fragments

__Thy firmnes drawes my circle just,
____And makes me end, where I begunne.

______John Donne





i have a body on my mind. fire too. i have half a cold so half my face is occupied with that. women's feet. the sound of the beach. cars passing. i can't even focus when i drive. my vision seems to constantly blur so i see orbs of light. yellow. red. flickers. headlights. streams of colour. nighttime driving is turning into a Kandinsky. an impromptu. slender waists. fingertips. i like kissing hands. the sound of cars disturbs me a little. i am never quite comfortable with it. i need to sleep. several days worth. i need a haircut. to shave. to not move. to contract back into my own skin- i'm delocalised right now. simultaneously at 3Beans Coffee, reading in the dim streetlight, standing at the beach under the heavy blacksheeted ghost of night, in my car driving from nowhere to nowhere, sitting on my couch staring at computer screens trying to type something, i'm alleverywhere. everyone i know is with me right now.


*___*___*

it's May 1st. i think DM Stith's Heavy Ghost is undoubtedly going to win my album of the year. nothing can come close. the piano bass octaves of the Pity Dance- i wail and stumble around my room like a too-thin rake of a man dreaming narcotic dreams and thrusting his hips towards his miserable finitude that led him there in the first place.


*___*___*

and ankles. and tensed abdomens reacting to my lips and uneven exhalations. and winter edging its way into my life. and jackets which feel soo heavy and uncertain on my body. tea, which after three sips nags the back of my throat. somewhere mountains exist. somewhere there is greener grass. somewhere there is a less lonely world that makes less lonely sense. of course there is. (and firm hands around thighs, and long necks with hair alleverywhere in the way) also carousels. things that go round and round. satellites. tides. pocket-watches. menstrural cycles. prophetic cycles ending in apocolypse.


*___*___*

i need some respite from motion. _ _ _ _ _ where is your lap for me to sleep in? if nothing else you held still. played with my hair. didn't complain. let me disappear a little while. (and some distance from sound. space must be soo silent).


*___*___*

and faces pulling back away from you- the wetness of your last kiss highlighted in the lamplight of its chin. the origin of centripetal motion is always lips pulled back away. and grass that's sharp and scratches at your elbows that prop you up as you try to read. and moons tipped sideways like a half-full bowl of milk. a semicircular piano key. those aged pianos that sit in aged homes. my first piano had a vine growing besides it. i would blur my eyes and think of it as a still-alive tree. growing. my playing would feed it. i loved to see it grow. the scale of C major worth a millimeter or so. the F major episode of Fur Elise worth a whole inch. climbing plant, grow up this trunk. meet my fingers. i hoped one day to finish the Greatest Show on Earth - the last song in the book - and feel the cold damp touch of a green fingertip meet mine. (even then i went nuts if no one held my hand for too long). and the bony protuberances of wrists. and elbows. and clavicles. and the sound of ice in half-full glasses of soda water. and loud obnoxious music that you'd like to pretend isn't happening by covering your mouth with someone else's. (and breasts under three layers of clothes).


*___*___*

i will be in Adelaide soon. where things always stand soo firm. soo still. nothing changes. i will drink coffee at Cibo. tea at the T-Bar. i will call people who will be busy, or who will not pick up. others will. and i will see them and the cranberry juice with lime in my hand after three sips will dry-out my mouth, which will scratch and slow my speech.


*___*___*

there is nothing to say. and cars that are too warmed by the sun all day. that heavy, saliva feel of the air in sun-warmed cars. and the blur of lights as i drive home too late in the evenings. the mixed messages of my smiles. belly buttons my fingers recede into. black nail-polished toes in my hands. knees in my hands. thighs in my hands. moths tapping against windows always get my attention. that music that makes you want to run head-first into a wall. i signal. the CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK with the matching light in my dashboard. hands around necks. fingers in mouths. those massive huge breaths we exhale all over each other- such beautiful air- to know it's come from some darkest spot inside of you. i arrive home. they've left the lights on for me. the car stands still. the music stops. it is too still. too silent. i cannot handle such insignificance.

please rescue me from myself.