Ah

When he betroths me to his future
what can I do?
I only stumble at the words
I should be saying
and grin pointlessly instead

When he takes a hand
and puts it to my face
and I like it
what's the difference
if he pulls it back at first
and puts it harder?

Then the things he says
so quiet
shout a promise he won't say
give me hope beyond the reason
that I said I'd never sway

So I sit upon the shelf
and look upon the life he lives
and he casts his eyes upon me
every time
he makes a choice
and he brushes past my ear
whispers nothing
and I shake.

Serotonin

Like 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.

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.
'You right son?' A slight pause:
'Yes sir, sorry, please continue.' Eyes flicker to her hands, which are fetching more water. The evening newspaper suffers a little more.

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.

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:
'I think your daughter is most charming.'
'You would say that.'
'Oh?'
'They all say that.'
'Oh.'
'What do you intend with her?'
He thinks a moment; he could fail here:
'I intend only that to which she would consent, Sir.'
'And what does that mean?'
Damn. Blown it. Recover:
'If she will have me Sir, I will gladly serve out my days to her whim.'
Ah, curled lips. Better.
'Better have some brandy then.'

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.

'Tea?'
'No thank you, Ma'am.' Ma'am puts down the kettle.
'Elspeth, why don't you show me the drawing you did yesterday?' Elspeth looks up:
'But Mama, I showed you y-'
She catches on and they exit stage right.

He moves slowly through the flickering light which pulses like a strong ether trying to hold him back.
'I traced my name on you.'
She looks disbelieving.
'Look.'
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.
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.

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.

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.

From upstairs, Elspeth and Mama watched on.
'Is it always like this, Mama?' A soft grin to the darkness;
'You should only ever take it like this, dear.'

onward and upward and over and out

in fields of grey they climbed
like dreamers pursued by the dawn
with the roof of the world on their foreheads
and the pits of hell in their hearts

onward and upward in stillness
through a dark and impenetrable sheen
and a vast rolling vista of living
lay below them

from the west at the ether it rippled
to the east where the world ripped away
the great shadow of eternity lies onward
and with deep breaths of life they move on

and the last throes of life of her body
shudder recklessly up to the arc
as the last breath of water consumes her
she too climbs through grey to beyond.

the neverending story

a puckering of light edges over the hill
like a twitching bead it grows
spilling out through the veins of leaves
and in through eaves over window panes
little stirrings, the heat moving in its lightening slumber

an easterly sighs in from afar
bringing whispers of lighter times to come
the constant ocean beats over a pasty shore
and cold toes edge over the rocky fore
while birds are roused and brought out

softly beating steps on footpaths
as mothers stop to check their children's chests
rising, falling
the acrid waves of bread fly high on rooftops
with angelic wings they beat over into the dawn

the gold creeps over roadsides
where blooms are waking to its touch
and sweetly sleeping nature starts its long haul upwards
as the darkness fades away into the light

where does that black go?
it lies upon the ground for hour on hour
only to be erased as the light spreads further
like the ink from a red shirt to a white one
how does it not spread? where does it go?

like deviant wonderings
the wanderings of the gold spread
over lampshades and letterboxes
onto abstract thought and art nouveau
like a slowly, an interminable disease

then, lo! it crumbles in the west
it scuttles quick with a line of reference
down through the thickening blue
to black, which has lay in wait for hour on end
and now seizes its chance once more

Where y'at? Where y'at? Where y'at? Where y'at?

