I climbed the stairs
to your apartment and
met your old lover and
his friend on the way
I brought you a book
of poems that I love;
you have cooked
a simplified coq con vin.
The evening I decided to love you
you told me you loved me.
There is no future for us.
You have discovered the secret
that will bind me to you for life.
When I answer my telephone
you are crying.
When I lived with you,
you spend your evenings
German verbs; now
that I spend my nights
investigating bamboo taxonomy,
you write that
I have ruined your life.
joshdivision: “Brisbane is like a row boat time machine set to prohibition.”
I have an entirely romanticised view of prohibition in my head, Brisbane. I want unlicensed clubs that play jazz and punk. I want to drink out of cracked mugs. I want to drink straight out of the bottle. I would welcome secret passwords that keep out the punters in the CBD and The Valley who intimidate and scare me by marking their territory with invective or violence (or piss and vomit). Prohibition in Brisbane might bring us one step closer to the dystopian fantasises I always harbour… I know I’d have more fun.
I know I live in a fantasy world half the time but I think it’d be cool to live in a city full of the underground where there are less rules, and art and culture and music vomit out everything that is beautiful and unsafe - without the infection of thuggish violence I encounter in CBD and The Valley now. I want to take risks again. I want my heart and ears to be on fire with music in a room full of my friends.
My youth was dangerous and illegal and spontaneous and my alcohol and drug fuelled days have taught me to consume (a little) more responsibly now. I see adults who think it’s normal to king hit someone in the middle of The Valley Mall or walk into four lanes of traffic while on an ice binge or piss against the bar of a club they lined up and paid $20 to enter. I see drunkenness and violence as normalised in Australian society. I don’t think prohibition or shutting pubs at midnight is the answer though - why can’t we come up with a healthy social policy regarding alcohol and violence? Alcohol is our reason for socialising, not just part of our social experience.
I really don’t think alcohol and late night trading hours are to blame for “Otherwise, sensible young men and women … committing acts of brutality and callousness whilst blind drunk that destroys their future and that of their victims and families.” Really, otherwise sensible? I wouldn’t socialise with them when they were sober either.
I don’t go “out” in CBD or The Valley much because I don’t have as much fun as I used to (though I did have a great night at Ric’s dancing until 5am last weekend, proving that it is possible to have a great night at Ric’s once in a blue moon). My friends and I moved on from spending every weekend in The Valley when it became over run by the kind of people that used to have a big night out at City Rowers.
The Valley used to feel safer, when it was just us crust/hippy/indie/punk (insert label) kids and the homeless and old barflys. You could drink cheaply and go dancing or drop acid in the dance club where The Troubadour is now (before it caught fire in the middle of an old friend’s DJ set). When the pubs did shut we’d go to the strip clubs because they didn’t check ID (and we were well underage), girls got in for free and the beer was cheap and cold. I stumbled up dank, dark stairs of a strip club into the light on many a Sunday morning, reaching for my sunglasses.
I had fun when I was younger at crust punk house parties or shows at St. Albans Hall in Auchenflower. The community was self regulating: fights were broken up, if someone got too drunk and passed out friends would check on them throughout the night. You could run outside naked in the rain. Your friends could dance and sing along with you because your band was playing on the floor, not an on an elevated stage with a barrier and an aggressive security guard. You could wear thongs to a show and not paint your face.
I feel alone now in a crowd dressed in the same fluro, popped collar, cheap Supre dress uniform. I want the “cool” back and cool and danger (not explicit violence from ugly drunks) are in every prohibition era movie.
I felt safe and welcome in my unlicensed youth. I don’t think the danger that our Lord Mayor is so concerned over now, was the same. I’m living in a dreamy past… until prohibition becomes Brisbane’s future.
I attach myself only to names and faces; and hoard them like amulets against disaster. I choose out across the hall some unknown face and can hardly drink my tea when she whose name I do not know sits opposite. I choke. I am rocked from side to side by the violence of my emotion. I imagine these nameless, these immaculate people, watching me from behind bushes. I leap high to excite their admiration. At night, in bed, I excite their complete wonder. I often die pierced with arrows to win their tears. If they should say that they were in Scarborough last holidays, the whole town runs gold, the whole pavement is illuminated.
Therefore I hate looking-glasses which show me my real face. Alone, I often fall down into nothingness. I must push my foot stealthily lest I should fall off the edge of the world into nothingness. I have to bang my hand against some hard door to call myself back to my body.” —Virginia Woolf, The Waves (via youarebonbon)
Let me be in your service
like the others
moth dry with jealousy.
thirsting, not ever for a word—
for me the dry air is empty
again without you.
I’m not jealous any more
but I want you.
I carry myself like a victim
to the hangman.
I will not call you
either joy or love.
All my own blood is gone.
Something strange paces there now.
and I will tell you:
it’s not joy but torture
you give me.
I’m drawn to you
as to a crime—
to your ragged mouth,
to the soft bitten cherry.
Come back to me,
I’m frightened without you.
Never had you such power
over me as now.
Everything I desire
appears to me.
I’m not jealous any more.
I’m calling you.
“…except you ravish me.”
In the beginning I couldn’t speak to you.
Not because the words wouldn’t come;
it was because they might. Not words like love,
blooming where they fall; words like come here.
When once you turned to look straight at me
out of a crowd, I thought I must have let
the sounds inside my head come out, like “let
us all go home.” I wouldn’t say to you
the wet, small words that moved inside of me.
