tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178929202024-03-24T01:47:45.083+08:00Face up to it.Nothing worth having in life comes easy.rosemariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03336607211966375470noreply@blogger.comBlogger75125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17892920.post-48406539856350923342010-04-18T22:22:00.002+08:002010-04-19T00:56:13.594+08:00Honestly, this is all I haveLook down the barrel of a gun<div>I told you so, I told you so</div><div><br /></div><div>--</div><div>That speck of dust </div><div>Oh that lonely swish of the hand</div><div>The smooth shape of stone</div><div>at the bottom of your driveway</div><div>retuning the strings</div><div>holding your face in your palms</div><div>watching the slow afternoon sun</div><div>yawn over dead paddocks</div><div>reaching down into the basket</div><div>and that last apple; break its skin</div><div>tear it the fuck up</div><div>those claw marks</div><div>down your bedroom wall</div><div>of nights passed in fear</div><div>light fingers on keys</div><div>pit pit patting towards a closing door</div><div>the swell of the red armchair of your youth</div><div>your black and white journal</div><div>and the soft white of your ceiling</div><div>hearing the furious purr of your sleeping cat</div><div>and the mindless whirrrr of your summer fan</div><div>mistakes made by moonlight</div><div>stepped on the crack that broke your back</div><div>a tumbled smash of skin, hair, eyes, lips</div><div>still wrists on cheekbones</div><div>smash, writhe, smash</div><div>fourth left ringed with love</div><div><br /></div><div>--</div><div>looking down the barrel of a gun</div><div>those things</div><div>do you remember?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>rosemariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03336607211966375470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17892920.post-37956810312397519212010-04-17T00:20:00.004+08:002010-04-17T01:15:39.279+08:00For my friend, Daniel<i>#14 Daniel</i><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>22nd December, 2009. On London Tube.</i><div><i><br /></i></div><div>It feels right now that if I don't immortalise my memories of my recently passed friend, they will soon be pulled into oblivion in his wake. I remember how he and I had our gay handshake to make fun of James and Evan; how we rehashed the sick cat spray joke at every party; how we danced like the black people we weren't; made whale noises because he breached at Katherine's 18th, lol'd at his race-striped car; pretended to call his mum for everything; hated on people without morals; did jizz faces; and after it all, actually got on really well. I will miss making fun of his emo facebook statuses, then chatting about things in a semi-serious way. I will him being in my top two of male friends. I will miss pretending to be his dad and bragging loudly to everyone about "my son, Daniel." I will miss his beautiful oboe playing at Quaranup, and making fun of stupid people with him. I will miss siding with him about being the only two doing a real degree of our friends. I will miss being able to imagine him as a husband, father, and friend with whom I will grow old. Most of all though, I will miss the fact that he was alive, like me; I will miss him until the day I join him, wherever he is.</div></div>rosemariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03336607211966375470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17892920.post-48610035673780422802009-02-03T04:01:00.003+09:002009-02-03T04:16:34.314+09:00my words, they're back!Her eyes shone with death<br />how absurd! she was alive in the end<br />her breath hers to spend<br />how ever she would dare<br />would she breathe of the love<br />she will lose? of her lover in abacus shoes?<br />the black edges of death, around her they crawl<br />around violet eyes, they call<br />away with conviction, away with deceit!<br />in the last throes of life death will not be defeat<br />and now that you pool like my coat at my feet<br />my mind to your cries shuts with echoing heat<br />the deafening cry is too late to be heard<br />as her ears strain to hear such a raucous, absurd...<br />so release me and beg of me no more than this<br />that your wish to be spared will be granted; remiss<br />of me maybe to leave you to scamper away<br />but as death will i too will come for you someday.rosemariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03336607211966375470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17892920.post-59090060219916398832008-12-04T23:36:00.002+09:002008-12-05T00:09:23.288+09:00We dance to the sound of sirenswhen i try and tell you words<br />in so awkward ways<br />i walk sweaty palmed with torment<br />who barrels my temple<br />so i splutter the truth<br /><br /><br /><br />i'm sorry my love<br />somewhere in the past<br />few minutes i lost you<br />i'll just pull my knees to chest<br />and you can tell me<br />what i missed<br /><br />oh, before you start<br />i saw the sunrise this morning<br />and i spread my wings below it<br />i slipped into the breeze going by<br />and how i flew!<br />tomorrow i shall wake you<br />and we shall leap at once<br />into that slipstream<br />you can hold my ankles<br />and we shall form a human chain<br />shall i speak some more? ok<br />i scatter more words on our conversation<br />for interests sake only<br />i could sit here with you forever<br />your breath would be enoughrosemariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03336607211966375470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17892920.post-55877243375626386812008-11-05T00:32:00.002+09:002008-11-05T00:47:08.763+09:00my hidden cambridge lies withini recently visited cambridge; these poems are really a series of thoughts that all happened while i was sitting on the banks of the cam river. actually, that's not entirely true; the second poem was written on the train from ely to cambridge. i found it an amazing place to write - it might not seem it, but those few days gave me a very crystal idea of my thoughts. thoughts of thoughts i suppose. the second poem also steals its form from a poem i wrote a while ago called skin on skin. though i suppose because no one reads this except nothing, it doesn't matter if i'm self-referencing.<br /><br />Oh to be different<br />of world and time<br />to be marked not<br />by the brush that reminds me<br />I am not good enough<br />There, drifting away<br />buried beneath the slowly<br />ambling river<br />Departs who I was to be<br />Adrift! my cultivated plans<br />Afloat for redemption<br />and in torrid understanding<br />I cling to my<br />effervescent sorrow<br />straining in me<br />desperate to claw bacl<br />what-who-whichever<br />slipped beneath the surfaced<br />and dreamed away.<br /><br />I am haunted by my dreams<br />not by darkness or fright<br />nor black souls or death from high places<br />but by my happiness<br />that lives so freely there<br />outside my waking hours<br />so merry and free while I slumber<br />[which flees as the pale dawn approaches]<br />withdrawn, caged, elusive<br />while my eyes see<br /><br />A slow warmth dawns upon my back<br />as the cold chatters at my fingertips<br />a creeping thirst<br />beckons me to leave<br />why can I not act?<br />which dart missed the bullseye<br />and left me with nothing<br />but the capability to put<br />in words<br />what I cannot [say] show.<br /><br />You are cruel, you, they, <span style="font-style: italic;">why<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span>give me the awareness<br />of what I'm doing<br />so I cannot do it<br />then briskly come<br />take my words as well<br />so that I sit again<br />with warm to my back<br />straight backed<br />freezing<br />and mute once more<br />You, in some will, in the form of a dog<br />give me a moment's respite<br />from which I can turn<br />and breathe<br />only to return<br />to find the words gone<br />you are so cruel.