Busker

A foul shadow, of bliss and darkness
cast upon my feet, upon the windy tide
my heavy-lidded eyes upon the ebb
a hue of dread that flows so wide

I strum beneath the waves, so lowly
unblinking, a chink of metal falls
sensual vibrations echo through the ground
rain falls high past the mouldy walls

"oh, oh," I sing, shadows fall in mocking
I just stand, the rain so falls, seeking redemption
"Giz anoth!" the future calls, I scowl
the rain washes my boots, I end up with absolution

all over my boots, "sorry pal" he glances
absoluted absolutely everywhere, "no mind,"
I kick a stone, strum, "oh, oh" they hiss
I think of school, a life where I was once defined

A girl appears, a stroke of light, I strum harder
she catches me, she smiles, and the rain just now subsides
I hold her there, "oh, oh," she grins, a prick of life
I kick the coins shut, take my strumming, only now decide

Take her hand, she doesn't realise, doesn't see, still she smiles
As I grow to a building climax of life, she feels so small within me
On and further and faster and quicker we run to the edge of the waiting rain
then she stops, and I stop, and she smiles, and I frown, and she goes, and I strum.

Books I wan' read

Rule by Secrecy - Jim Marrs

Hyperspace: Scientific Odyssey Through Parallel Universes, Time Warps and the Tenth Dimension - Michio (Michlo? Michto?) Kaku

The 12th Planet: Book one of the Earth Chronicles - Zacharia Sitchin

...no prizes for guessing why

All in for two

A flushed bright upon my skin
a writhing dusk gives way to night
and all around me is a wild
and fantastic light
reaching from my top to chin

Appearing from the eerie dark
a voice, cutting, speaks out to me
illumed, princess, a tortured slay
he whispers and I spin to see
from glowing black there grows a spark

a knife edge, cuts me cool and deep
I don't cry out, instead I breathe
into the lowest of my depth
and keep it there to kick and seethe
when all good day is done, I sleep

He wastes no time, and pulls me close
a breath upon my softened skin
and strokes a slow hand from my brow
to nose to cheek and down to chin
of lust, a lethal, sealing dose

I bite down, holding in my scream
a row of teeth skim past my neck
my back takes heed and bucks on cue
he's careful but some sweat, a fleck
lands on the carpet staining cream

I feel the plush beneath my feet
a soft red sting upon my lips
he skews my judgement as I sway
and pulls the rope taut on my hips
the blood that flows flows oh so sweet

A growing pain of sweet surrender
basks in knowledge of my flaw
as his lips dust past my shoulder
tap, a light noise on the door
he speaks, and says you may up end her

I wake to dazzled darkness, then
a light upon my face again
I feel a soft weight on my hand
I lift my head out of the sand
My tasty little girl, you rise

I bite down on congealed blood
and swear my own royal decree
I'll clean you up, I'm whisked away
I wake again, and now I'm clean
The dirt is gone, the sin and mud

I tap away on a keyboard plane
a simmering heat from a distant land
blows past my face, the door swings wide
It's two o'clock, I need a hand
And there my life starts over again

Things just work, my life just is
I seek no wisdom, find no wise
I become, not I am, and it plagueth me
that far beneath my truth are lies
that I am what I become and conjugate to is

I am the third person, I am her
a thud upon the floor, a cut
and bleeding wound, it's where I'll be
a whore, a self-despising slut
and life will go past in a blur

And tomorrow it shall be the same
I'll take off my clothes and push my toes in the plush
and I say something then, and he'll take to my throat
and he'll say and he'll do and he'll cut and I'll blush
and the next day I'll rise, and be back in the game.

A Slow Start

A belt of stars across the sky
appears as suddenly as a life
as testament to a false belief
that rather than live we prefer to die
the light in my feet now gives way to night
and rolling clouds rumble in
as a sign of hope, and a silky sin

an old fool is no fool
if the old fool is old school
and a patch of a quilt stitched to a wall
fits not as a patch but answers a call
and given their patch in the skin of all
the question is not if patch makes whole


and the song 'he writes so incongruously'
is sung like a hymn, so religiously
in the manner of zealots
in the manner of false
and turned to by hopeless when failed by all else

and the first step is hardest, is longest, is worst
and followed by one, the another and three
and deep inspiration comes slow without haste
as if to say, 'no, i shan't be owned by thee'

and it gradually fades and it gradually ends
it slowly grows softer and beigely blends
and the deep dark soft morning on night still depends

and grammar is beaten and moulded, slept in
like a recalcitrant child on a friday, kept in

apparently women bow down to the wind.

