this big-ball to spin…in a line.
The number of people I want to know is countable on a paw-
a claw, an extension but not of my mind…
my guts are the size of an ocean, but if you can sort us-out all that can be ignored.

There is never any conclusion; it all just keeps on rolling-
no anger to hold firm, no self to blame or confession worth time forming,
you are what you make you, get treated as you’ve taught them-
what was shards to start will never puzzle, never needs to,

just wrap-it up tightly and apply-pressure to the bleeding...

 

"..off he goes..." -Pearl Jam

It just landed there! (Actually freaked the crap-outta'me! it was like, As-If?? but, it was just chillin'...so i just grabbed my digi...) Hmmmm, something has sprung fur-sureeee....lol...And noh ppl, it's not a photoshoped doe-eyed boobie-shot i added a flutter-by to or anything, and no M!! that indent/break in it's wing was there, just like it was!!...everything has some of you in it huh?...

my new cramped little room/studio,love living this close to my work...lol, real close...

ps,m-you can just make-out the blue-phatt-teapot haha