<br /><br />(Cambridge, 27 Oct 2008)<br /><br />Inside me broods a longing; low<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span>and restless in my stomach, no<br />I shall not lose my steely nerve<br /><br />and though appearances must be kept<br />and rules regarded, desires; slept<br />I know not what I should not do<br /><br />and circle round each other, we<br />in courtly dane, respectfully<br />decline to take that final step<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><br /></span>Though perfect and desirable; he<br />does not make word nor come at me<br />and I, in gutless wonder, stand<br /><br />and though the possibility<br />is there, no strings, is boundless, free<br />somehow it shan't be overcome<br /><br />and though I yearn each time he leans<br />to speak to me, I know it means<br />I cannot step; I cannot break<br /><br />Our eyes have met in brief and then<br />for fear of finding 'it,' we bend<br />and dance around the rules again<br /><br />so when I go; will he remember me?<br />or when I move; resigned, shall he<br />be someone that I cannot know?<br /><br />as different lives breed different fates<br />are we just two who shall not wait<br />and go instead with luck and chance?<br /><br />and there but for the grace go I<br />but I alone, and wondering; why,<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">how</span> life would be if I'd taken a chance.<br /><br />(ely-cambridge, 28th oct 2008)<br /><br />so...there they are. for chris, my lovely host in cambridge, who i think is just perfect :)rosemariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03336607211966375470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17892920.post-57416756954180049692008-10-22T14:35:00.003+08:002008-10-22T14:49:13.120+08:00Mal, mal mal francaisIt, uh, it is diffic<span style="font-style: italic;">ult</span> for me, to saying...in english.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Moi aussi, mais en francais. C'est difficile.</span><br /><br />Yes, but your French, it is very good.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Merci, mais c'est pas vrai...donc, qu'est-ce que tu penses de...erm...mon...accent?<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></span>You what? Your what?<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Er, le...facon...dans quel...je parle...quand je dit les mots...par exemple je dit francais, mon dieu, au secours...c'est bien? Ils...vont...bien?<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span>I...sink so. Ttttthhhhhink so I understand. When you speak, it...er...is sounding french? Yes?<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Oui, c'est bien?<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span>Yes! Your french is very nice. Et...ah...and my english? It goes okay?<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Oui, ton francais va bien. <span style="font-weight: bold;">How can I possibly say I love you without sounding stupid.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></span>Ah, san...tthhank you. <span style="font-weight: bold;">C'est trop beaucoup, je peux pas expliquer.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;">Veux-tu du cafe? <span style="font-weight: bold;">sigh<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span>Ah, yes, please. <span style="font-weight: bold;">C'est fini<span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>rosemariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03336607211966375470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17892920.post-41284125798333370262008-10-16T17:10:00.001+08:002008-10-16T17:10:56.042+08:00Thoughts of a 15 year old<span style="font-family:Courier New, Courier, Monospace;color:#9900cc;">There is no truth in truth. There is no lying if you lie. Men have died for smaller offences than loving you but women have died for more. I see no sense in reality but have no heart to dream. I'm not on ice and I have no mouth but my mind speaks loudly to the audience of death that awaits our departure from this world. There is no sense in this reprieve but why reprieve when I am insane. Long live the death of communism long reign the randomity in my thoughts. I Luv Communism. Marxist out.</span>rosemariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03336607211966375470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17892920.post-29906767012790691432008-10-14T04:52:00.002+08:002008-10-14T05:46:32.982+08:00For a darker turnShe was just standing there, asking for it. Saul could feel his left foot going numb for the concentration. Switched feet. Someone behind him muttered something about trying to get to the bar. Saul ignored it (though not fully) and instead pulled out his pocket knife. The punter spotted quickly and moved off. The barman noticed too.<br /><br />'Mate, whatcha got tha' for. Put it away.' Saul smirked, flicked the blade with his fingers.<br /><br />'Pipe down, mate. Just cleanin' ma nails.'<br /><br />'Sure enough, you just keep that well clear o' my bar from now on.'<br /><br />With a brief hesitation, Saul flicked the blade shut and tucked it into his top pocket.<br />'For later, then.'<br /><br />He turned his attention back to the leggy brunette at the bar. Thoughtfully (or at least as he imagined) he ran his hand over his 3-day growth. She'd be easy. Whores like that always were, flashing their legs, their gold everywhere. Never met one he couldn't get - or on the rare occasion he did, that he couldn't beat and rob afterwards. The perverse satisfaction of immense physical power sat warmly in his stomach as he waited for her to finish her drink and stumble outside to his advances. He lit a cigarette and went out to wait.<br /><br />***<br /><br />Cordelia had been watching the...oaf, from across the bar eyeing Fiona all night. Everytime he moved, she was ready for him to come over and grab her friend. She was never quite sure what she would do <span style="font-style: italic;">if</span> he came over, but she was constantly ready for it.<br /><br />'Cor, what's <span style="font-style: italic;">wrong</span>? You've spent the whole night gawping. Can you please try and have fun? I know, it's hard...'<br /><br />'I'm telling you, that creep is staring at you.'<br /><br />Fiona looked over as the guy was getting a talking to by the barman who was gesturing at something in his hands. She looked back to Cordelia.<br /><br />'Really? Looks like he's just at the bar, <span style="font-style: italic;">like most other people in this place</span>. Seriously, Cor, just get over it and come hang out with these people! They're great.' She pulled at Cordelia's cardigan. 'Who knows, you might actually get along with Jo? You know, the guy I brought here to meet you, who you haven't spoken to at all, the whole night, who I promised you would like...'<br /><br />Cordelia sighed. 'I know, alright. Alright.' She looked back at the man, in his dark red leather jacket, who was now stroking his facial hair in a way that she guessed he considered thoughtful, but really just looked menacing. He lit a cigarette and came towards her and she was about ready to leap at him, but he just passed slowly and went out the door to smoke.<br /><br />***<br /><br />Saul waited for what seemed hours. That dirty bitch, he thought, she's probably in there talking to every guy in the place, looking for one to go home with. Bet she doesn't even have a home. They're all the same. Finally, as he was finishing his fourth cigarette, a large group of 20-somethings spilled onto the path in front of him. Four boys dressed as men, complete with dirty sneakers and jackets, interspersed with about double the amount of barely-dressed girls. As he was about to give up hope of the brunette coming out, he noticed her friend emerge from the spinning doors. She looked over at him, shrugging on her jacket and lingered just a bit too long before looking back and calling her friend on. Saul rolled his eyes. Typical skank, he thought, gotta have some butch dyke to keep her. They're probably both lesbos. He dropped the butt onto the ground, made a hocking at his throat and spat on the footpath. The group rounded the corner away from the bar, and as they disappeared from view, he pulled himself off the wall slowly and went back inside.<br /><br />***<br /><br />'Jackie! <span style="font-style: italic;">Jackie!</span> Come <span style="font-style: italic;">here!</span>' Fiona, having had her fill for the night, was a little more exuberant than usual. She skipped to catch up with her friend, and they linked arms, giggling.