So, there once was a time when people went ballistic over emails. They were faster to send than posting - you know that physical mail that used to go in a box OUTSIDE your house that you had to walk to get to? - and they were free. It made posting a letter more personal because more time and energy is put in to it, apparently. But along came the txt message. For half the price of a real letter and just as fast you could send a letter - well they were once limited to 125 characters per 25c, so more like a note - from your hand and into the pants pocket of your friend, with a little buzz on the sex organs as incentive to write back. Instant messaging, like think AIM and MSN, made the email look like it was in a paint-drying contest with real mail, it just couldn't send while a friend was offline - or too their pants. When the social networking craze started, myspace dominated to contacting-your-friends world. Your parents couldn't intervene as they would if they were in charge of your phone, it was free (again), and people checked it.. unlike email inboxes which, by then, were only checked by some rich fucks I guess; important people still checked emails. Then a swarm of similar site were spawned and facebook introduced 'the status' concept. This didn't do much for contacting friends until twitter figured they would skip the whole profile jibber jab and have people connected by a head with a speech bubble, bassically. This almost eliminated the need for any form of contact since if you followed your friend and they followed you, you both know what you are currently doing, what you did all day, and what you're going today later, or tomorrow, or next month. Now, everything is kind of done a roundabout on itself. Emails are entwined with the messaging system on your social networking site, status' link with twitter and anything similar (and vice a versa) which all have embedding options to your emails, websites, profiles and comments, so everything can know anything in any fucking way. Not to mention it's ALL transmitted by phones now and messages are free for a majority of plans. There's no way your balls, or female counter-parts, will ever stop getting aroused as you're bombarded by vibrations for every email, txt message, IM, notification, like, poke, wall post, vid/pic comment, calendar event and even - wait for it - a phone call! That's right, phones can still make voice calls! Of course if you used skype on your mobile you probably don't pay a cent for them either, with the plus of seeing your caller touch themselves, not leave it up to your imagination accompanied by puffs and moans through the earpiece.. what, where were we? The landline/mobile/voip/skype issue is a whole other interesting ramble, so let's not go down that route that inevitably ends up with phone sex being tenfold what it used to be. All in all, it's pretty weird to think that witch each step something became the new form of 'personal' since it took longer, now everything takes the same time to send and gets checked the same amount and all ends up with each other so there's no way to check one thing without seeing everything else, like a porn; there's a big vagina on the screen but you gotta look at some filthy balding weirdo fuck it too - too much porn will make you go bi! Oh, I almost forgot: where does this leave mail. Like, the real one. How personal is that shit now? Is it like a marriage or something, bills all come to phones too so does anyone even check mail boxes anymore. Come to think about it, do they even exist? Everything I have sent is a box or parcel anyway so I have to pick it up from the post office, after a txt and email telling me it's arrived. I might write myself a letter so my letter box feels loved.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Sex, drugs, and kareoke.
June 11/12:
It came time that Ivo, Steve, and Tess needed to leave; There's more work around Sydney at this time of year than Cairns. It was sad parting ways with three Germans I had spent my last weeks living with. Since Steve and Tess were a couple it meant Ivo and I kindled a closer - and often times funny - friendship, unhindered by the small language barrier. My poor ability to retain any of the German I was learning meant one sentence became the butt of most jokes; Ich kann nicht so gut deutsch! Sebastian, another German, and I were the only two left in our 6 bed dorm, but we had Molly for company that afternoon because she didn't like her hostel.
From Canada, she had met us through a friend of mine: see, when I was in Byron Bay I met Lisa-Marie, from Melbourne. Back home she said she envied that I could go where I wanted and I told her she could too, that she should just book a flight to meet again in Brisbane the following weekend, and she did. She ended up heading to Airlie Beach where she met Molly because they both had jewelery from Byron Bay (it turned out they were there at the same time) and became friends. A week or so later Lisa-Marie came to Cairns, I had told her it was nice here and she checked in where I stayed. Molly was in Cairns and ended up hanging out with us more than her own travel partners, and Lisa-Marie flew back to Melbourne on the 10th of June.
Molly, Sebastian, and I went to dinner with two other Germans, Henrik and Marian, where we got in the mood to drink. We remembered there was a 4lt cask of wine and a bunch of sky-blue vodka's in the fridge, generously left behind anonymously at the hostel so we went back to drink. By then, two girls from the U.K. had joined our room - the one with a single sea-horse on the door - I said Hi, introduced myself, then left them to it as they had recently got in and were heavy with jet-lag. I headed to the top porch to join the others, the five of us soon became nine after I had asked an Irish hairdresser along with a guy (I'm unsure but I think he was French, though he looked middle-eastern at first glance) in her room to join us. Then an English girl with a Scottish guy emerged from the kitchen after a series of banging and joined us too.
My phone sent shivers up my leg, and my eyes sent ache to my heart when I read it was Hannah calling. Hannah is my idea of perfection: we see clearly on topics that matter and disagree on small things that don't, our sexual needs are matched in the right way to be fantastic and disjointed enough to keep things interesting, I get inspired by her passion for children and plants while she gets inspired by my love of arts. I could read poetry of my own, written in her bed in her absence, and she would listen; I would listen back when she read her favorites from Keats and Yeats. If not for her, I may never have read Wilde's The Harlot's House, but She smiled whenever I rambled on about that poem or went in depth about La Dispute's Old Storms for Older Lovers. I smiled whenever she rambled on about nothing or went in depth about sex and her sometimes uncontrollable libido. She admired my jawline and the shaggy beard I was growing the duration of our affair, I was addicted to her body, her hair, her puppy-dog eyes and her pussy. Her genuine smile always comforted the cracks in my broken mind and she knew it, embraced me with understanding and love, sucked the same out of me with every kiss. I hadn't found love like that in years. So why am I speaking of her in past-tense? That's a good question.
I was visiting Byron to see my mother and old friends. I had the chance to re-kindle friendships I was at fault for breaking and had a good time hanging at Julian's with everyone, but it wasn't those friends I intended to be in Byron for, they just proved to be truer than the friends I used to hold dear and knew long before those I mentioned. Friends who all proved to have moved on from friendship, but it wasn't that they had moved on - they hadn't moved anywhere. It was me. I had moved across the country, I had moved across my mind. I had grown out of that town, I had grown up from the high-school drama's that still surround most of my old friend network. I couldn't give a fuck who fucked who or who said what - but they all did and I was just trying to live. My return, to them, was of importance in trivial areas that didn't matter, and of no importance in area's that did matter - like length of friendship and depth of care. Byron was so good in some ways, but I wasn't ready to stay, which contradicted Hannah who was happy and content where she was. I had something to do, I'm not sure what that is yet, but we both agreed it couldn't be done in Byron, I had to push on: fall in love with more people that don't love me back, break more hearts of my own, clock more miles, see more land, surf more waves, play more shows - get further lost in my own mind.
We talked for a while on the phone but I was distant, her voice reminded me of what I was running from and trying to block out. On one hand I couldn't bare to be reminded of the perfection and safety she could provide if I just ran back, on the other I couldn't bare to hang up on a voice that gave me courage that I was doing the right thing. I went to the toilet and talked, I got inspired to write again and hung up.
