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Archive for the month “September, 2012”

These are not the westerly winds



These are not the westerly winds,

heat and bulls on heat and heated trains sucked into the distance. These are not the westerly winds that bring memories of warm cheap wine smuggled into the Brisbane showgrounds and cowgirls from elsewhere. Where do they sleep, these cowgirls? Above the cows, like
a Gurdjieff cure for TB, but I don’t think these cowgirls are anywhere near the literary splendour of Katherine Mansfield. But she followed Gurdjieff until the cows came home, but they never came home and she died.

These are not the westerly winds,

there is nothing sweet on those breezes. I begin to see cowboys everywhere, in every boy who says he’s a man. There are some men I want to strangle til their eyes pop and I can suck them out like some vengeful Goddess of the Aztecs. I want to feel their performance of words dance under my fingers. I want to feel their sincerity, really feel that what they utter comes from their hearts and not from their bag of tricks. Tricky dick.  I want to cause divisions. I want them to be so visible that you and I are both divided, cut unevenly with blunt scissors  and re-stitched back together. We look horrible but our appearances no longer tell a lie. I want to sit still with words, to make you sit still with nothing…for a while. I want to take your precious symbols and make you give birth to them. Even if it’s through your asshole. You are going to give birth. Yeah, you are going to push it. push it, push it real good. I wish you a safe delivery.
These are not the westerly winds,

Above me  I wish it so below.  I want the winds to blow this house away. I want the winds to blow this town away. I want them to blow your stupid moped away. I want the winds to lift the bitumen off the roads. How likely is that? It’s not very likely, but maybe there will be a big ice-age coming soon and the streets will freeze and all our lovely houses will go back to the forests. We can stop looking at how much we’ve aged, how much we’ve loved. The clock-face of time, the limp phallus of the Suncorp Clock will be unplugged. Time will be a slipstream we can float upon. Time will be the seedlings in the earth sprouting, the third luxurious edit on your poem, the time it takes to dry apples.  I want these sweet winds that promise respite, with that overpowering jasmine on the wind, to seduce me a little with hope, to remove me from the linear momentum I have fallen into. If you have a heart I hope it opens up before it’s taken away. Or if it is taken away then I hope they are swept up on this wind, this breeze that will not stop and I hope it reaches the palaces I dream to visit, like Alaska, and South America, and Iceland.




The teleporting mad woman

I am going to teleport, she says. And they watch, and she does and she is in the same spot.

Did you see it? she says. And they didnt’ because she teleported way too quickly.

I thought you were going to teleport somewhere? they say

I did, I went all the way to Istanbul and back, but you missed it, she says.

Yeah, sure you did, and they turn away from her to talk of important things like universal consciousness, the regularity of buses and the business of getting shit faced.

The house smells like a dead lizard. And you can’t find the dead lizard, small leaking body rotting under a lounge somewhere, happily on its back oblivious. My house must be haunted by dead lizards that the cats find. I’d say the reptilian race of aliens aren’t too fond of the cat race of aliens. I have found clothes, buried deep like avalanche victims in a washing basket that is bursting its plastic corset. I have managed to pull on a clothes with no regard to anything other than cover. I have cried on the phone to a stranger. I have changed my mind about moving into a house twice to a real estate. I refused to see my mother who came to my door with that look of a needy child and a desperate woman. She says she would die for me, that she loves me so much. Her loving crushes me into a pile of ashes. And it takes a while to resurrect. Did you know that? It’s not so mystical and pretty, the resurrection is painful, it’s like being underwater and having drowned with lungs aching and full of water and telephone calls to friends where all voices are under water.

The business of resurrection. Warning of impending identity shift and personality death. Warning! Alert to the voice of my mother in me, her tenderness, her love, and her manic merry-go-round histrionics. A mother that longs for her daughter to love her with the same intensity of love I have for my friends. A mother who cannot see beyond her fear and motherly role, her paternal instincts and fears, and not the joy or the adventures, just the security and the safety. Because yes, she does it out of love. I know that.

And all those mothers who sympathise with the plight of my mother…please do. And my terrible fear of being a mother, of carrying the family madness, blind to it, seduced by the rightness of my position, giving and giving and never just being. The love and comfort of my mother without the neurosis and the ‘realism’. I am not wrapped in cotton wool. I am not devoid of the realities. They inform me and often paralyse me.

The business of resurrection and I go it alone. Here inside this cavity birds fly. Inside is a nest made of stolen gold threads, walls made of prescription glasses, dolls of varying origin, half-animal, half woman-half-building.

The sink looks cool. I fill it up and hold my head underwater just for a minute. The cats are mad as well. They mew in the night, they long for affection and I cannot sleep. I brush their fur whilst I am half-asleep.

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