<br /><br />'She's a handful, hey?' Cordelia looked suprisedly to her left to find herself face to face with Jo, who she had been avidly avoiding since Fiona had made such a big deal about introducing them earlier.<br /><br />'Er, yeah, I suppose. Sometimes. She doesn't always drink this much.'<br /><br />Jo laughed. "Yeah, I'm sure. Do you guys go out much?'<br /><br />'Not really.'<br /><br />'Come here often?'<br /><br />'Nah.'<br /><br />'Say more than two words?'<br /><br />Cordelia only just managed to supress her smile. 'Occasionally.'<br /><br />Jo smiled. 'I look forward to it.' An awkward silence between them engulfed the end of his sentence. Cordelia looked up, as if a passing meteorite might give her an out.<br /><br />'Cor! <span style="font-style: italic;">Cor!!! </span>Wait, wait wait wait, we need to go back. Back, right now!' Fiona took Cordelia by the hand.<br /><br />'Hang on...wait, why?'<br /><br />'I left my <span style="font-style: italic;">jacket</span> there, silly, now I'm all cold. Plus it's my favourite, and we're only a couple of minutes away. Come on!' She began pulling.<br /><br />'Wh-hang on, we can't just go by ourselves. Get the others to wait...'<br /><br />Fiona shook her head and kept pulling. 'Can't, they've got to get to the train station before the last train.'<br /><br />'And us?'<br /><br />'We'll just get a taxi or something. C'mon, if we hurry we might be able to get the train.'<br /><br />Cordelia looked back at the group, at Jo who was looking back at her. She merely shrugged and waved at him to go on.<br /><br />'Come on!'<br /><br />The two girls pressed themselves together against the cold. 'It's cold, hey?' mused Cordelia.<br /><br />'Which is why I need my jacket...'<br /><br />'This the jacket you need, ladies?'<br /><br />Cordelia, having been watching the ground, looked up in the direction of the voice. Standing, a little too casually, against a wall on the other side of the street, was the guy from the bar. Cordelia felt her heart drop heavily into her stomach, and began to pull back. Fiona, having had enough to drink to suspend her perception of reality, moved forward.<br /><br />'Oh, <span style="font-style: italic;">thanks</span>! I'm glad I didn't have to go all the way back to get it, it's so cold!' She reached out for the jacket, and the man, smirking slightly, held it out just a little from his body.<br /><br />'Silly to leave things lying around like this, you know. Anyone could pick it up.'<br /><br />'I know, and it's my favourite jacket too! Thanks so much for picking it up.' She took the jacket from him, frowning slightly when he didn't let go immediately.<br /><br />'Nothing at all, sweetie. Nothing at all. Here, let me help you with that...' he reached out and helped put the jacket around her shoulders. As she linked her arms into it, he reached around her and buttoned it up.<br /><br />'Wouldn't want you getting cold now, would we sweetie...' his voice trailed off as his hands lingered on her chest. Fiona moved to shrug him off but he lingered stronger.'<br /><br />'I'm just making you nice and warm...'<br /><br />'Get off her!'<br /><br />Saul swung around without letting go of Fiona.<br /><br />'You heard me. Get off her.' He bared teeth at her.<br /><br />'How come? Just helping your little friend here keep nice and warm...'<br /><br />Cordelia took a step forward. 'I said, get off her.' She took another step forward. 'Now.'<br /><br />Saul laughed. 'And why would I do that? She seems to quite like it...' Fiona let out a little whimper. 'See? See how pleased she sounds?'<br /><br />Cordelia took another step forward. 'Let go of her now, or...'<br /><br />'...or what? You gonna come give me a kick with those big dirty dyke boots of yours?' The man spat on the ground. 'Why don't you just run along and give us a bit of time together.'<br /><br />'Let her go now! I meant it!' She charged at the man. He met her with his heavy boots, squarely in the stomach. Doubled over, Cordelia fell backwards onto the path. The man laughed and, holding Fiona's arms together behind her back, stepped forward and kicked Cordelia in the head, laughing. 'Dirty bitch. That'll teach you.' Fiona began to cry. The man looked back at her and laughed more.<br /><br />'Please...pl...please let me...go, I, how did this...ow, ow, please j-'<br /><br />'Shut up, bitch. I don't need you wailing on as well. And stop pulling...'<br /><br />'What do you want? Do you want my wallet? My bag? Anything, just, just ta-ta-take it, p...please...'<br /><br />Saul hit her with the back of his hand. 'Shut up. I told you to shut up.' He took out his pocket knife and flicked the blade open. He held it to her throat. 'If you talk again, I'll cut your voicebox out. You gettit?' Fiona nodded. 'Good. Now howsabout we go somewhere a little less...' he looked at the unconscious form of her friend on the ground '...dirty, huh?' He held the blade to her throat with one hand and moved his other hand down to her hip.<br /><br />'Now, just spread them legs littl-'<br /><br />A loud bang echoed from the alleyway directly behind them. Fiona screamed and started running, disappearing around the corner. Saul dropped to the ground, a bullet wedged firmly between his shoulder blades, dying noisily. From out of the shadow of the alley, Jo stepped forward, and shot the man twice in the head, then disappeared back into the alley.<br /><br /><br />When she woke up, Cordelia wasn't sure whether she'd been hit by a truck or a bus. She sat up and immediately screamed, then screamed again, then started crying. The body of the lifeless man who had knocked her unconscious lay metres away, his open eyes staring straight at her, looking right at her had it not been for the pool of blood that stemmed away from his head and the two holes in his forehead. Unable to see or hear for her tears, Cordelia stood up, fell over, stood again. She wiped her eyes, screamed again, and began her long walk home.<br /><br />***rosemariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03336607211966375470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17892920.post-16696487774827280712008-10-13T02:10:00.002+08:002008-10-13T04:26:44.869+08:00Endless TurbulenceWhere are you taking me<br />why am I coasting across the sea<br />why do my feet skim the surface<br />without breaking it<br />are the waves shining<br />or are my eyes tinted gold?<br />why do I feel like I'm flying<br />how am I even moving<br />planted firmly upon the ocean<br />the light of the whole world<br />twists and shrieks<br />to sing my lullaby to me<br />are my veins empty of life<br />or full of death<br />truth is only a version<br />of a story woven by choice<br />oh, I do feel<br />I feel<br />change in the air<br />a static change that climbs onto me<br />and purring in my ear<br />coaxes me into lying<br />not down, but to myself<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">you are, you are, you are<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></span>and when I am not,<br />he slinks off<br />and lingers in the violent shadows<br />until I am again<br />there as my amness freefalls into the world<br />gathering speed, burning through the atmosphere<br />I see, as if from above<br />with my stratospheric desperation<br />it fall into the shadows<br />where it is lost<br />and the change, with glinting eyes<br />begins its feast on me<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span><br /></span>rosemariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03336607211966375470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17892920.post-86543097183168871972008-06-18T23:44:00.002+08:002008-06-19T01:00:25.074+08:00recourseOh, supplication<br />you saturate my fifth with your sumptuous third<br />sitting high like a volta<br />i hold on for age;<br />that soft light<br />stroking my skin<br />i can feel it washing over me<br />we sit in warm silence<br />a spectacle of tension<br />when you run my hands through your hair<br />those soft chords echo<br />and the echo bounces back<br />into the dark wool<br />oh just<br />to<br />touch<br />to savour and take<br />oh, supplication<br />fill the chord<br />be the third<br />feel the inner middle east satisfied<br />to the sated outer west<br />course it in you<br />oh, supplication<br />unto the distant dusk<br />take my suspended seventh<br />hold it over me<br />make me a martyr<br />a diminished sixth<br />a sultry fermata<br />said alma mater<br />suspend me<br />save the fifth<br />and bring forth your third<br />until the last second<br />hold your tongue;<br />take your tonic;<br />release.rosemariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03336607211966375470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17892920.post-4432363951264823062008-06-12T00:24:00.002+08:002008-06-12T00:39:29.805+08:00kiss kiss bang bangwait! she comes to a stop beside him, hands on her knees, panting. wait...a sec.