Apart from some additions to a conversation about the pointlessness of patriotism (which most at the table had been assured of after seeing a postcard with the whole of Europe, to scale, placed inside a map of Australia) I was quiet. I had been writing on a blank board in a picture frame, found in the bathroom where I was peeing and talking on the phone. When the board was filled I was asked to read it out:
With that, most people were satisfied with the night and headed inside. It was past midnight by then, only Sebastian and I wanted to go out. Molly needed to walk back to her hostel so she waited for us. I should note: the energy between her and I by this point was tense, a kind of flirtatious tense - sexual tension at it's finest. The last few days, when we'd found chances to chat here and there about rather deep topics we saw eye-to-eye on, there was something brewing, but I hadn't tested the waters. That night, through conversations with everyone and drinking, I dropped a couple suggestions that I knew no one else would pick up on, which were received by her pupils falling to the corners of her eyes closest to me - as if to ask "Was that what I thought it was?" and my for-this-second-you-don't-exist body language made her know all to well it was, and I could sense the corners of her lips curl in that tipsy/flirty way that usually resembles that of a smug smile. Sebastian showed interest to her openly in a fun, normal way that most people do when they are drinking with an attractive person of the opposite sex, so I didn't administer any form of competition, just let him have his fun while we all drank more and laughed, confident I had priority. When I felt it necessary I told Molly to suck my bottom lip, this way I could confirm - for both our sakes - that we wanted each other and uncover the covert operation we had going on to everyone else, she complied.
So.. everyone else was gone, the three of us had been talking a while and it was time to head off. I stood one step down from the porch and pulled Molly toward me with two fingers down her jeans, just far enough to be seductive and just high enough to be practical. We kissed. A subtle few kisses that spoke symmetry, mutuality, and lust. Sebastian broke our moment with a cry to push forward, I continued down the stairs unfazed as I was high on those lips and excited to be going out.
We all took sips from the goon-sack on the way in to town, I laughed a nostalgic chuckle with every step. My phone rang again, Samantha - my West Coast lighthouse. I talked a drunken dribble as we pushed further to town, my heavy feet tripped on the pavement which seemed to be gathering speed, so did every street and shop light that whizzed past in a blur. We came across an abandoned bike; Molly took a photo of Sebastian and I, Samantha still at hand, ecstatic about the find. My battery was dying so I sent my love through the phone to Sam, 6,000k's across the land.. where I wanted to be. The rest of the walk I was quiet, I was disjointed from the moment. I didn't want to be anywhere but the West, it was calling me; Playing shows with Vanity and Statues again, along with the emergence of fresh new bands like Mom Dad and the Kids, Foxes etc. - all part of a movement I can't stand not adding to. To many future friendships with the likes of Mike Dann, Ryan Finlay, Scott Kay and everyone else in Perth I seemed to click with in the last months before I left. I needed Jaxon Waterhouse in my life again. Brent, Kain, Chris, and Jaxson Martin - the band I left behind after we all grew slack with writing suddenly rose to the top of my list. Samantha; hearing that voice seemed to deteriorate any reason I had not to go back, not even the winter cold.
The Woolshed had a line around the corner, it was a Saturday night, and people dressed like pimps and hos swarmed about the streets; Gilligan's had a dress-up party that night with strippers and encouraged those who bought tickets to look the part. I pushed Sebastian's fruitful laugh up the street in a shopping trolley. We went to a quaint late-night bar where only three lads, they must have just hit 18, played snooker with their girls. The barmen cleaned glasses in a bored fashion with eyes that ushered us out in just ten minutes. Molly and I kissed farewell and she headed back to her hostel to get up early and go to Cape Tribulation for a night.
Sebastian smiled through the thick mousy-blond hair that framed his face, and a bright green jumper made his clean-shaven face radiate with youth. It was just the two off us against a city on a fire that was fueled by alcohol and drugs, the two of us hit out with an energy of our own; an Australian and a German, drunk on life and cheap wine. We came across Yanick, a German that was kicked out of our hostel a week prior. He was a tall, skinny young man with not a care in the world. He had a way with ladies that broke through his average looks, his wild hair, and is lack of style (he only had two football jumpers to wear out every night). A few days before this we were flicking through his camera after a night out, there was a series of shots from drinking games, the walk to town, then inside The Woolshed. Each picture had a gang of four french, five germans, and I - hanging from one-another in a disorderly mess. As the pictures progressed you could see our faces growing happier, drunker, and items of clothing being lost to the crowd of other severely drunk life-lovers.
There would have been a photo from every inch of the dance floor, from the top of every table we danced, and of every bar-girl that ignored our banter. Then there was a picture of Yanick dancing with a rather cute girl, petite and half his height. We began to roar in laughter as the photo's unfolded their story: a stumble through the crowd, a clash of shot-glasses, fucking in a cubicle with piss-drenched floors, and ending with her wrapped around the toilet-bowl, heaving. This is how Yanick rolled, he didn't have to use energy to find a girl, he just pushed through the night loving everyone and anything around him, then something always happened to him - for him.
He was wasted when we crossed his path, The Woolshed had already kicked him out. We ate potato wedges and every girl that went past he tried to make fall in love with Sebastian, who flailed shyly away every time. Then I was the victim, "Have you met Josh? He takes photo's," since I traveled with nothing musical, and no board to surf, this is how I was known - I needed something to fill the void of my true passions and that was my camera.
I spotted a beautiful dame, in purpose-ripped fishnet stockings flowing out from tight black short-shorts and in to the souls of the cutest flats. Her short, dark hair oozed minx, sex dripped from her long, glittery lashes - she must have come from Gilligans. Yanick threw me at her, I wanted her so I palmed him away. She was English, her stare read a mutual want so we both stood in silence, my gang behind edged to walk one way, hers trying to walk the other. My phone was dead, she had lost hers, I couldn't even give her a business card as they had been flung at prior girls thanks to Yanick. Our hovering made it evident we needed to see each other again. Her friend took my number, and Sebastian took hers which made no sense, even then, because her phone was gone but it didn't matter. We kissed a short goodbye and I said I hoped to see her again. I took in the glitter off her cheeks as she nodded, turned, and trotted away to catch her mates, long up the street. I really hope to find that beauty again.
I should have gone after, but the night seemed young and I wanted to push Sebastian through the clubs, and we did. We lost Yanick in P.J. O'Ryans, an Irish pub, after he forced Sebastian toward two girls. He followed through with it and bought a round of vodka on the rocks, I joined them and got talking. They said they were Irish, they were German. A drunken Australian, sick with paranoia, was hanging in my shadow. He was friendly enough, and said he could get weed off someone that was working there as long as we never met so I told him my background in Byron Bay, that he didn't need to worry about that. He thought everyone around was a silent - undercover cops - but strangely he had an inch of trust for my word, and told me to meet in 15 minutes on the other side of the bar. I didn't care much, though a smoke would have added a nice edge to a fun night if the girls fell through. I bumped in to an Irish guy that was staying at my hostel too, he could hardly stand after a series of strong drinks, one being an amount of spirits poured in to Guinness - an Irish equivalent of the Jagger-bomb. After a while we'd lost the girls, so I said we'd go walk round and find them with a detour past the old paranoid Australian, who set our amount and price and went to talk to the guy behind the bar. I realized Sebastian was nowhere around, saw the girls heading for the door, and I spied the man, who seemed to be nervously hovering round the bar, and I lost patience - the girls were a better option than a couple grams of bud so I intercepted them at the door way. They hadn't seen my friend either so we stepped outside, almost on top of him where he puffed a smoke. I almost reached out for a drag, but although I've been on a bit of a bender, I still have limits and can't dig cigarettes. It had just past the cutoff time to get in anywhere else, so I asked the girls if they had anything to drink at theirs, which they did. They were keen to party and Sebastian just stood, amazed at the ease in which things had been rolling forward. He was learning life, that everything flows and works it's way around you if you don't press too hard.