Save the World

Dear friends,

The Prime Minister can now call the election any day, and many think
as soon he's finished at APEC he'll do just that. And when he does,
the gates of democracy will swing firmly shut.

That's because the Government has passed new laws closing the
electoral roll at 8pm on the very day the election is officially
called. So click here -- or forward this email -- to make sure that
you and everyone you know are properly enrolled:

http://www.getup.org.au/campaign/votingisthebestrevenge

Odds are, you're enrolled to vote -- but chances are you know someone
who isn't. What may surprise you is just how many people you know
aren't on the rolls. For instance, the Government recently admitted
more than a third of all Australians aged 18 to 25 are not enrolled.
That's a whopping 410,000 voters - four whole electorates' worth --
and we're only talking about young people.

To make matters worse, you're not informed if you've been taken off
the electoral roll for some reason -- such as if a piece of mail
addressed to you from the AEC gets returned to sender -- so many
people do not find out until they turn up on election day, only to be
denied their vote. You may not be enrolled right now, and not even
know it. You can check your enrolment status here.

http://www.getup.org.au/campaign/votingisthebestrevenge

Your fellow GetUp members have been out in force, holding enrolment
drives around the country to fill the gap these changes will create.
We've even launched a TV ad on V and MTV ("Make Your First Time
Special") encouraging young voters to get on the rolls.

Click below for your one-stop enrolment shop - whether it's checking
your own enrolment status, signing a petition to reverse the changes,
or making sure everyone you know is enrolled.

http://www.getup.org.au/campaign/votingisthebestrevenge

With all that's at stake in this election, let's all have our say.
Forward this email to everyone you know, because once the election is
called it will be too late.

Thanks for making it happen,
The GetUp team

PS: Our APEC climate change petition is almost at 100,000 Australians.
There's still time to put your name here.

Far Out Week

My messy baby
he lands all over the floor
when i'm not looking
maybe i'm poorer
for not looking
anymore
but my messy baby
when he lands all up on the floor
he waits for me to bathe him
'til he ain't no mess no more.

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?

Our 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.

A long cold winter

In 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.

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.

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:

LOL thats massively kewl! LOLZ u rok girlf! LOL!

the squips of red rather disconcerted me. I reconsidered with a rather more conservative 'laugh out loud!'.

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.

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.

Four, my complete failure in French. I think no more needs be said on this matter.

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.

Sixth is my unnerving desire to insure my new car, along with my echinaceal love of good health and painfreeuninterruptedmovement.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

For now c'est tout.

It lurks, there. Il n'ya plus.

I

J'éspere
mais aussi je sais
mes mots, ils sont rien
sans sentiment
parce que pour savoir les autres
on doit savoir lui-même
lui-même?
chépas.

II
I just don't
I need to express myself over boundaries and lines
and it all sounds so self expressive
I can't take that I out of it

III
He liked to hide in words
Sneak behind them and peek out
Jumping de langue à langue
she'd corner him
there he would go leaping
'why do you cry at night?'
'on doit! on doit!'
why does he run
over there he goes
from behind dark lidded eyes he surveys
eyelashes curl up from the fire within
an acrid smoke, spiralling high above him
like signals to a power who might save him
I am here I need salvation
he, saying why can't I finish anything
he, running out of the dark house
he, crying to loosen the pain in his heart
he, with death on his lips
falls upon the step of his église
Padre comes to him
quietens him
she comes to him, wiping away his death with her sleeve
she says, I am come for you, I fall for you
he lips the salt from his lips
tells her of his love, his life
spilling in an hour long narrative
Padre brings some soft bread for him
and he eats, thick mucus washed down like easy poison
and she sits upon her knees and listens
her yellow polka dot dress twined round her knees
and his disquiet is gone
she holds him to her breast
je t'ai compris toujours.