<br /><br />what? he scuffs impatiently, looking over his shoulder at a clock that could be there.<br /><br />i'm addicted to you. she stands up straight, a panted agony on her face, wiping her brow with her sleeve. can't help it. addicted.<br /><br />you're addicted to me? he opens his eyes a bit wider. what?<br /><br />yeah, i know. her breathing slows a little. sounds stupid-<br /><br />-is stupid. what? how can you be addicted to some---me?<br /><br />don't know. wish i knew. she looks away for the time, clock behind him telling her nothing. just...am.<br /><br />right...okay. do we have to talk about this now?<br /><br />FUCK. yes we have to!<br /><br />alrighty then. well?<br /><br />don't know. don't...know. i'm, i, i just, need. to see you. a lot.<br /><br />i'd figured.<br /><br />no shut up, i... she falters. i need you.<br /><br />you need me? i'm sorry, i can't do-<br /><br />-i don't want that. i just want you. i can't explain it-<br /><br />-so i see.<br /><br />i don't care if we date. i don't care if we don't. i just need you. more.<br /><br />why? what's good about me?<br /><br />nothing! nothing nothing, there's nothing good about you.<br /><br />there's bleak winter sunlight filtering through the trees above. thanks.<br /><br />no, yes, you know what i mean don't you? he shrugs his black pullover, plays with his bag strap.<br /><br />well it's a bit strange-<br /><br />-you know i'm strange.<br /><br />ha. yeah i know.<br /><br />yeah so get over it. i can't help it. i'm addicted to you. every time i do something i think of you. everytime i want to tell someone something i want to tell you. everytime i fucking move i think about what it would be like with you there.<br /><br />does that not sound scary to you?<br /><br />wha-fuck you. think beyond the here and now for a second would you. do you always have to be so fucking literal?<br /><br />well, yeah here i do.<br /><br />ugh why am i ever heeere. see, i'm here and i feel like fucking shit. but i still like being with you. god, if i said this to anyone else, if anyone said this to any girl in any movie ever they'd be married with three kids by now.<br /><br />well that's my point, i don't want that do i?<br /><br />i'm not <span style="font-style: italic;">here</span> to stifle what you want. i'm here to say what i want. and it's you. i told you, i don't care if you don't want to date me, now, ever. i...<br /><br />you what?<br /><br />i don't know. i ache for you.<br /><br />ha.<br /><br />no shut up, not like that. i want to hug you, love you, talk to you, have you mean the most to me.<br /><br />god, do you have to talk like that?<br /><br />yes i do! i'm sorry if it's not what you want to hear.<br /><br />i can't. why now? why like this?<br /><br />because i'm sick of it. i'm being tortured. i feel sick.<br /><br />what do you want me to do about it?<br /><br />well clearly this is fucked up. great. this always happens. fuck. fuck fuck fuck fuck-<br /><br />-hang on-<br /><br />-no fuck off. fuck OFF. don't touch me! i can't do this. this always happens i don't ask for this but it always happens i want ONCE just ONCE for someone to love me more than i love them!<br /><br />...<br /><br />i...i don't know what i can do. this is it. this is where it ends. it's here that i lose part of myself and spiral deeper again-<br /><br />-spiral what? you're getting all psycho on me-<br /><br />-i. didn't. ask. you. to talk.<br /><br />sor<span style="font-style: italic;">ry</span>...<br /><br />i...i'll see you...sometime<br /><br />alright.rosemariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03336607211966375470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17892920.post-33661133738307735862008-06-08T23:30:00.002+08:002008-06-08T23:53:32.185+08:00I am on, switched onThere are some songs I don't think I can live without.<br /><br />Really? she flicked her butt to the ground and looked up.<br /><br />Yeah, I think so. I listen to them and I come away from...some edge. They bring me. Does that make sense?<br /><br />No, not really. Why do you do it then, if music is enough? If it's-<br /><br />-it's not though. He rubs his eye with his sleeve, catches his eyelid with his watch. Ow, fuck. Yeah, nah it's not enough. It- look fuck I don't know do I it just...why do you always have to ask questions? Fuck you.<br /><br />Whatever, don't be a whore about it. Fuck, it's like 2 o'clock. I have to work tomorrow.<br /><br />He reached out to her. No, stay a bit more. It's cold up here, I'll get all cold without you.<br /><br />Oh shut up. You're so annoying. She stands up and pulls her jeans up by the belt, kicking her legs out and tucking her fingers into her underarms to keep them warm.<br /><br />I might be annoying, but I'm also the best ever. Cmon staaaaaay. Look at the view, fuck, it's so good. I don't know how lights can be so.....bright?<br /><br />Haha, fuck you are so stupid. Fine. But not for long. I have to work in the morning and it's so <span style="font-style: italic;">shit</span> when I'm tired at work. She sits down again beside him, dangling her legs off the barrier.<br /><br />Shit, car!<br /><br />Fuck, jump down, go! They jump off the freeway railing into the scrub below.<br /><br />Has it gone past yet?<br /><br />Don't you think you'd hear it? Hang on...<br /><br />God I hate this. Best place to sit in town, except it's on a fucking freeway. Go figure, fucking government or some shit, always doing this shit. Like, build a fucking house here or something.<br /><br />You're so circumspective, have I ever told you that?<br /><br />Stop using big words, why can't you talk like a normal person? He pulls out his lighter. Another?<br /><br />Nah it's good. But feel free.<br /><br />Oh I will. He lights up. Man I don't know how people can live without this shit. It's like a fucking drug.<br /><br />It is a drug you loser. She slaps his knee and he holds her hand there. Sometimes I wonder why I spend my nights with you like this.<br /><br />Like what?<br /><br />Well, normal people go out, have dinner, go to clubs, watch movies, have sex like rabbits-<br /><br />Yeah, well we've done all that.<br /><br />Well not all of it.<br /><br />Yeah...well. He takes a drag. Whatever. Give it time! You're so impatient.<br /><br />I'M impatient? I'm sorry, who's the one who expects me to leap to attention whenever he has a spare night?<br /><br />That's not impatience, you know you want to.<br /><br />Fuck off.<br /><br />Ahaha, here. He coughs. Have a drag, stop being shit.<br /><br />I'm not being shit. She takes a drag. You're so bad for me.<br /><br />Why? He takes hold of her hand.<br /><br />Because you're like this! Because we're like this, and like, I don't know, you hold my hand on a freeway railing? Why can't we be normal?<br /><br />You want to be normal? Aren't you always the one telling me that normal is what, boring as batshit?<br /><br />Yes but...oh fuck you. You know what I mean. Why are you like this? You're such a fucking douche.<br /><br />Douche? Like what even is that word? You pull these fucking words on me, can't you just talk like a normal person?<br /><br />Only if you conventionalise our relationship.<br /><br />Fuck you.<br /><br />Fuck you more.<br /><br />You wish.<br /><br />Yeah, so? You'd think after two years you would too.<br /><br />Did I say I didn't?<br /><br />It's not what you have said but what you haven't said. She pulls her hand back. What you think I'm stupid?<br /><br />Well, now you ask-<br /><br />-no fuck you. You're so unfair to me.<br /><br />Aren't you making this a bit personal now?<br /><br />Well it is fucking personal. She kicks his foot. It is fucking personal, idiot.