We walked some strange streets I'd not yet seen, the sights and sounds grew dull and slowly the faces of strangers we past changed from young, happy drunks to older, sadder dregs the city spat out years ago. We strolled the time of night that's almost reserved for homeless indigenous, lonely youths, and drug fiends who were once the latter. Now, outside the hub of tourists and bright lights, we were surrounded by a more truthful glimpse of Australia. The girls were used to this walk, and I was used to these kinds of areas that make up most the larger towns around the country. For my hostel-mate, it was different. He was used to his country village in Germany and popular areas of Cities, though his face was washed in a drunken courage I knew he was doubting our venture.
His spirits lifted as we got to the girls flat. They had scared us with stories of their home where they shared a room that cost $80 a week, basically nothing. Their flatmates were mostly junkies and the girls didn't use the lounge room at all because that was the shooting room too. When we arrived we were alone, all other doors were dead-locked, the house was cleaner than I had prepared in my head and I was happy to drink red wine 'till the sun came up. The TV played for a single, sad, seedy couch which harbored it's own story of drugs and despair. We drank in the kitchen and ate water-crackers, no one wanted any of the vodka. The girls had gone out that night because it was the blond's 27th birthday, they pulled a half-eaten cake out of the fridge for us which I declined and Sebastian devoured. He was interested in the brunette, she brushed the blood-red wine stains from her teeth and retired early with him close behind. Alone, I dripped hot candle wax across the blond's arm and pulled her shirt off, I wanted her to feel drips across her breasts but wax only splashed on the kitchen floor; I was too side-tracked by the breast in my lips and the nipple-bar I played with in my teeth, my free hand traced her spine.
Sebastian emerged from the room unlucky, his fortune had turned to a dead-weight on her half of the bed, barring him any fun. He seemed cool, a cigarette in his mouth suggested he was keen to step out which he did. My girl was only in pants by then, and we stood together trying to convince him to stay a while, he thought we were wishing him farewell. With a wink, he walked off in the night and I hoped he got back alright.
That awkward silence, which arises from nowhere the second two people know they are going to fuck, seemed to jump out at us and pull us through the bedroom door; a lack of imagination. I pulled out my wallet, phone, and keys to shove them deep in my shoes that were already off in the corner as I didn't know how detached I would get from them or how passed-out I might become and needed the knowledge that, if I needed, the only important things in my life right then I could grab with ease and run naked over the street in to the hospital - really, who knows what could have happened in that crack-den when anyone else woke up or came home?
My clothes seemed to peel themselves off atop my ripped and shaggy volleys, completing my run-package. I turned to the blond who was naked on the bed, her best friend seemingly dead like a limp package of girl at side. She started toward me but I rejected the motion with a hand, pushing her back on the bed with smut and lust dripping through a toothy grin - I needed this girl under my lead, I needed her to want what I wanted to give her, not take what she wanted from me. I bit her lips so hard her nails almost burst the skin of my back, her neck was victim to a series of kisses as I worked a trail to her thighs. A slight detour across her pantie-line, symbolic as she was unclothed, drove her wild and my cock mirrored the feeling with a pulse and seemed to doubled length and girth over a short number of licks. It was her waist, nothing drives me so wild as the thin of an hour glass figure - a button placed firm in the center of soft white hairs that pattern bodies when light hits the right way, when I can feel my finger tips kiss behind a back with just enough room between my thumbs for a kiss to the navel and my loins cry in agony, victim to desire. For an older girl, her skin was tight around her tiny frame, a lolette foot was in my palm as I rose her left leg upward and kissed down her calf, licking a stretch of thigh to follow with hot breath - a staple move to make most any vulva moist. My whiskers brushed just above her clit where my lips paved saliva, two fingers went inside to rub come-here motions on her G-spot as my kisses trailed up a new thigh. I let her hand pull my spare hand to her lips and felt her teeth pulse each time I fingerprinted the length of corrugated flesh that roofed her pussy.
I withdrew everything, my fingers and my lips, and jumped myself face-to-face with her and store eyes that spoke curiosity - she didn't expect I could handle her without her leading the way. After all, it was her birthday and she had entrapped a younger man, what she didn't know was at nineteen I had a 27-year-old in my life, a goddess to me then, who taught me the language of age. We would get high on tea and weed, make love under the spell of Angus And Julia Stone, and nothing else mattered.
My German beauty asked if I had a condom, I didn't. I acted uninterested in sex, saying I was just teasing, that we should move away from her friend who was now stirring in bed. We grabbed a mess of blankets and a camping roll, she grabbed a rubber and the last of the wine and we ran out the room to continue our party. The living room was lit by a still silent T.V. in front of the lounge, where I perched a foot and let my manhood drip, half aroused, between my legs while I waited for the blond to return. She had gone to the toilet; I had to laugh at the thought of one of her housemates choosing this moment to awaken. I was confident in my skin and prepared for an unexpected person to appear, I had so much wine in my belly that it wouldn't have phased me, I probably would have asked them to join regardless of looks or gender.
When she got back we kissed, she went straight to my cock and sucked harder when my fingers found her vagina, sucked harder still when my pinky found her ass. I took one last swig of wine and fell back-first to the blanket on the ground (the stained couch was out of the question), pulling her with. My fingers found a packet, conveniently, which seemed to rip with ease in one hand, and before she had both legs each side of me I was protected. I pulled her hips to mine in the same floor-diving moment; her eyes widened with my dick inside her. I let her ride to her own pleasure, she seemed to enjoy the role reversal and controlled my movements easily. I wet my thumb with her tongue and rubbed her clit with her own spit and juices for what seemed forever while I took in every sight and sound. The door frame was illuminated by a gentle dark-blue sky, her hair, knees, and shoulders caught the television glow which now played Skippy, The Bush Kangaroo (a creation of my great-uncle, but that's another story), which was a better replacement of the fitness infomercial that was on beforehand.
We had a mutual agreement that wasn't lost in languages, for I understood not a word she conveyed linguistically - I understood only what she spoke in the rhythm of her body, and that's all that mattered. The soles of her feet were planted by my hips now as she bounced in a crouch, and as I rose up into a sitting position, to kiss her lips, her chest compressed into mine with her arms wrapping me closer. I crushed her back with my own hug and jumped up and over, holding her close, laying her back against the tiles with her head against the wall. I administered my control and she seemed to surrender with that as one leg flailed trying to find a groove in the floor while I held the other up so her foot trod my left shoulder. I used the wall as support for one arm and drove myself to her hard, not once had I come out of her. She shook her head in disbelief but couldn't see me; her eyes had rolled back in her head. I had no idea what the word was she started saying, but she repeated it over and over, enforcing it with a true and defined stare through my eyes and in to my soul that read serious devotion to our dance.