I have thought that faith and patience would come
to no good end, that you would say, “See here!”
and never say, “Well yes, I think I’d love
to follow you home; to tell the truth, I’d love
to have some wine, then talk awhile, then let
you pleasure me.” Expelled to suffer here,
John Milton wrote of us. I look at you
and in my mind your awful kinsmen come
around every corner, looking for me.
You once talking about the weather with me
and that was something, but it was not love,
did not resemble love. Love ought to come
in recognizable clothes. One day I let
my plain and earthy self talk to you
most gently, saying plainly, “Please come here,”
but everything went wrong, a bah-bah here,
a bah-bah there. You have bumped into me
by accident, I have bumped into you
on purpose on the street where talk of love
was inappropriate, then I have let
my heart hide in the cold and watched you come
laughing and blind. No matter what may come,
give me this: that all this time I stood here
ignored to death and loved you while you let
every chance go; say your glances at me
suggested almost anything but love;
say I know you cry in bed, poor you.
Believe in love. You know that I am here
to let you loose. Here is my flesh for you
who ay abide with me till kingdom come.
She adds with apparent inconsequence and a far-away look:
”It isn’t good for me to stare at things too long. I look at them to find out what they are, then I have to turn my eyes away quickly.”
“They disgust me.” —Jean-Paul Sartre - Nausea (via shitgaze)
“The next real literary “rebels” in this country might well emerge as some weird bunch of anti-rebels, born oglers who dare somehow to back away from ironic watching, who have the childish gall actually to endorse and instantiate single-entendre principles. Who treat of plain old untrendy human troubles and emotions in U.S. life with reverence and conviction. Who eschew self-consciousness and hip fatigue. These anti-rebels would be outdated, of course, before they even started. Dead on the page. Too sincere. Clearly repressed. Backward, quaint, naïve, anachronistic. Maybe that’ll be the point. Maybe that’s why they’ll be the next real rebels. Real rebels, as far as I can see, risk disapproval. The old postmodern insurgents risked the gasp and squeal: shock, disgust, outrage, censorship, accusations of socialism, anarchism, nihilism. Today’s risks are different. The New Rebels might be artists willing to risk the yawn, the rolled eyes, the cool smile, the nudged ribs, the parody of the gifted ironists, the “Oh how banal.” To risk accusations of sentimentality, melodrama. Of overcredulity. Of softness. Of willingness to be suckered by a world of lurkers and starers who fear gaze and ridicule above imprisonment without law.” —David Foster Wallace in ‘E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S. Fiction’ (via Mer)
in the air
in a net
the white of the eye
moon blinks into sight
genesis of liquid bone
ghost of rainfall
right through me
where the wind
passes its hand
welcomes the tide
the names of the dead
on her lips
corpses of foam
thrown up by the sea
the gasp for breath
in an ocean of silents
the skin of night
breaks the thread
the duel lips
of sky and sea
the eye alone
out of nothing
to touch myself
in your reflection
You, however, are forbidden to touch them. Trademarks, intellectual property rights and copyright law mean advertisers can say what they like wherever they like with total impunity.
Fuck that. Any advert in a public space that gives you no choice whether you see it or not is yours. It’s yours to take, re-arrange and re-use. You can do whatever you like with it. Asking for permission is like asking to keep a rock someone just threw at your head.
You owe the companies nothing. Less than nothing, you especially don’t owe them any courtesy. They owe you. They have re-arranged the world to put themselves in front of you. They never asked for your permission, don’t even start asking for theirs.” — Banksy (via wolfgeek) (via overdosebabyblue) (via estellaan)
She’s reading your minds
as you pass by, the
dipsomane déguisée en rose
While she waits
for her date
to turn up, the moon
in the man…
She know exactly what is going to happen
she’ll be guided
to a bedroom, and turning around
he will show her his
He’ll ask if she would like to
which she will
at its lightness
it must have taken 4 million years to make
squeezing it she will feel cold
and invisible light flowing
into her spine
So there is a door out of here after all
And to visit a new place creates one
in the brain
How do you say no
How do you say anything
to throw up in
Can I use this room to cry
along which she walks, she is
did we leave, and how
are we ever getting back—
for Donald Hall
From the house of death there is rain.
From rain is flood and flowers.
And flowers emerge through the ruins
of those who left behind
stores of corn and dishes,
turquoise and bruises
from the passion
of fierce love.
I run my tongue over the skeleton
jutting from my jaw. I taste
the grit of heartbreak.
The procession of spirits
who walk out of their bodies
is ongoing. Just as the procession
of those who have loved us
will go about their business
of making a new house
with someone else who smells
like the dust of a strange country.
The weight of rain is unbearable to the sky
eventually. Just as desire will
burn a hole through the sky
and fall to earth.
I was surprised by the sweet embrace
of the perfume of desert flowers after the rain
though after all these seasons
I shouldn’t be surprised.
All cities will be built and then destroyed.
We built too near the house of the gods of lightning,
too close to the edge of a century.
What could I expect,
Even death who is the chief of everything
on this earth (all undertakings, all matters of human
form) will wash his hands, stop to rest under
the cottonwood before taking you from me
on the back of his horse.
Nothing I can sing
will bring you back.
Not the songs of a hundred horses running
until they become wind
Not the personal song of the rain
who makes love to the earth.
I will never forget you. Your nakedness
haunts me in the dawn when I cannot distinguish your
flushed brown skin from the burning horizon, or my hands.
The smell of chaos lingers in the clothes
you left behind. I hold you