I’m having a closing sale
Take whatever you need
I’m always willing to concede for you
Lonesome pathetic and open to your rhetoric and
Constantly waiting on you
I’m ok with waiting for you
Whatever you want me to do
I said I’m having a closing sale
Take whatever is left
I swear my doors are closing soon
Sick of selling the feeling of feeling bereft
To whomever bought my soul,
the self I met on a city road
somewhere north of Tasmania
trampled under snakeskin
resurrected by reflection
dressing in various states of mania
receiving infidelic accusation
climbing fences
to to escape condemnation
getting lost
in sexual mistranslation
but you said–
I never said that
you assumed it
chasing delusions
on the harbourside
held up by translucent
validation
temporary like you spent
300 dollars a gram
to be assured that
we are Somebody
climbing over and under
somebodies
trying to find something
in nobody
bruised shins
pale-faced contemplations
self-esteem in a bag
echoing of
“I don’t think I can swing it”
that’s okay
I think I’m having another episode
I haven’t seen that one yet
don’t spoil the ending
the finale
is disappointing
the end of the line
on christless trains each Sunday
see-through dresses
bender glasses
opaque motives
clear as day
bathroom consummations
nonmonogamous complications
coming out of the cracks
to ask
what’s the matter
pieces of yourself
left down Parramatta
picked up at bus stops
dropped off
in letter boxes
new beginnings
left in rubbish bins
graffiti artist rapists
receiving congratulations
with documentaries
a series of good men
exchanged for things
we’ll never need
frontmen at dead ends
guitarists left with no friends
and no receipts
aren’t we all getting a bit old
for involuntary withholding
I know I am
biannual hospitalization
on the market again
dotted lines signed
with ripped out IV’s
impatient faceless nurses
saying
miss would you sit down please
for how many more years
can we handle more of these
runways and airplanes
stairways and balconies
where nothing fits
nobody fits
but we’re all having some of it
crossed-over proboscises
in constant need for more of it
will you remember Me
excuse my slang
I’m relearning the language
sorry miss
just have a seat
there’s a surcharge
for emotional baggage
I want to reach Carnival with you
an act not to be taught
but a visceral truth
A ghost that we’ve both
always held on to
our newlywed skin
pulled apart too soon
Let’s throw aside outside diatribes
and embrace mésalliance
romanticised
The perfect match
if your desire
is to set them aflame
and to set us on fire
I want to untame the profane in you
to abandon constraint
and the pain we knew
and replace, with persuasion
for this monstrous occasion
their all-being, all-seeing God of
damnation
They’re the saints of “should do,”
not “want to” but with you
we’d descend to the depths
and say Hades’ is ours too
Lost in Heaven and Earth
as we made these our refuge
united as one
for the things we have done
and all the things
that we have yet to do
When we’ve discarded with ease
their formalities
and denied their common
pleasantries
and it’s plain to see
that we shall receive
not rectitude
then I will concede
to the need of the flesh with you
and lose our heads to the greed
as they’ve said we do
and find them in bed
with another use
to use our tongues
as though we are one
for words not to speak
and to speak not the truth
If Carnival is realised new
as you and me
and judgment too
then it could be for no more use
than pleasure’s own ineptitude
to falsify and whisper lies
that fate will not be actualised
and consequence
from here on hence
will never now be exercised
Seas away
(Say it again)
a frozen flame
I’m making you up in my head again
Free today
(I heard you say it)
come morning I’ll be yours again
living one day ahead
What was it that you said?
Say it
Just say it again
I’m a grotesque realist
(isn’t that what you said?)
the unhinged artist
painting caricature
of every day
you wake up next to her
(Did you say it again?)
Distorted, unnatural
whispered under snow
So what was it that you said
that you said I should know?