I spun her leg past my face to flip her sideways while my move countered the action to get behind her; nothing matches the puzzle-fit of spoon sex. I had an arm around her, playing with a nipple-bar, and the other between her legs. While I rubbed her pearl she clenched my balls in one hand with my hair in another, her neck was twisted as her teeth grabbed at my bottom lip. There was a tattoo spread from her neck across her shoulder blade, toward her lower back: Black butterflies which had guitar-jacks for bodies [note: a jack is the end of an audio lead, in this case one that plugs in to the body of a guitar - my instrument of choice] and hovered over subtle flowers of the softest pink. I loved it, I fucked her with more energy and passion than I had all along, my stare affixed to that ink and her tight buttocks in my peripheries I just had to slap; a loud clap rang through the house with a moan for a chaser.
We eventually ended up in a staple doggy position. I had a hand of hair pulled back toward me and she reached back to pull me at her as hard as she wanted, I almost couldn't keep up. I released her hair and she fell forward, pressing her breasts to the ground with outspread arms like she was hugging the world. I'd curled my legs around her thighs and had them planted flat between here knees, a favorite position of mine as you can pull a body closer or further away without moving your hips. It did exactly what I wanted: I could fuck her harder with minimal effort, allowing me to catch my breath and finger her ass. She liked that. I liked that - I liked everything. Every drop of sound, every splash of light, every thrust, every moan, every word I couldn't understand - I dug it all. All my feelings of who I'd left behind and who I wanted to be with collided in my mind and dropped dead for a moment. Everything was still, though we were still fucking. Everything was silent, though we were both moaning. Everything was light, though darkness still engulfed most the room. We were cumming.
We became still, I held her there with my legs while everything I thought was dead rushed back in an instant, now ten times stronger. This wasn't where I wanted to be - by the bicentennial bells in Perth - and it wasn't the perfection of where I was in Byron, I was there inside a girl - that was that. I pulled out, the first time we had been separated for over an hour, and walked to the bathroom. I tied a condom full of rich white sperm and wrapped it in toilet paper to throw in the bin, the evidence of our act disposed. When I returned she'd got ready to sleep on the floor, she grabbed at my arms and pulled me down with a string of foreign words to convince me to do so - I was sure she sensed my reluctance. I saw those sweet eyes looking in to mine and smiled, I couldn't say no, what we shared was pure. She passed out flat, her cheek in the hairs on my chest, before I could put my number in her phone and I held her in my arms 'till it was light out.
I had to go.
I was drunk, I didn't want to meet anyone that lived there in my condition or floor-spread location so I crept out from under her, tiptoed my way past her friend in the other room, and slowly got dressed while my mind ran through everything that night. I came back to save my number in her phone, which was splayed on the floor before her, but I knew she wouldn't remember and would presume I just cut and run, not my style, so I sent myself a message. The lock was stiff on the old door and she woke to see me half way through my exit, it made my heart crumble enough to come back and kiss her half-asleep eyes before I left.
The walk home was in the nectar of life. I was more alive than I'd been for a while as every bird's morning chirp made me smile. The small amount of cars that passed my long walk home would surely have only just woken up to start a new day, unaware I was still longing for bed. With every step my life was further in perspective, 'till I got home. Sebastian's head was off the side of his bunk where his body was held by the safety rail, his young mind was sleeping off the night - I was glad he was there. The two U.K. girls stirred in confusion of my 7.30 A.M. arrival, which I ignored as I looked in the mirror and investigated the lines in my face that gravity had carved to remind me time was rolling on. All I could do was smile, climb in bed, and pass out.
It came time that Ivo, Steve, and Tess needed to leave; There's more work around Sydney at this time of year than Cairns. It was sad parting ways with three Germans I had spent my last weeks living with. Since Steve and Tess were a couple it meant Ivo and I kindled a closer - and often times funny - friendship, unhindered by the small language barrier. My poor ability to retain any of the German I was learning meant one sentence became the butt of most jokes; Ich kann nicht so gut deutsch! Sebastian, another German, and I were the only two left in our 6 bed dorm, but we had Molly for company that afternoon because she didn't like her hostel.
From Canada, she had met us through a friend of mine: see, when I was in Byron Bay I met Lisa-Marie, from Melbourne. Back home she said she envied that I could go where I wanted and I told her she could too, that she should just book a flight to meet again in Brisbane the following weekend, and she did. She ended up heading to Airlie Beach where she met Molly because they both had jewelery from Byron Bay (it turned out they were there at the same time) and became friends. A week or so later Lisa-Marie came to Cairns, I had told her it was nice here and she checked in where I stayed. Molly was in Cairns and ended up hanging out with us more than her own travel partners, and Lisa-Marie flew back to Melbourne on the 10th of June.
Molly, Sebastian, and I went to dinner with two other Germans, Henrik and Marian, where we got in the mood to drink. We remembered there was a 4lt cask of wine and a bunch of sky-blue vodka's in the fridge, generously left behind anonymously at the hostel so we went back to drink. By then, two girls from the U.K. had joined our room - the one with a single sea-horse on the door - I said Hi, introduced myself, then left them to it as they had recently got in and were heavy with jet-lag. I headed to the top porch to join the others, the five of us soon became nine after I had asked an Irish hairdresser along with a guy (I'm unsure but I think he was French, though he looked middle-eastern at first glance) in her room to join us. Then an English girl with a Scottish guy emerged from the kitchen after a series of banging and joined us too.
My phone sent shivers up my leg, and my eyes sent ache to my heart when I read it was Hannah calling. Hannah is my idea of perfection: we see clearly on topics that matter and disagree on small things that don't, our sexual needs are matched in the right way to be fantastic and disjointed enough to keep things interesting, I get inspired by her passion for children and plants while she gets inspired by my love of arts. I could read poetry of my own, written in her bed in her absence, and she would listen; I would listen back when she read her favorites from Keats and Yeats. If not for her, I may never have read Wilde's The Harlot's House, but She smiled whenever I rambled on about that poem or went in depth about La Dispute's Old Storms for Older Lovers. I smiled whenever she rambled on about nothing or went in depth about sex and her sometimes uncontrollable libido. She admired my jawline and the shaggy beard I was growing the duration of our affair, I was addicted to her body, her hair, her puppy-dog eyes and her pussy. Her genuine smile always comforted the cracks in my broken mind and she knew it, embraced me with understanding and love, sucked the same out of me with every kiss. I hadn't found love like that in years. So why am I speaking of her in past-tense? That's a good question.