<br /><br />Don't call me an idiot.<br /><br />Oh for god's sake don't get all defensive and offended on me.<br /><br />Well you called me an idiot!<br /><br />Yes and you make me sit with you on a freeway overpass at 2am in the morning hoping like a fucking WANKER that you will say something I want to hear!<br /><br />guh....can't you just leave it?<br /><br />no i can't! i always leave it and it's always the same! how is this fair to me?<br /><br />what about me? he flicks his butt back onto the road. what about what's fair for me?<br /><br />oh, that's right 'let me go fuck around, you wait here, i'll be back in a couple of years, but in the supervening time i'll hold your hand on freeway overpasses.' fuck you. you're such a fuck. i hate you.<br /><br />ugh, you are so annoying!<br /><br />I'M annoying! she moves away from him. fuck you.<br /><br />no, come on, shut up, come here.<br /><br />no, fuck you. you're always like this and i'm sick of it.<br /><br />come <span style="font-style: italic;">here</span>, stop being stupid. He holds out his hands.<br /><br />She doesn't move. No, you're always like this. I told you, it's not fair. It's not fair.<br /><br />He moves over to her, puts his arm around her. God you are so annoying.<br /><br />Thanks.<br /><br />Look just...give it some time.<br /><br />I've GIVEN it time. And you're still fucking retarded.<br /><br />Well, it just has to be like that. I'm sorry, you know I love you...<br /><br />No don't pull that shit on me, you always say that-<br /><br />-because it's true. Now stop talking and enjoy the view.<br /><br />and if i don't want-<br /><br />-shut up. enjoy the view. Jesus woman, you are worse than anyone I've ever known.<br /><br />You've just got no examp-<br /><br />-stop <span style="font-style: italic;">talking.</span> He rubs her arm gently and hugs her to him. Just enjoy the view.rosemariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03336607211966375470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17892920.post-14592370579408871232008-04-28T00:22:00.002+08:002008-04-28T00:26:52.728+08:00AhWhen he betroths me to his future<br />what can I do?<br />I only stumble at the words<br />I should be saying<br />and grin pointlessly instead<br /><br />When he takes a hand<br />and puts it to my face<br />and I like it<br />what's the difference<br />if he pulls it back at first<br />and puts it harder?<br /><br />Then the things he says<br />so quiet<br />shout a promise he won't say<br />give me hope beyond the reason<br />that I said I'd never sway<br /><br />So I sit upon the shelf<br />and look upon the life he lives<br />and he casts his eyes upon me<br />every time<br />he makes a choice<br />and he brushes past my ear<br />whispers nothing<br />and I shake.rosemariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03336607211966375470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17892920.post-33187769496544493832008-03-27T23:25:00.002+09:002008-03-28T00:28:40.283+09:00SerotoninLike lovers did in those days, their hands twined quietly beneath the green tablecloth. Elspeth chattered noisily next to them, a monstrous beacon on her parents radar, hiding the hands from view. A slight smile spelt out over his lips. She chewed her corn peacefully to subdue hers. He stroked down her palm and she chewed a little quicker.<br /><br />The conversation was a series of gruff ornaments and twitter, for which neither cared. It was etiquette, it was required. During a lecture on the common themes of the evening newspaper, she pushed her foot between his, the warm of her leg causing him to drop his fork.<br />'You right son?' A slight pause:<br />'Yes sir, sorry, please continue.' Eyes flicker to her hands, which are fetching more water. The evening newspaper suffers a little more.<br /><br />During dessert his right hand finds her knee. He etches their initials into it and hopes to see it there later. She smooths her napkin and digs her nails into his hand.<br /><br />Later the women are cleaning up, Elspeth like a mad torrent of ideas, organising and sequentialising. The men sit in the front room. Hunter and hunted. He speaks first:<br />'I think your daughter is most charming.'<br />'You would say that.'<br />'Oh?'<br />'They all say that.'<br />'Oh.'<br />'What do you intend with her?'<br />He thinks a moment; he could fail here:<br />'I intend only that to which she would consent, Sir.'<br />'And what does that mean?'<br />Damn. Blown it. Recover:<br />'If she will have me Sir, I will gladly serve out my days to her whim.'<br />Ah, curled lips. Better.<br />'Better have some brandy then.'<br /><br />Brandy puts the old man to sleep in 10 minutes. He begins to snore. She calls him from the kitchen. He stands, puts the old man's glass on the table, and let's the door catch behind him.<br /><br />'Tea?'<br />'No thank you, Ma'am.' Ma'am puts down the kettle.<br />'Elspeth, why don't you show me the drawing you did yesterday?' Elspeth looks up:<br />'But Mama, I showed you y-'<br />She catches on and they exit stage right.<br /><br />He moves slowly through the flickering light which pulses like a strong ether trying to hold him back.<br />'I traced my name on you.'<br />She looks disbelieving.<br />'Look.'<br />She pulls up her long skirt, faint faint red marks on her skin. She looks up as he pulls up in front her. She lets her skirt down, patting off her damp hands, uncreasing her forehead. He puts a hand to her ear and cradles her head. He puts another hand to her other ear and holds her head before him. She looks out lazily, his face a warm glow. He admires her softness. Her head lolls gently. Slowly he pulls his hands onto their fingers, webbing themselves around her head. She smiles warmer still and he notes to do this again. He brings his face close to hers; oh she is so dewy! he remarks to himself, almost giggling out loud at the word. She smells of warm kitchen. His unpolished skin grazes her and she gasps, having closed her eyes and being unaware he was so close. She opens them and looks sidelong at him; he pauses his ministrations, then continues. She places her long hands on his waist and for a moment he forgets himself. Then he recalls and steps back. Confused, she reaches for him, but he stands well back from her, letting the air fall between them.<br />She moves to close it, but he steps again and twice shy she stops. He simply looks. For minutes, minutes bending into more minutes he looks, she displays. They study each other, not wanting to forget their forms. She pulls at her beaded décolleté. A swift ticking marks the end of each second, and still he looks. She moves her left foot; he shakes his head. She lowers her gaze along with her inhibitions and pulls at her top button 'til it slides open. Inward he gasps and makes a note to look slower.<br /><br />Somehow, now, movement, touching would be inappropriate. Here they were not acting for an unknowing audience. Here they were simply acting for each other, and this, they knew, called for restraint and withholding. He dared not touch her nor she him. All he allowed himself was the searing glow of wanting bleeding from his pores, his eyes yelling themselves hoarse at her long slow body that held his gaze. She concentrated on the soles of her feet and chastised herself for not cleaning under her nails. Her soft palms pushed together and as she pulled them apart a thin thread of longing spilt onto the floor. She looked up again and caught his eyes. She closed hers, saving them for later. She opened them seconds later and caught only his wake as he breathed through the door into the night beyond them.<br /><br />She watched him down the path, a soft candle glow coming from him, the one that told her he left with only one moment, one person, one thing on his mind.<br /><br />From upstairs, Elspeth and Mama watched on.<br />'Is it always like this, Mama?' A soft grin to the darkness;<br />'You should only ever take it like this, dear.'