Say it again
When I replay it behind my eyes
I’ll change the words just a little tonight
just enough to whet the appetite
of that person living
one day ahead say it again
I’ve got an overrated habit
of making the makers
late for their flights
And it’s hard to understand it
why I’ve built the stories of my life
balanced
on conquest
Acting with the actors
and my accent
calls for refinement
running lines with lyricists
that call for realignment
3 stars
Red penned marks
Critics calling for an end
before it even starts
You’ve got an enigmatic habit
of being the one
confiding in canvas
revealing what we’ve done
And it’s hard to understand it
with constant
interruption
Curtains rise with
sunrise
Alarm clock corruption
And the shakers are late
for their flights
Again
Overhead, overheard
writing songs in their heads
This is going to be
your number one
The tap, tap, tap of metal on metal, the grating sound of jackhammers, filtering through the windows and into my head. It is 5am. My brain is carbonated, floating and fizzling, triggered by noise and fed by sleeplessness. Morning light intrudes, slithering in through closed curtains, uninvited.
I cover my head with a pillow, forced to listen to my own heartbeat. It labours in time with the hammer. I count my breaths in tens, slow, hoping the rhythm will serve as distraction. One, two, three, four, five…eleven. Start again. One, two, three, four…fifteen. Too far, start again.
Two men are coming at 7am. They need to fix the leak in my wall, again. Every morning, I watch from my bed as it drips, staining the plaster. It seeps into the carpet, darkening; it trickles into my mind, darkening. Eventually, it slows and drains, but the dampness, the smell lingers—until another rain. They have been here twice already before. One, two, three, four…
It is 6am. The ceiling hurts my eyes. I have to sleep before they arrive. I have been awake for a day. For two days. For one day. I count the hours, I count the minutes, I count my breaths. I count myself out. Sleep is not coming. It has left me behind. It is outside with the jackhammers it is building a wall it is coming to fix my leak.
Vibrating joins the sounds in my ears. It is beside me. It has found me in bed. It slipped through the windows with the sunlight; it is here. It is my phone ringing. I do not recognize the number. Someone has died. I have been fired. Someone is trying to sell me life insurance. I have answered the call.
“Hi, good morning.”
Silence.
“…Are you a tenant of unit 64?”
Yes.
“I spoke to your partner earlier. I’m calling about the leak. We’re going to have to reschedule for another day. Is next Tuesday okay? Same time?”
Same time. I hang up. My phone hits the wall and ricochets. The jackhammers laugh and grow louder. I can feel them in my chest.
It is 7am.
*
Every surface of the bathroom is clean, new. It shines offensively, reminding me that I cannot afford my rent. A washing pain fills my insides. Sleep deprivation has sat itself in my stomach. I lurch forward and heave, hanging my head above the toilet: nothing. I force my fingers in my throat—something: stomach acid ejects itself into the toilet and settles on the water. I rest my weight on the seat and use my fingers to brush my hair from my face, leaving a trail of saliva behind. A surge of water flushes harsh against silence. I struggle to rise, resuming my hunched posture over the sink. I brush my teeth too hard and watch as blood swirls down the drain.
A t-shirt, not mine, hangs off one shoulder. My long hair is matted, my cheekbones too present, my reflection too vivid. It stares back at me, cavernous behind its eyes. Resentment. It hasn’t slept in three days. Two days. One day.
*
I sit at the back of the bus. My temple is pressed against the window, the motor’s vibrations sending tremors through my skull. I stream past new apartment complexes that look exactly like mine. I wonder if their walls leak too.
The woman beside me smells of cotton candy and sweat. Her fat hands struggle to balance lipstick and mirror. A phone is crushed between her shoulder, neck rolls, and ear. I watch the dry skin on her lips struggle to adapt to the grotesque movement of her mouth. She is unaware of the volume of her voice or the size of her ass.
“I might be 15 minutes late. No, not ‘again,’ there’s traffic. Well, that’s not my fault, is it? Tell him I can’t know what he’s thinking.”
I can’t know what he’s thinking. She fumbles with her lipstick, dropping it lidless onto the floor. I watch as she struggles to connect limb to destination; her stomach rolls greet each other with disgusting familiarity. I look anywhere else, remembering the stomach acid flushed earlier. Every face around me wears the same expression; their beige features sag downwards toward their muted business casual.
I can’t know what they’re thinking.
Do they realize the bus smells like urine? Are they replaying last night’s missionary sex in their heads? Do they know that if you do enough cocaine, your semen tastes like chemicals?