I was visiting Byron to see my mother and old friends. I had the chance to re-kindle friendships I was at fault for breaking and had a good time hanging at Julian's with everyone, but it wasn't those friends I intended to be in Byron for, they just proved to be truer than the friends I used to hold dear and knew long before those I mentioned. Friends who all proved to have moved on from friendship, but it wasn't that they had moved on - they hadn't moved anywhere. It was me. I had moved across the country, I had moved across my mind. I had grown out of that town, I had grown up from the high-school drama's that still surround most of my old friend network. I couldn't give a fuck who fucked who or who said what - but they all did and I was just trying to live. My return, to them, was of importance in trivial areas that didn't matter, and of no importance in area's that did matter - like length of friendship and depth of care. Byron was so good in some ways, but I wasn't ready to stay, which contradicted Hannah who was happy and content where she was. I had something to do, I'm not sure what that is yet, but we both agreed it couldn't be done in Byron, I had to push on: fall in love with more people that don't love me back, break more hearts of my own, clock more miles, see more land, surf more waves, play more shows - get further lost in my own mind.
We talked for a while on the phone but I was distant, her voice reminded me of what I was running from and trying to block out. On one hand I couldn't bare to be reminded of the perfection and safety she could provide if I just ran back, on the other I couldn't bare to hang up on a voice that gave me courage that I was doing the right thing. I went to the toilet and talked, I got inspired to write again and hung up.
Apart from some additions to a conversation about the pointlessness of patriotism (which most at the table had been assured of after seeing a postcard with the whole of Europe, to scale, placed inside a map of Australia) I was quiet. I had been writing on a blank board in a picture frame, found in the bathroom where I was peeing and talking on the phone. When the board was filled I was asked to read it out:
There is a rumor - that happiness is derived from money. This isn't true. Sure, you pay money to stay here, you had to work for that money, but that is a result of the most beautiful laws in life - equivalent exchange - but money doesn't buy happiness. Happiness is felt in times like this: when you're seeing new places, meeting new people of different walks of life, learning other languages, eating new foods, and appreciating other points of view. So, when you've hung your travel shoes and see them gather dust, don't forget that you once threw yourself to the wind. Encourage your children, your friends, your family, and your peers to feel the beat of the world, the breath of life, and the pulse of the earth by living, even for a month, in the moment. By the experiences you are living right now you should learn that in the moment you've no time to lament on the past or worry about the future, and there is no better distraction than stepping out of your day-to-day life to meet new people and eat new places with your eyes. Tomorrow, when you wake up, realize the beauty of being alive, for that - no matter your heritage or religion - is one of three pure truths - the other two being: you were born of women, and you will die one day. -J.H.
With that, most people were satisfied with the night and headed inside. It was past midnight by then, only Sebastian and I wanted to go out. Molly needed to walk back to her hostel so she waited for us. I should note: the energy between her and I by this point was tense, a kind of flirtatious tense - sexual tension at it's finest. The last few days, when we'd found chances to chat here and there about rather deep topics we saw eye-to-eye on, there was something brewing, but I hadn't tested the waters. That night, through conversations with everyone and drinking, I dropped a couple suggestions that I knew no one else would pick up on, which were received by her pupils falling to the corners of her eyes closest to me - as if to ask "Was that what I thought it was?" and my for-this-second-you-don't-exist body language made her know all to well it was, and I could sense the corners of her lips curl in that tipsy/flirty way that usually resembles that of a smug smile. Sebastian showed interest to her openly in a fun, normal way that most people do when they are drinking with an attractive person of the opposite sex, so I didn't administer any form of competition, just let him have his fun while we all drank more and laughed, confident I had priority. When I felt it necessary I told Molly to suck my bottom lip, this way I could confirm - for both our sakes - that we wanted each other and uncover the covert operation we had going on to everyone else, she complied.
So.. everyone else was gone, the three of us had been talking a while and it was time to head off. I stood one step down from the porch and pulled Molly toward me with two fingers down her jeans, just far enough to be seductive and just high enough to be practical. We kissed. A subtle few kisses that spoke symmetry, mutuality, and lust. Sebastian broke our moment with a cry to push forward, I continued down the stairs unfazed as I was high on those lips and excited to be going out.
We all took sips from the goon-sack on the way in to town, I laughed a nostalgic chuckle with every step. My phone rang again, Samantha - my West Coast lighthouse. I talked a drunken dribble as we pushed further to town, my heavy feet tripped on the pavement which seemed to be gathering speed, so did every street and shop light that whizzed past in a blur. We came across an abandoned bike; Molly took a photo of Sebastian and I, Samantha still at hand, ecstatic about the find. My battery was dying so I sent my love through the phone to Sam, 6,000k's across the land.. where I wanted to be. The rest of the walk I was quiet, I was disjointed from the moment. I didn't want to be anywhere but the West, it was calling me; Playing shows with Vanity and Statues again, along with the emergence of fresh new bands like Mom Dad and the Kids, Foxes etc. - all part of a movement I can't stand not adding to. To many future friendships with the likes of Mike Dann, Ryan Finlay, Scott Kay and everyone else in Perth I seemed to click with in the last months before I left. I needed Jaxon Waterhouse in my life again. Brent, Kain, Chris, and Jaxson Martin - the band I left behind after we all grew slack with writing suddenly rose to the top of my list. Samantha; hearing that voice seemed to deteriorate any reason I had not to go back, not even the winter cold.
The Woolshed had a line around the corner, it was a Saturday night, and people dressed like pimps and hos swarmed about the streets; Gilligan's had a dress-up party that night with strippers and encouraged those who bought tickets to look the part. I pushed Sebastian's fruitful laugh up the street in a shopping trolley. We went to a quaint late-night bar where only three lads, they must have just hit 18, played snooker with their girls. The barmen cleaned glasses in a bored fashion with eyes that ushered us out in just ten minutes. Molly and I kissed farewell and she headed back to her hostel to get up early and go to Cape Tribulation for a night.
Sebastian smiled through the thick mousy-blond hair that framed his face, and a bright green jumper made his clean-shaven face radiate with youth. It was just the two off us against a city on a fire that was fueled by alcohol and drugs, the two of us hit out with an energy of our own; an Australian and a German, drunk on life and cheap wine. We came across Yanick, a German that was kicked out of our hostel a week prior. He was a tall, skinny young man with not a care in the world. He had a way with ladies that broke through his average looks, his wild hair, and is lack of style (he only had two football jumpers to wear out every night). A few days before this we were flicking through his camera after a night out, there was a series of shots from drinking games, the walk to town, then inside The Woolshed. Each picture had a gang of four french, five germans, and I - hanging from one-another in a disorderly mess. As the pictures progressed you could see our faces growing happier, drunker, and items of clothing being lost to the crowd of other severely drunk life-lovers.
There would have been a photo from every inch of the dance floor, from the top of every table we danced, and of every bar-girl that ignored our banter. Then there was a picture of Yanick dancing with a rather cute girl, petite and half his height. We began to roar in laughter as the photo's unfolded their story: a stumble through the crowd, a clash of shot-glasses, fucking in a cubicle with piss-drenched floors, and ending with her wrapped around the toilet-bowl, heaving. This is how Yanick rolled, he didn't have to use energy to find a girl, he just pushed through the night loving everyone and anything around him, then something always happened to him - for him.