<span style="font-family: monospace;"></span>rosemariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03336607211966375470noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17892920.post-47274370082756217472008-03-19T00:00:00.002+09:002008-03-19T00:38:51.608+09:00onward and upward and over and outin fields of grey they climbed<br />like dreamers pursued by the dawn<br />with the roof of the world on their foreheads<br />and the pits of hell in their hearts<br /><br />onward and upward in stillness<br />through a dark and impenetrable sheen<br />and a vast rolling vista of living<br />lay below them<br /><br />from the west at the ether it rippled<br />to the east where the world ripped away<br />the great shadow of eternity lies onward<br />and with deep breaths of life they move on<br /><br />and the last throes of life of her body<br />shudder recklessly up to the arc<br />as the last breath of water consumes her<br />she too climbs through grey to beyond.rosemariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03336607211966375470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17892920.post-59197837469809151052008-03-11T00:51:00.002+09:002008-03-11T01:09:26.764+09:00the neverending storya puckering of light edges over the hill<br />like a twitching bead it grows<br />spilling out through the veins of leaves<br />and in through eaves over window panes<br />little stirrings, the heat moving in its lightening slumber<br /><br />an easterly sighs in from afar<br />bringing whispers of lighter times to come<br />the constant ocean beats over a pasty shore<br />and cold toes edge over the rocky fore<br />while birds are roused and brought out<br /><br />softly beating steps on footpaths<br />as mothers stop to check their children's chests<br />rising, falling<br />the acrid waves of bread fly high on rooftops<br />with angelic wings they beat over into the dawn<br /><br />the gold creeps over roadsides<br />where blooms are waking to its touch<br />and sweetly sleeping nature starts its long haul upwards<br />as the darkness fades away into the light<br /><br />where does that black go?<br />it lies upon the ground for hour on hour<br />only to be erased as the light spreads further<br />like the ink from a red shirt to a white one<br />how does it not spread? where does it go?<br /><br />like deviant wonderings<br />the wanderings of the gold spread<br />over lampshades and letterboxes<br />onto abstract thought and art nouveau<br />like a slowly, an interminable disease<br /><br />then, lo! it crumbles in the west<br />it scuttles quick with a line of reference<br />down through the thickening blue<br />to black, which has lay in wait for hour on end<br />and now seizes its chance once morerosemariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03336607211966375470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17892920.post-27435761292802813492008-02-21T00:43:00.000+09:002008-02-21T00:44:18.270+09:00Where y'at? Where y'at? Where y'at? Where y'at?Busker<br /><br />A foul shadow, of bliss and darkness<br />cast upon my feet, upon the windy tide<br />my heavy-lidded eyes upon the ebb<br />a hue of dread that flows so wide<br /><br />I strum beneath the waves, so lowly<br />unblinking, a chink of metal falls<br />sensual vibrations echo through the ground<br />rain falls high past the mouldy walls<br /><br />"oh, oh," I sing, shadows fall in mocking<br />I just stand, the rain so falls, seeking redemption<br />"Giz anoth!" the future calls, I scowl<br />the rain washes my boots, I end up with absolution<br /><br />all over my boots, "sorry pal" he glances<br />absoluted absolutely everywhere, "no mind,"<br />I kick a stone, strum, "oh, oh" they hiss<br />I think of school, a life where I was once defined<br /><br />A girl appears, a stroke of light, I strum harder<br />she catches me, she smiles, and the rain just now subsides<br />I hold her there, "oh, oh," she grins, a prick of life<br />I kick the coins shut, take my strumming, only now decide<br /><br />Take her hand, she doesn't realise, doesn't see, still she smiles<br />As I grow to a building climax of life, she feels so small within me<br />On and further and faster and quicker we run to the edge of the waiting rain<br />then she stops, and I stop, and she smiles, and I frown, and she goes, and I strum.rosemariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03336607211966375470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17892920.post-55826696155036350402008-01-30T00:50:00.001+09:002008-01-30T00:52:44.169+09:00Books I wan' readRule by Secrecy - Jim Marrs<br /><br />Hyperspace: Scientific Odyssey Through Parallel Universes, Time Warps and the Tenth Dimension - Michio (Michlo? Michto?) Kaku<br /><br />The 12th Planet: Book one of the Earth Chronicles - Zacharia Sitchin<br /><br />...no prizes for guessing whyrosemariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03336607211966375470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17892920.post-53201636337599661702008-01-28T01:23:00.000+09:002008-01-28T02:14:12.986+09:00All in for twoA flushed bright upon my skin<br />a writhing dusk gives way to night<br />and all around me is a wild<br />and fantastic light<br />reaching from my top to chin<br /><br />Appearing from the eerie dark<br />a voice, cutting, speaks out to me<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">illumed, princess</span>, a tortured slay<br />he whispers and I spin to see<br />from glowing black there grows a spark<br /><br />a knife edge, cuts me cool and deep<br />I don't cry out, instead I breathe<br />into the lowest of my depth<br />and keep it there to kick and seethe<br />when all good day is done, I sleep<br /><br />He wastes no time, and pulls me close<br />a breath upon my softened skin<br />and strokes a slow hand from my brow<br />to nose to cheek and down to chin<br />of lust, a lethal, sealing dose<br /><br />I bite down, holding in my scream<br />a row of teeth skim past my neck<br />my back takes heed and bucks on cue<br />he's careful but some sweat, a fleck<br />lands on the carpet staining cream<br /><br />I feel the plush beneath my feet<br />a soft red sting upon my lips<br />he skews my judgement as I sway<br />and pulls the rope taut on my hips<br />the blood that flows flows oh so sweet<br /><br />A growing pain of sweet surrender<br />basks in knowledge of my flaw<br />as his lips dust past my shoulder<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">tap</span>, a light noise on the door<br />he speaks, and says <span style="font-style: italic;">you may up end her<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></span>I wake to dazzled darkness, then<br />a light upon my face again<br />I feel a soft weight on my hand<br />I lift my head out of the sand<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">My tasty little girl, you rise</span><br /><br />I bite down on congealed blood<br />and swear my own royal decree<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I'll clean you up</span>, I'm whisked away<br />I wake again, and now I'm clean<br />The dirt is gone, the sin and mud<br /><br />I tap away on a keyboard plane<br />a simmering heat from a distant land<br />blows past my face, the door swings wide<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">It's two o'clock, I need a hand</span><br />And there my life starts over again<br /><br />Things just work, my life just is<br />I seek no wisdom, find no wise<br />I become, not I am, and it plagueth me<br />that far beneath my truth are lies<br />that I am what I become and conjugate to is<br /><br />I am the third person, I am her<br />a thud upon the floor, a cut<br />and bleeding wound, it's where I'll be<br />a whore, a self-despising slut<br />and life will go past in a blur<br /><br />And tomorrow it shall be the same<br />I'll take off my clothes and push my toes in the plush<br />and I say something then, and he'll take to my throat<br />and he'll say and he'll do and he'll cut and I'll blush<br />and the next day I'll rise, and be back in the game.