A baby is crying. Its face turns red with the effort of its cries. I wish it would suffocate and I do not feel guilty. I put in my headphones, the music barely masking each intrusion.
It is 9am.
When I get to work I write an article about degenerative eye disease for people who will never read it.
I
You’re a razor blade beneath a peak
a fatal-blow bad habit
You’re a good-looking guillotine
an advocate for contravene
You’re a nosebleed in the lower seats
a slow-acting affliction
You’re a sunset at a morning mass
a backstage party without a pass
Your upper hand is my rock bottom
I’m the one but you see double
the Greek countdown to your Roman numeral
But we all pay attention at a funeral
———————–
II
I’ll ride your mind
because you know better
than I
fill your head with
whatever gets you off
at night
wear you out
like a second skin
wondering if you’re wondering
if I’m still sitting
figuring
if I could ever
figure
you out
You’re a libertine
that there’s no breaking down
an inbetween
So I’m rethinking
how
I allowed this
to take up the better side
of my mind
I’m preoccupied
but you know this
so I suppose it’s
only right to
control it
to avoid casualty
if that’s what
you need
if only the
focus
remains in
the sheets
So I guess what I mean is
I will try
to accept your
ceasefire
but inside both our heads
when we retire
to bed
I can promise
Hellfire
If ever you decide
that that’s what
you want
Instead
The room is dark but for the lamplight swinging overhead. There is no draft, so maybe it’s my eyes, swinging, swaying. But I’m sitting, so maybe it’s my mind, leaving, straying?
(So you can’t sleep?)
My eyes sting. My hands shake. The grains of the desk, stained red, flow like rivers, branching towards me, seeking escape. They are veins, spilling towards me, trying not to bleed. Across, a neck is sat inside a white collar, sat above a nametag, but there is no face. I see a bright light stained where features should be. I watch as hands appear and scribble before me. The nails are dull, clipped and cleaned, clinically. I think that’s what they’ll do to me.
The tearing of paper echoes through my head like muscle peeled from bone. A hand reaches towards me under shadows, changing shape as the ceiling sways and swings, swings and sways. What are they offering? Paper. I know it is meant to cut my skin. Our hands touch. They are cold. Why can’t I see their eyes? Why can’t I see their claws? I know that they’re there.
I look down at the script in my hand but the words shake and the ink doesn’t stay. The Z, the O, the P- run downwards as the scenery around me fractures: two pens become four, four certificates eight. Two hands become more. But still no eyes. Only teeth, and they part:
(So you can’t sleep?)
No, I can’t sleep. Have I said this before? Or was that in my head? Did they hear this before?
(So you can’t sleep?
So you can’t sleep?
So you can’t sleep?)
The voices are booming. They fill up my ears. They fill up my head. My chair is confining and digs into my bones. I have seen their teeth. I can see their claws, no longer clipped, no longer clean. I can see the blood that they missed. It is on their nametags; it is on their hands. It is in their pens. It is the ink on my paper. It is the ink I saw run I saw run I saw RUN. I cannot stay long enough to see their eyes.
(So you can’t sleep? We’ve got something for that.)
Take one everyday and be sure to come back.
It’s diurnal darkness
a silage left trailing the night
It’s a touch hard to part with
its traces sunburned by the light
It’s shadows enlightened
rays judging the sweat on our skin
It’s buttons up, tightened
Cover up so we don’t let it in
It’s conscience collected
discarded, abandoned before
It’s the day resurrected
and the twilight that promises more
I
Your heart on my heart
and they’re killing time
Your beat parallels death’s
and it’s matching mine
We pull and
we hang
like we’re intertwined
Guilty like the
Gallows’ sparrows
II
You know you need your demon
and you know how he tastes
It’s bitter yet sweet,
you let none go to waste
As it dries on your lips
and it slides down your throat
you know you need your demon
just to keep you afloat
He grabs at your mind and
you think he might steal it
but you let it tear off
because at least
you can feel it
You know you need your demon
set behind your dead eyes
need the glint and the fire
but he won’t empathize
He knows that you need him
and he waits in the glass
He might be at the bottom
but he left you for last
You know you need your demon
and he can’t be erased
he stole all of your words
and wrote them on your face
frommadness 