He was wasted when we crossed his path, The Woolshed had already kicked him out. We ate potato wedges and every girl that went past he tried to make fall in love with Sebastian, who flailed shyly away every time. Then I was the victim, "Have you met Josh? He takes photo's," since I traveled with nothing musical, and no board to surf, this is how I was known - I needed something to fill the void of my true passions and that was my camera.
I spotted a beautiful dame, in purpose-ripped fishnet stockings flowing out from tight black short-shorts and in to the souls of the cutest flats. Her short, dark hair oozed minx, sex dripped from her long, glittery lashes - she must have come from Gilligans. Yanick threw me at her, I wanted her so I palmed him away. She was English, her stare read a mutual want so we both stood in silence, my gang behind edged to walk one way, hers trying to walk the other. My phone was dead, she had lost hers, I couldn't even give her a business card as they had been flung at prior girls thanks to Yanick. Our hovering made it evident we needed to see each other again. Her friend took my number, and Sebastian took hers which made no sense, even then, because her phone was gone but it didn't matter. We kissed a short goodbye and I said I hoped to see her again. I took in the glitter off her cheeks as she nodded, turned, and trotted away to catch her mates, long up the street. I really hope to find that beauty again.
I should have gone after, but the night seemed young and I wanted to push Sebastian through the clubs, and we did. We lost Yanick in P.J. O'Ryans, an Irish pub, after he forced Sebastian toward two girls. He followed through with it and bought a round of vodka on the rocks, I joined them and got talking. They said they were Irish, they were German. A drunken Australian, sick with paranoia, was hanging in my shadow. He was friendly enough, and said he could get weed off someone that was working there as long as we never met so I told him my background in Byron Bay, that he didn't need to worry about that. He thought everyone around was a silent - undercover cops - but strangely he had an inch of trust for my word, and told me to meet in 15 minutes on the other side of the bar. I didn't care much, though a smoke would have added a nice edge to a fun night if the girls fell through. I bumped in to an Irish guy that was staying at my hostel too, he could hardly stand after a series of strong drinks, one being an amount of spirits poured in to Guinness - an Irish equivalent of the Jagger-bomb. After a while we'd lost the girls, so I said we'd go walk round and find them with a detour past the old paranoid Australian, who set our amount and price and went to talk to the guy behind the bar. I realized Sebastian was nowhere around, saw the girls heading for the door, and I spied the man, who seemed to be nervously hovering round the bar, and I lost patience - the girls were a better option than a couple grams of bud so I intercepted them at the door way. They hadn't seen my friend either so we stepped outside, almost on top of him where he puffed a smoke. I almost reached out for a drag, but although I've been on a bit of a bender, I still have limits and can't dig cigarettes. It had just past the cutoff time to get in anywhere else, so I asked the girls if they had anything to drink at theirs, which they did. They were keen to party and Sebastian just stood, amazed at the ease in which things had been rolling forward. He was learning life, that everything flows and works it's way around you if you don't press too hard.
We walked some strange streets I'd not yet seen, the sights and sounds grew dull and slowly the faces of strangers we past changed from young, happy drunks to older, sadder dregs the city spat out years ago. We strolled the time of night that's almost reserved for homeless indigenous, lonely youths, and drug fiends who were once the latter. Now, outside the hub of tourists and bright lights, we were surrounded by a more truthful glimpse of Australia. The girls were used to this walk, and I was used to these kinds of areas that make up most the larger towns around the country. For my hostel-mate, it was different. He was used to his country village in Germany and popular areas of Cities, though his face was washed in a drunken courage I knew he was doubting our venture.
His spirits lifted as we got to the girls flat. They had scared us with stories of their home where they shared a room that cost $80 a week, basically nothing. Their flatmates were mostly junkies and the girls didn't use the lounge room at all because that was the shooting room too. When we arrived we were alone, all other doors were dead-locked, the house was cleaner than I had prepared in my head and I was happy to drink red wine 'till the sun came up. The TV played for a single, sad, seedy couch which harbored it's own story of drugs and despair. We drank in the kitchen and ate water-crackers, no one wanted any of the vodka. The girls had gone out that night because it was the blond's 27th birthday, they pulled a half-eaten cake out of the fridge for us which I declined and Sebastian devoured. He was interested in the brunette, she brushed the blood-red wine stains from her teeth and retired early with him close behind. Alone, I dripped hot candle wax across the blond's arm and pulled her shirt off, I wanted her to feel drips across her breasts but wax only splashed on the kitchen floor; I was too side-tracked by the breast in my lips and the nipple-bar I played with in my teeth, my free hand traced her spine.
Sebastian emerged from the room unlucky, his fortune had turned to a dead-weight on her half of the bed, barring him any fun. He seemed cool, a cigarette in his mouth suggested he was keen to step out which he did. My girl was only in pants by then, and we stood together trying to convince him to stay a while, he thought we were wishing him farewell. With a wink, he walked off in the night and I hoped he got back alright.
That awkward silence, which arises from nowhere the second two people know they are going to fuck, seemed to jump out at us and pull us through the bedroom door; a lack of imagination. I pulled out my wallet, phone, and keys to shove them deep in my shoes that were already off in the corner as I didn't know how detached I would get from them or how passed-out I might become and needed the knowledge that, if I needed, the only important things in my life right then I could grab with ease and run naked over the street in to the hospital - really, who knows what could have happened in that crack-den when anyone else woke up or came home?
My clothes seemed to peel themselves off atop my ripped and shaggy volleys, completing my run-package. I turned to the blond who was naked on the bed, her best friend seemingly dead like a limp package of girl at side. She started toward me but I rejected the motion with a hand, pushing her back on the bed with smut and lust dripping through a toothy grin - I needed this girl under my lead, I needed her to want what I wanted to give her, not take what she wanted from me. I bit her lips so hard her nails almost burst the skin of my back, her neck was victim to a series of kisses as I worked a trail to her thighs. A slight detour across her pantie-line, symbolic as she was unclothed, drove her wild and my cock mirrored the feeling with a pulse and seemed to doubled length and girth over a short number of licks. It was her waist, nothing drives me so wild as the thin of an hour glass figure - a button placed firm in the center of soft white hairs that pattern bodies when light hits the right way, when I can feel my finger tips kiss behind a back with just enough room between my thumbs for a kiss to the navel and my loins cry in agony, victim to desire. For an older girl, her skin was tight around her tiny frame, a lolette foot was in my palm as I rose her left leg upward and kissed down her calf, licking a stretch of thigh to follow with hot breath - a staple move to make most any vulva moist. My whiskers brushed just above her clit where my lips paved saliva, two fingers went inside to rub come-here motions on her G-spot as my kisses trailed up a new thigh. I let her hand pull my spare hand to her lips and felt her teeth pulse each time I fingerprinted the length of corrugated flesh that roofed her pussy.
I withdrew everything, my fingers and my lips, and jumped myself face-to-face with her and store eyes that spoke curiosity - she didn't expect I could handle her without her leading the way. After all, it was her birthday and she had entrapped a younger man, what she didn't know was at nineteen I had a 27-year-old in my life, a goddess to me then, who taught me the language of age. We would get high on tea and weed, make love under the spell of Angus And Julia Stone, and nothing else mattered.