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span><br /></span>rosemariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03336607211966375470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17892920.post-10603484400988937832008-01-22T16:47:00.000+09:002008-01-22T17:47:04.399+09:00A Slow StartA belt of stars across the sky<br />appears as suddenly as a life<br />as testament to a false belief<br />that rather than live we prefer to die<br />the light in my feet now gives way to night<br />and rolling clouds rumble in<br />as a sign of hope, and a silky sin<br /><br />an old fool is no fool<br />if the old fool is old school<br />and a patch of a quilt stitched to a wall<br />fits not as a patch but answers a call<br />and given their patch in the skin of all<br />the question is not if patch makes whole<br /><br /><br />and the song 'he writes so incongruously'<br />is sung like a hymn, so religiously<br />in the manner of zealots<br />in the manner of false<br />and turned to by hopeless when failed by all else<br /><br />and the first step is hardest, is longest, is worst<br />and followed by one, the another and three<br />and deep inspiration comes slow without haste<br />as if to say, 'no, i shan't be owned by thee'<br /><br />and it gradually fades and it gradually ends<br />it slowly grows softer and beigely blends<br />and the deep dark soft morning on night still depends<br /><br />and grammar is beaten and moulded, slept in<br />like a recalcitrant child on a friday, kept in<br /><br />apparently women bow down to the wind.rosemariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03336607211966375470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17892920.post-62197935078063447492007-09-08T20:32:00.000+08:002007-09-08T21:37:17.952+08:00Save the WorldDear friends,<br /><br />The Prime Minister can now call the election any day, and many think<br />as soon he's finished at APEC he'll do just that. And when he does,<br />the gates of democracy will swing firmly shut.<br /><br />That's because the Government has passed new laws closing the<br />electoral roll at 8pm on the very day the election is officially<br />called. So click here -- or forward this email -- to make sure that<br />you and everyone you know are properly enrolled:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.getup.org.au/campaign/votingisthebestrevenge" target="_blank" onclick="return top.js.OpenExtLink(window,event,this)">http://www.getup.org.au/campaign/votingisthebestrevenge</a><br /><br />Odds are, you're enrolled to vote -- but chances are you know someone<br />who isn't. What may surprise you is just how many people you know<br />aren't on the rolls. For instance, the Government recently admitted<script><!-- D(["mb","\u003cbr\>\nmore than a third of all Australians aged 18 to 25 are not enrolled.\u003cbr\>\nThat's a whopping 410,000 voters - four whole electorates' worth --\u003cbr\>\nand we're only talking about young people.\u003cbr\>\n\u003cbr\>\nTo make matters worse, you're not informed if you've been taken off\u003cbr\>\nthe electoral roll for some reason -- such as if a piece of mail\u003cbr\>\naddressed to you from the AEC gets returned to sender -- so many\u003cbr\>\npeople do not find out until they turn up on election day, only to be\u003cbr\>\ndenied their vote. You may not be enrolled right now, and not even\u003cbr\>\nknow it. You can check your enrolment status here.\u003cbr\>\n\u003cbr\>\n\u003ca href\u003d\"http://www.getup.org.au/campaign/votingisthebestrevenge\" target\u003d\"_blank\" onclick\u003d\"return top.js.OpenExtLink(window,event,this)\"\>http://www.getup.org.au/campaign/votingisthebestrevenge\u003c/a\>\u003cbr\>\n\u003cbr\>\nYour fellow GetUp members have been out in force, holding enrolment\u003cbr\>\ndrives around the country to fill the gap these changes will create.\u003cbr\>\nWe've even launched a TV ad on V and MTV ("Make Your First Time\u003cbr\>\nSpecial") encouraging young voters to get on the rolls.\u003cbr\>\n\u003cbr\>\nClick below for your one-stop enrolment shop - whether it's checking\u003cbr\>\nyour own enrolment status, signing a petition to reverse the changes,\u003cbr\>\nor making sure everyone you know is enrolled.\u003cbr\>\n\u003cbr\>\n\u003ca href\u003d\"http://www.getup.org.au/campaign/votingisthebestrevenge\" target\u003d\"_blank\" onclick\u003d\"return top.js.OpenExtLink(window,event,this)\"\>http://www.getup.org.au/campaign/votingisthebestrevenge\u003c/a\>\u003cbr\>\n\u003cbr\>\nWith all that's at stake in this election, let's all have our say.\u003cbr\>\nForward this email to everyone you know, because once the election is\u003cbr\>\ncalled it will be too late.\u003cbr\>\n\u003cbr\>\nThanks for making it happen,\u003cbr\>\nThe GetUp team\u003cbr\>\n\u003cbr\>\nPS: Our APEC climate change petition is almost at 100,000 Australians.\u003cbr\>\nThere's still time to put your name here.\u003cbr\>\n\u003cbr\>\n---------------\u003cbr\>\n\u003cbr\>\nGetUp is an independent, not-for-profit community campaigning group.\u003cbr\>\nWe use new technology to empower Australians to have their say on",1] ); //--></script><br />more than a third of all Australians aged 18 to 25 are not enrolled.<br />That's a whopping 410,000 voters - four whole electorates' worth --<br />and we're only talking about young people.<br /><br />To make matters worse, you're not informed if you've been taken off<br />the electoral roll for some reason -- such as if a piece of mail<br />addressed to you from the AEC gets returned to sender -- so many<br />people do not find out until they turn up on election day, only to be<br />denied their vote. You may not be enrolled right now, and not even<br />know it. You can check your enrolment status here.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.getup.org.au/campaign/votingisthebestrevenge" target="_blank" onclick="return top.js.OpenExtLink(window,event,this)">http://www.getup.org.au/campaign/votingisthebestrevenge</a><br /><br />Your fellow GetUp members have been out in force, holding enrolment<br />drives around the country to fill the gap these changes will create.<br />We've even launched a TV ad on V and MTV ("Make Your First Time<br />Special") encouraging young voters to get on the rolls.<br /><br />Click below for your one-stop enrolment shop - whether it's checking<br />your own enrolment status, signing a petition to reverse the changes,<br />or making sure everyone you know is enrolled.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.getup.org.au/campaign/votingisthebestrevenge" target="_blank" onclick="return top.js.OpenExtLink(window,event,this)">http://www.getup.org.au/campaign/votingisthebestrevenge</a><br /><br />With all that's at stake in this election, let's all have our say.<br />Forward this email to everyone you know, because once the election is<br />called it will be too late.<br /><br />Thanks for making it happen,<br />The GetUp team<br /><br />PS: Our APEC climate change petition is almost at 100,000 Australians.<br />There's still time to put your name here.rosemariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03336607211966375470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17892920.post-21689801411501032062007-08-24T00:09:00.000+08:002007-08-24T00:27:05.772+08:00Far Out WeekMy messy baby<br />he lands all over the floor<br />when i'm not looking<br />maybe i'm poorer<br />for not looking<br />anymore<br />but my messy baby<br />when he lands all up on the floor<br />he waits for me to bathe him<br />'til he ain't no mess no more.<br /><br />He comes up for air and surfaces over the opalescent water. Above him, the blue sky wobbles and below him, the blue sky squabbles at his neck, the sky and water meet. He breaks their union with spit, wipes salty hand over salty face. A low hiss of air over the water and he sends ripples to China. He lolls back and lets the water reach over his body its cold hands taking each other and tightening. He reforms, spits again, a surge of deep anger inside him. He begins to yell. At all those he thought betrayed him in life. His sister and her cold fingers on his neck while he dozed. His mother and her bent back, seeking his hands at the dinner table, gently shushing the stereo in his sister's room. His father's red car, forever tweaked, forever twisted. The cat that was left flat on the mat on Saturday. A dozen crazy crabs who left him for bigger shells. Barty, Martin, Chipper, Haz, their big brown hands on his neck on a victorious Saturday lunchtime. Madelen, who had bigger fish to fry. The quiet of his lonely home at night. He is now left with an expanse bigger than his ego, blue to the last, from top to side to bottom and below. His belly quivers with hunger. His legs tire from movement. He lolls again, feels the dizzying depths below. His voice is hoarse and he immediately regrets having