IV
A small wind
blew on the path
I crossed him
he told me of far lands
and his blood
settled on my face
a thin brown film
he washed down a drain late that night
to travel again to far lands
far away

V
She sat on a wall
and kicked the moss
the thick blanket of night lifting slowly from the land
she breathed out thick air
words in her mind
thoughts as dark as the night
now repealing its reign
she pulls off her mask
and drops her life before making her way home.

Dear Torts

Due to popular demand, and also at gunpoint, I am to paraphrase Jai, 'airing' my torts poem.

And all the while my thoughts harke'd back
to torts; the best, and not contract
for though contract may well be clever
torts will have my heart forever
- Tom, despondent Torts lover

A long and squalid love affair
did with dear torts; dear Thomas share
disapproved by one and all
torts and Tom did still stand tall

and weathered all the fronts, alone
they faced the crowds with back and bone
embodied in a book? may be
but love for torts was dear Tom's glee

they journeyed high and journeyed low
until one day, behold and lo;
the end of the semester came
and with it tests; exams, and shame

and here this torrid love affair
did end in gloom and deep despair
for though in those weeks, Tom had grown fond
torts, poor thing, could not respond

the days were tough, the days were long
and still this love beleagured Tom
but torts was actually quite in glee
for now it was best friends with - Rosie!

Hehe yay productive law units!

what a story, martine. i wish i could think, like you.

Today, I am going to blog without *as much* pretext - mostly this, to tell you that there will be no pretext.

Because I saw something. And quite truly it isn't every day that one sees something - that you remember - that - when you see it - you say, 'yes, yes, tomorrow I will remember this' and then tomorrow think, 'I remember this' and so it goes until it's in your memory and you don't remember where it came from. yes, so it goes. I remember it, even now! Even though it was only Wednesday that I saw it, I remember it like it was yesterday, and even though it kind of was, it seems like longer, and I feel prouder that I remember.
There, in the bush. I was in the car. I wasn't driving, mum was. Down southish. Looking out the window, off the beaten track, near a dam. Very few people around. Bush echoed my song for 4 seconds. Maybe, 5pm? Something nearing duskish. I was just sitting and looking. And then I'm thinking, if the world moves it's tilt every day, if every we move just a little more away from the sun towards winter, everyday the sun must shine differently, be it centimetres, metres, incomprehensible difference to the human capacity for understanding. It must. It just has to. There to my left is a tree. It's only a little one, not high, not old. And it's there and it's alight. The sun is shining on it, it's like it's in it's moment, this is the glory moment for this little tree. Any earlier, and the sun would have been at a different angle and shining on other trees around it, any later and the light would have faded. This is it. This moment in time. Any other day, the sun may well have moved, changed, the tilt might have set it off. This one day, this one time, this is the glory time of this tree, and I am there seeing it. This wave of thought, just engulfs me and I can't get out - I think, if I hadn't been here to see this, this tree might not get it's dues. Then, what would it be? A tree? No one would ever know it's glory, it's story. It would just be a tree. It wouldn't have the capacity to know that it had once been something, had it's heyday, shone, like no other tree in the forest, when all other light had gone. It wouldn't know - I wouldn't know - and the world would be a worse place for no one knowing of this beauty.

And I despaired that everyday, this happens, that the world gets worse as beauty happens and is, and no one ever knows, or tells it's story. And it's the stories that keep us coming back for more.

Buckle up.

The Song of Winter:

Map of the Problematique
: Muse

Get it. Listen to it. It is the song of the season. Winter 2007 - it will echo with Muse.

Directing you to...

Read the blog entitled "The Story of My Dream about Matthew Bellamy.' from www.myspace.com/eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeemo (there should be 23 es there)

c'est enchantant.

IT'S AMAZING.