My German beauty asked if I had a condom, I didn't. I acted uninterested in sex, saying I was just teasing, that we should move away from her friend who was now stirring in bed. We grabbed a mess of blankets and a camping roll, she grabbed a rubber and the last of the wine and we ran out the room to continue our party. The living room was lit by a still silent T.V. in front of the lounge, where I perched a foot and let my manhood drip, half aroused, between my legs while I waited for the blond to return. She had gone to the toilet; I had to laugh at the thought of one of her housemates choosing this moment to awaken. I was confident in my skin and prepared for an unexpected person to appear, I had so much wine in my belly that it wouldn't have phased me, I probably would have asked them to join regardless of looks or gender.
When she got back we kissed, she went straight to my cock and sucked harder when my fingers found her vagina, sucked harder still when my pinky found her ass. I took one last swig of wine and fell back-first to the blanket on the ground (the stained couch was out of the question), pulling her with. My fingers found a packet, conveniently, which seemed to rip with ease in one hand, and before she had both legs each side of me I was protected. I pulled her hips to mine in the same floor-diving moment; her eyes widened with my dick inside her. I let her ride to her own pleasure, she seemed to enjoy the role reversal and controlled my movements easily. I wet my thumb with her tongue and rubbed her clit with her own spit and juices for what seemed forever while I took in every sight and sound. The door frame was illuminated by a gentle dark-blue sky, her hair, knees, and shoulders caught the television glow which now played Skippy, The Bush Kangaroo (a creation of my great-uncle, but that's another story), which was a better replacement of the fitness infomercial that was on beforehand.
We had a mutual agreement that wasn't lost in languages, for I understood not a word she conveyed linguistically - I understood only what she spoke in the rhythm of her body, and that's all that mattered. The soles of her feet were planted by my hips now as she bounced in a crouch, and as I rose up into a sitting position, to kiss her lips, her chest compressed into mine with her arms wrapping me closer. I crushed her back with my own hug and jumped up and over, holding her close, laying her back against the tiles with her head against the wall. I administered my control and she seemed to surrender with that as one leg flailed trying to find a groove in the floor while I held the other up so her foot trod my left shoulder. I used the wall as support for one arm and drove myself to her hard, not once had I come out of her. She shook her head in disbelief but couldn't see me; her eyes had rolled back in her head. I had no idea what the word was she started saying, but she repeated it over and over, enforcing it with a true and defined stare through my eyes and in to my soul that read serious devotion to our dance.
I spun her leg past my face to flip her sideways while my move countered the action to get behind her; nothing matches the puzzle-fit of spoon sex. I had an arm around her, playing with a nipple-bar, and the other between her legs. While I rubbed her pearl she clenched my balls in one hand with my hair in another, her neck was twisted as her teeth grabbed at my bottom lip. There was a tattoo spread from her neck across her shoulder blade, toward her lower back: Black butterflies which had guitar-jacks for bodies [note: a jack is the end of an audio lead, in this case one that plugs in to the body of a guitar - my instrument of choice] and hovered over subtle flowers of the softest pink. I loved it, I fucked her with more energy and passion than I had all along, my stare affixed to that ink and her tight buttocks in my peripheries I just had to slap; a loud clap rang through the house with a moan for a chaser.
We eventually ended up in a staple doggy position. I had a hand of hair pulled back toward me and she reached back to pull me at her as hard as she wanted, I almost couldn't keep up. I released her hair and she fell forward, pressing her breasts to the ground with outspread arms like she was hugging the world. I'd curled my legs around her thighs and had them planted flat between here knees, a favorite position of mine as you can pull a body closer or further away without moving your hips. It did exactly what I wanted: I could fuck her harder with minimal effort, allowing me to catch my breath and finger her ass. She liked that. I liked that - I liked everything. Every drop of sound, every splash of light, every thrust, every moan, every word I couldn't understand - I dug it all. All my feelings of who I'd left behind and who I wanted to be with collided in my mind and dropped dead for a moment. Everything was still, though we were still fucking. Everything was silent, though we were both moaning. Everything was light, though darkness still engulfed most the room. We were cumming.
We became still, I held her there with my legs while everything I thought was dead rushed back in an instant, now ten times stronger. This wasn't where I wanted to be - by the bicentennial bells in Perth - and it wasn't the perfection of where I was in Byron, I was there inside a girl - that was that. I pulled out, the first time we had been separated for over an hour, and walked to the bathroom. I tied a condom full of rich white sperm and wrapped it in toilet paper to throw in the bin, the evidence of our act disposed. When I returned she'd got ready to sleep on the floor, she grabbed at my arms and pulled me down with a string of foreign words to convince me to do so - I was sure she sensed my reluctance. I saw those sweet eyes looking in to mine and smiled, I couldn't say no, what we shared was pure. She passed out flat, her cheek in the hairs on my chest, before I could put my number in her phone and I held her in my arms 'till it was light out.
I had to go.
I was drunk, I didn't want to meet anyone that lived there in my condition or floor-spread location so I crept out from under her, tiptoed my way past her friend in the other room, and slowly got dressed while my mind ran through everything that night. I came back to save my number in her phone, which was splayed on the floor before her, but I knew she wouldn't remember and would presume I just cut and run, not my style, so I sent myself a message. The lock was stiff on the old door and she woke to see me half way through my exit, it made my heart crumble enough to come back and kiss her half-asleep eyes before I left.
The walk home was in the nectar of life. I was more alive than I'd been for a while as every bird's morning chirp made me smile. The small amount of cars that passed my long walk home would surely have only just woken up to start a new day, unaware I was still longing for bed. With every step my life was further in perspective, 'till I got home. Sebastian's head was off the side of his bunk where his body was held by the safety rail, his young mind was sleeping off the night - I was glad he was there. The two U.K. girls stirred in confusion of my 7.30 A.M. arrival, which I ignored as I looked in the mirror and investigated the lines in my face that gravity had carved to remind me time was rolling on. All I could do was smile, climb in bed, and pass out.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
In A Candlelit Room
Out the corner of her smile the sea-flocks fly.
Pupils tease in the wedges of skin aside the bridge.
My teeth grate goose-pimples as I suck the nectar of lust;
Veins draw blue around her breasts.
I enfold her body in to mine, belly to belly.
In my wrap - her heart.
Her vulva, within which my temple, sucks it's prey -
The lips a pink tourniquet.
A pearl tries to bury itself deep within a curling,
Mess of threads which crown my pubic bone.
My fingers dig at a volume of meat about her frame,
A tender plumpness held tight by milk-white wraps of film,
And swim through that skin.
That skin.
My eyes could drink the curve of her hips,
The trench of her spine, her blades forever.
I could eat her nape - chew those lobes forever-more.
Tongue, I could, her every inch through every hour.
Though time stands still with her dandling in my lap
And sound is dead - bar the marching drum,
The rhythm of our hips resounded in our chests.
Each slap turned thump,
A beating.
My breath halts dead-cold aside the quiver of my bones,
Fingers garotte her throat.
A shoulder victim to my jaws,
My chest compressed by claws;
A symbolic end.
Each other entwined
In a silence loud enough to scream,
To clap and cut the smell of love, of lust
That lingers longer than our fold.