yelled and bellowed. His anger seems dwarfed by the calm of the blue to blue around him. It angers him more. Why is he the only angry one? Why do no others rage beside him? He cries but you wouldn't know - it's just salt and there's plenty more to go around. Here at this crucial juncture - do you hold on, or do you sink? How long can you swim for before you realise there's only more blue beyond the blue?rosemariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03336607211966375470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17892920.post-42988814822339590812007-08-17T13:44:00.000+08:002007-08-17T13:47:27.346+08:00Our God, he doth walk among us, his light like a beacon to the open skies.Muse Touring, November 10, Supreme Court Gardens. Tickets on sale yesterday. Come see Him preach to the long-haired masses. My eyes will be wild with glee.rosemariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03336607211966375470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17892920.post-73590181024088030292007-08-13T23:26:00.000+08:002007-08-13T23:53:51.508+08:00A long cold winterIn this longish hiatus from my posting on this site, I have thought much. Indeed, I'd go as far to say that a terribly lot of things have happened in my life. I've met all these people, done all these things, spent all this money.<br /><br />None of that however is terribly interesting or entertaining. Not so much as those few little oddment bits of anecdotal strain events that have blotted the landscape in between the bigs and the grands, and filled in the modest gaps in my rather gappy life.<br /><br />Firstly is my discovery that my new laptop underlines misspelt words in red, no matter what program I am in. After writing a facebook (which i shall come to later) wall post which resembled a suivre:<br /><blockquote></blockquote><br />LOL thats massively kewl! LOLZ u rok girlf! LOL!<blockquote></blockquote>the squips of red rather disconcerted me. I reconsidered with a rather more conservative 'laugh out loud!'.<br /><br />Secondly, my loss of ability to write anything remotely interesting, entertaining or witty such as to invite readers and potential publishers into my literary sphere. This has resulted in mass book collecting, writing everyday, in the hope that the loss is salvageable and not entire. Further such updates may ensue.<br /><br />Three my newfound adoration of wordbuilding and making up words to suit the sounds I need, the descriptive morphology, phonology and orthography to establish that which I am trying to explain to whomsoever may be in the vicinity. This is perhaps not as fruitful as hoped, though these words are slowly seeping into my everyday vocabulary, thus further enriching and diversifying it. Three point five is my use of unnecessary or inappropriate words particularly adjectives in sentences.<br /><br />Four, my complete failure in French. I think no more needs be said on this matter.<br /><br />Fifth is my UNYA hackness and my apparently unquenchable desire to be consumed by UNYA in such a way as leaves no trace of my soul and but for my modest collection of stamps and Muse newspaper cuttings would all my remnants be lost. BKM better be appreciative.<br /><br />Sixth is my unnerving desire to insure my new car, along with my echinaceal love of good health and painfreeuninterruptedmovement.<br /><br />Seventh is my new addiction to facebook, the vice of the studying world, my foray into internet obsession and meandering thought trails. I feel journeyed alongside, shared and betrothed to a higher demon than those that tie me to facebook and not to my tortsbook. Alas this betrothal reminds me of brothel and thus eight.<br /><br />Eight is unsurprisingly my desire to travel around WA. My WAphile status has long been knownst to myself, though to others it may serve as a reminder that I am slightly bizarre and off-kilter with the wants and desires of the contemporary Australian youth. That dirt just gets in your blood and courses through them veins, then you're suckered for good and can't think of nothing by saltbush, sandalwood, open horizons and lonely highway corners upon which one may meet a roadtrain. The minimalism and simplicity of it all has me virtually begging to be taken. TV programmes such as the circuit and a quick sojourn to Kalgoorlie neither helped nor abated this thirst.<br /><br />Nine is my despisal for all things law related: employment, lectures, assignments, professors (bar Doug), Brenda McGivern (bless her), cases, tortsbook, laptop. Ouch. Don't shut down on me honey. You are also my gateway to outside world, I need.<br /><br />Ten is the realisation that in order to avoid reading I will write an unnecessary list of things to entertain no one but myself. I think my blog is an empty alley, kind of lit by a light that keeps going out and then going white then going orange, a skip bin, high walls, odd smell. I skulk around here and kick around the grime for playtime things to do. Playlunch comes with the scurrying of feet.<br /><br />Eleventh is my new love of wondering around, yes with an o, being only interested in things that interest me, coming to terms with people who don't like me (like you'd really waste time on that?) and my dislike of fibromyalgia.<br /><br />For now c'est tout.rosemariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03336607211966375470noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17892920.post-58075198063470809792007-05-10T22:49:00.000+08:002007-05-10T23:37:05.966+08:00It lurks, there. Il n'ya plus.I<br /><br />J'éspere<br />mais aussi je sais<br />mes mots, ils sont rien<br />sans <span style="font-style: italic;">sentiment</span><br />parce que pour savoir les autres<br />on doit savoir lui-même<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">lui-même?<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></span>chépas.<br /><br />II<br />I just don't<br />I need to express myself over boundaries and lines<br />and it all sounds so self expressive<br />I can't take that <span style="font-style: italic;">I </span>out of it<br /><br />III<br />He liked to hide in words<br />Sneak behind them and peek out<br />Jumping de langue à langue<br />she'd corner him<br />there he would go leaping<br />'why do you cry at night?'<br />'<span style="font-style: italic;">on doit! on doit!'<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></span></span>why does he run<br />over there he goes<br />from behind dark lidded eyes he surveys<br />eyelashes curl up from the fire within<br />an acrid smoke, spiralling high above him<br />like signals to a power who might save him<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I am here I need salvation<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span>he, saying why can't I finish anything<br />he, running out of the dark house<br />he, crying to loosen the pain in his heart<br />he, with death on his lips<br />falls upon the step of his église<br />Padre comes to him<br />quietens him<br />she comes to him, wiping away his death with her sleeve<br />she says, I am come for you, I fall for you<br />he lips the salt from his lips<br />tells her of his love, his life<br />spilling in an hour long narrative<br />Padre brings some soft bread for him<br />and he eats, thick mucus washed down like easy poison<br />and she sits upon her knees and listens<br />her yellow polka dot dress twined round her knees<br />and his disquiet is gone<br />she holds him to her breast<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">je t'ai compris toujours.</span><br /><br />IV<br />A small wind<br />blew on the path<br />I crossed him<br />he told me of far lands<br />and his blood<br />settled on my face<br />a thin brown film<br />he washed down a drain late that night<br />to travel again to far lands<br />far away<br /><br />V<br />She sat on a wall<br />and kicked the moss<br />the thick blanket of night lifting slowly from the land<br />she breathed out thick air<br />words in her mind<br />thoughts as dark as the night<br />now repealing its reign<br />she pulls off her mask<br />and drops her life before making her way home.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span><br /></span>rosemariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03336607211966375470noreply@blogger.com0