Salome Starfire

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Archive for the month “July, 2013”


I am on a tram or a boat, well not a boat, not for a while anyway. But maybe a tram. So listen lady, there is a seat next to you, and you have bags on it, and I am TIRED –my feet are hurting ever so much and I know you are important with your Gucci face-plant and your 150 dollar nail polish talking to the secretary of some parliamentarian lackey but I am tired. So don’t ignore me and then look distastefully at me when I want to sit there. I smell good! I smell of a little bit of jasmine and ylang ylang and I am doing you a favour by sitting next to your run-of-the-mill drab Gucci wear and conditioned bleached-blond hair and sucker-fish face of boredom. So this is going out to all you ladies, ‘sisters’ I THINK NOT! You bourgeouis pretentious bitches! We make the music and the poetry, the ‘bohemian’ scene you so badly want to be a part of, in as far as you will live in the places we once inhabited like Brunswick or Fitzroy but we cannot afford anymore because you just had to buy another inner-city unit and become a landlord three times born. I am going to scratch poetry in my period blood on the white guard walls of your houses at night. I am going to direct you into highly unusual pathways and change all the signs on your way to work so that you will be forced to abandon your heels and your Gucci slave-trade shit and walk barefoot in a square inch of grass. I know the revolution failed, but sometimes I just want to scream it from every fibre of my being, ‘Down with the rich, the pretentious cruelty, oh and the pretentious hipsters too!’



I am experiencing lag and wonders in the same moment

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I had to cut my way out of my hair to get out the door this morning.

How did I get to this moment?

Once I had showered I attempted to get dressed.

I combed my hair, moisturised my face, deodorised, under-weared, stockinged, holstered my tits,

encouraging their reluctant round smooth gravity entranced shape to align themselves to order and stasis. As I put my shoes on, I realised one of the buckles was broken, just after my lover had re-glued the soul to the body. And I collapsed on the bed and could not get up.

‘Why what’s wrong?’ He says sitting down in his way, stroking the streams of tears.

‘I can’t do this anymore, all this’ I fall back at an awkward angle, my head a fraction away from hitting the wall. The bed takes my weight with a creak, my black cat opens one eye and looks right through me. When did she fall out of love with me? I wonder, and cry even more. My other furry child, the tabby cat, meows like a demented lady climbing over my body to shove her face into mine. I feel like a terrible mother—thinking I have failed my cats. And wondering if I will ever mother human children.


To live in fear of things, events, moments that might happen is very much a half-life. A life of scuttering because of unidentified shadows passing across one’s vision. It is to be a slave to one’s own thoughts, so I am a slave to my self. This is terrifying. Who is this self? Why have I constructed her this way? Have I?

I think as well of all the other selves out there, beyond my fairy-light shoe-box. Time has the taint of militarism, time paralyses their faces, shrinks hearts and dreams. How do they do it?

How do they go on with such dogged determinism?

I see them in their weekend clothes, relaxing on their mobile phones with their partners next to them doing the same, looking up to watch their children.Sometimes they push them on swings. There seem to be so many of them. They kick at the pigeons, the children especially like to run after them.

Pigeons are incredibly intelligent and mate for life. If one partner dies, the pigeon will reluctantly after some time take another partner. Both sexes share equal duties raising the chicks and will both feed and care for them. Pigeons sing to their partners complex love songs to keep the sparks flying.

I am experiencing lag and wonders in the same moment. I lag behind the other technologies that put people into information trances and wonder if they know where they are when they are texting. Google maps is one thing, but it doesn’t really tell you where you are. It’s a point on a military satellite navigation system. I don’t think this kind of system is going to tell people where they are.

I wondered at a bee that followed me around at the bus stop. I felt terribly sad that I didn’t have a stamen full of pollen. I have stamen envy. I lagged behind the other commuters on the tram because I couldn’t bring myself to get on the tram. They all seemed so dreary, like a 1950’s cardboard cut-out and I knew if I got on the tram I would do something silly. People are highly uncomfortable when silly people are on trams. I wondered at myself judging a woman walking in front of me, with seriously bad dental problems, in shoes scuffing at the heels and a limited vocabulary. I had a rip in my coat and the sole of my shoe flopping, but opera won’t cut it on the streets.

Free spanks. Instead of free hugs. Dominatrix Queens in leather offering spanks for those of us who really want one. Free hugs, free love–urgh-it all seems so incredibly like a Mac application. Oh and stop with the random ‘love you’ to everyone and everything. ‘I love you’ has become like un-foamy luke warm bubble bath. Because when I say ‘I love you’, I am saying ‘ my whole heart sings for you, my whole being is in a spin for you, I am pure love, I have dissolved like a sufi mystic in my love for you’. So I think these random and obsessive ‘love you’ saying people need to say something else. 



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