Around us, stacks of books mock city buildings;
The press of every page holds witness to our dance
And too does a proud perched flame -
Dressing the walls with blush,
An afterglow of passion.
Pupils tease in the wedges of skin aside the bridge.
My teeth grate goose-pimples as I suck the nectar of lust;
Veins draw blue around her breasts.
I enfold her body in to mine, belly to belly.
In my wrap - her heart.
Her vulva, within which my temple, sucks it's prey -
The lips a pink tourniquet.
A pearl tries to bury itself deep within a curling,
Mess of threads which crown my pubic bone.
My fingers dig at a volume of meat about her frame,
A tender plumpness held tight by milk-white wraps of film,
And swim through that skin.
That skin.
My eyes could drink the curve of her hips,
The trench of her spine, her blades forever.
I could eat her nape - chew those lobes forever-more.
Tongue, I could, her every inch through every hour.
Though time stands still with her dandling in my lap
And sound is dead - bar the marching drum,
The rhythm of our hips resounded in our chests.
Each slap turned thump,
A beating.
My breath halts dead-cold aside the quiver of my bones,
Fingers garotte her throat.
A shoulder victim to my jaws,
My chest compressed by claws;
A symbolic end.
Each other entwined
In a silence loud enough to scream,
To clap and cut the smell of love, of lust
That lingers longer than our fold.
Around us, stacks of books mock city buildings;
The press of every page holds witness to our dance
And too does a proud perched flame -
Dressing the walls with blush,
An afterglow of passion.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
The Day From Clay
Lies crack from teeth in day.
By night, sleep creeps far away;
Loneliness hangs stale in the air.
Feet tread a wire line,
The razor's edge draws blood of wine,
Colouring the earth beneath
Which rolls on by all too aware
That time wont stop as long there's air
And dawn will spill upon new days.
Hair will grow and mind will slow;
Skin dries brown under the glow
That sun pours down with the sands of time.
As lines crack from ear to ear,
As years tick as death tocks near
Acceptance assembles as a monument to fate,
Who's blanket lays a morning dew
Where birth rips in and life tears through
And lessons lay within the wake.
Isolation taught to plant feet proud
When alone is felt within a crowd
Of friends, family, or foe
And death will teach that all are same
Who dance the steps within this game -
Everything that rises must converge.
Beetle, bird - mice and man,
Rich and poor - of sea and land,
Together tied, wicks burning side-by-side.
Fear is scared of knowledge gained
That all which live are ever-samed,
As fright rides not atop consent.
Though never think you've out-wit death
By sucking on her leering breast,
The milk of life can always turn out sour
By thinking you've the time you need
To watch life flourish from the seed,
You'll see your wick has not much burn.
Lies will bleed through gums in day.
By night, sleep will stay away;
Loneliness will guide your every thought.
Feet will tread a rusted line,
Salvation will burst and turn to wine,
Staining the earth beneath
Which rushes by without a care,
With time not stopping with you where
Dawn showers your cold, dead face.
By night, sleep creeps far away;
Loneliness hangs stale in the air.
Feet tread a wire line,
The razor's edge draws blood of wine,
Colouring the earth beneath
Which rolls on by all too aware
That time wont stop as long there's air
And dawn will spill upon new days.
Hair will grow and mind will slow;
Skin dries brown under the glow
That sun pours down with the sands of time.
As lines crack from ear to ear,
As years tick as death tocks near
Acceptance assembles as a monument to fate,
Who's blanket lays a morning dew
Where birth rips in and life tears through
And lessons lay within the wake.
Isolation taught to plant feet proud
When alone is felt within a crowd
Of friends, family, or foe
And death will teach that all are same
Who dance the steps within this game -
Everything that rises must converge.
Beetle, bird - mice and man,
Rich and poor - of sea and land,
Together tied, wicks burning side-by-side.
Fear is scared of knowledge gained
That all which live are ever-samed,
As fright rides not atop consent.
Though never think you've out-wit death
By sucking on her leering breast,
The milk of life can always turn out sour
By thinking you've the time you need
To watch life flourish from the seed,
You'll see your wick has not much burn.
Lies will bleed through gums in day.
By night, sleep will stay away;
Loneliness will guide your every thought.
Feet will tread a rusted line,
Salvation will burst and turn to wine,
Staining the earth beneath
Which rushes by without a care,
With time not stopping with you where
Dawn showers your cold, dead face.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
You left through my window.
Did I cry too much?
Didn't I make you smile enough?
Did I lie too much or
Was my pain that obvious?
You left through my window.
A piece of me left by your side.
Silence crawled in to my wardrobe
Attached itself onto my sleeve
You tried to take your life
But I held you close all through the night
Had I not kicked in the bathroom door
You'd have left your body laid on the floor
You came through my window.
With a smile concealing bad taste
Unfaithful again with your body
I wish you'd gone.
Now you're back and you're acting your age.
You're back and reacting to rage.
I'm not you're savior.
I'm not yours.
You left through my window.
A piece of me left by your side.
So I'll wait and I'll wait and I'll wait,
For a lover who wants to be loved.
Didn't I make you smile enough?
Did I lie too much or
Was my pain that obvious?
You left through my window.
A piece of me left by your side.
Silence crawled in to my wardrobe
Attached itself onto my sleeve
You tried to take your life
But I held you close all through the night
Had I not kicked in the bathroom door
You'd have left your body laid on the floor
You came through my window.
With a smile concealing bad taste
Unfaithful again with your body
I wish you'd gone.
Now you're back and you're acting your age.
You're back and reacting to rage.
I'm not you're savior.
I'm not yours.
You left through my window.
A piece of me left by your side.
So I'll wait and I'll wait and I'll wait,
For a lover who wants to be loved.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Sometimes..
..Some things can't easily be pushed away. Many factors come in to play to hold something bad in place, while many others work to bring the good. Lately I've been struggling to push the bad off and overcome some very simple barriers, which is funny since I have been incredibly positive lately - the happy, smiley, productive, positive person that I would like to be has slowly been building within me to be sincerely who I am. Where I used to be generally unhappy on the inside for various reasons, I would mull along at a steady pace; no gain, no loss. Now that I am trying to use the negative in my life to springboard forward and move on, it seems that sadness I had (and still do, inside) possessed was much more severe than I had once thought. It's such a contrast to how I have been feeling and the direction I am moving in, that when I re-visit such depths, always unwillingly, it feels like the lowest of lows. I've learned that this is only a reflection of how positive I must be seeing myself, if each time I get knocked into a bad state for an hour or so it feels worse than I have ever been, it is because it feels bad compared to my current progress. If I were not progressing then it would seem like the same, monotonous pattern of: happy happy sad happy happy sad happy and so on and so forth, but it's not, it's happier happier sad happier happier sad etc so that every time I am sad I am thinking "fuck it this really how low I was, I really thought this of myself and of others?"
Should I even post this? I am somewhere in the middle of the two contrasts so I am unsure if I will come across as a madman rambling or a sane person reflecting on depression.. hmmm.
Should I even post this? I am somewhere in the middle of the two contrasts so I am unsure if I will come across as a madman rambling or a sane person reflecting on depression.. hmmm.
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