I LOVE HIM/MY DREAMBOX.

Viszy

Vistessa was bonafide Italiano
Italiana? She wasn't sure. Did it matter?
She prided herself on her meticulous hair
her dark red nails and dark black hair
she flaunted her dark brown skin
and locked herself away in her dark black soul
today she was dressed in a long green dress
that dripped to the floor
sticking to her like honey making its slow descent with gravity in tow
it shimmered in the remaining light of the day
every nuance of her body seen
she is no shrinking violet
engimacy never came easily
she stands out amongst the drab workers
trudging home from work
she notes how many mumble to themselves
recasts her lipstick
her gavelstick declaring them crazy
she arrives at last at her story
she checks her reflection innocuously
Vistessa, you are ravishing
she glances around self-consciously
then pouts her red lips
the mirror melts for lust
her dripgreen dress flutters slightly as the
cool breeze of night begins to blow
she pulls her shawl up to her shoulders
lights a fad
draws from it a single breath
mumbles quietly to herself about life
its cruel realities
she leaves a red ring on the cigarette
no, viszy, no!
Alfonso is lost
she looks over her shoulder
leaning against the bridge
and looking out over the mucky river
its water lapping at browning banks
the smell of frying onions disturb her grooming
my, I am hungry!
The dusk sky is making way for night
the star in the middle of a yellowblue sky
reminds her
she opens her bag and applies her parfum
no woman is complete without her scent!
Alfonso is not coming, but she does not know
the trickle of workers slows
she straightens her dark hair
a vivid picture against the greying city skyline
a stripe of colour, or life, de vivre
She admires the little dog sniffing her red shoes
In a slow zoom-out, she is all alone
Combing her hair, straightening her dress
what is she? but an image of nothing
she prides herself - on what? her black soul
charred by years of careless lovers
keen to fuck
quick to leave
Vistessa, you do not learn
Alfonso had his two cents, wants a girl with more
with what? I don't know. not what she's got, anyway
Vistessa, a lonely figure on a suburban footpath
content because she does not know
mumbling to herself like a crazy
feeling the need to fill in all the gaps opening around her
her chatter continues to cover the silence
she reapplies her eyeshadow
and waits a few minutes more.

You've a long way to go yet, son.

While sweeping, the rough bristles picking out dirt from the grate, a certain sense of self-disengagement present in the kitchen, I made a startling discovery. People thought differently of me than I thought that they thought of me. I was also glad of instant deletion, the image of a typewriter, in which one's thoughts may solidify on the page before being able to be deleted, frightening me. I was glad for this distraction.

"You're innocent. You have an innocent face. "

I stop sweeping. Innocent? I think that's the first time I've been called innocent. I've been called crazy, impulsive, Arabic, even kind, but never innocent. Never innocent. And the thing is, I can feel these thoughts making slow sense in my head, a sleepy, meandering narrative. I'm making this into a story as I think it.

"I'm sorry - innocent?"

"Yes."

"Like in the way a crooked cop looks innocent on the stand of his mate, crooked judge?"

"What?"

"How?"

"How what?"

"How am I innocent?"

"Well, you don't look guilty."

Therein lies the existential problem. It wasn't that I was innocent, it was that I wasn't anything else readily identifiable.

*

Why big and small. Why not something else?

*

"You're funny."

"Why?"

"You say strange things that I don't get."

That's it. That's why I am. Because I do, and they don't get. Funny that.

The fire is on house

The fire is on house!
we saviour a need!
alas, door we should the open
smoke will the cometh

we options ourselves no leave
if we soul our devil to the sell
and in so doing
soul our give forever

if we hope our lose
and in the stand of face; tyranny
and simply aside move
we options no death but leave

life of death
liberty of death
love of death
us of death

and thus we goodbye our say
to believed that we all
to loved that we all
to live that we all

but if we soul our give;
to the say we man
'we this way it want'
maybe we it survive can.